What a year.
But really, it's all just days to change over to keep the calendar kiosk conglomerate in business. Point taken. There were days I slept, nights that I couldn't. Days I wrote, nights I spoke. Days and nights I drank. Days and nights I wept. And it's all history.
This year has been a jump for me. I took a couple of leaps and learned a lot. A year of growth, a year of shrinkage, a year of lessons to take in and share outwards. At some point, you must give it out of love. At some point you must stop giving. At some point you should assess where you are. At some point you should keep moving and stop thinking and just Do. At some point you have to make sense of it all. At some point you may realize it will never make sense, because It simply Is. Don't try and make sense of the Komodo Dragon; just respect that it is, and hope that it lets go of your kneecap.
I am making greater strides at the moment, I feel like I'm running the last 50 meters of a mile, feet hitting the ground less often but with more force, propelling me forward, not simply guiding under me. It's like I'm powering up a hill and not looking to the summit, just slightly up so as to navigate the fallen tree, the boulder, the cougar WHOA shit a cougar. It sees me, but it's not moving. If it does, I'm not waiting for it to attack, I must move towards it now, or be forever tracked by it, waiting for me to slip and it's then on me.
This year has brought great highs and great lows, and it's what I needed: PERSPECTIVE. Why does Bad happen in the world? Because of our Free Will. Because of years of neglecting our needs. From decades of thinking we have everyone else's problems figured out, while ours stare at us from across the table, a shadow that skews in the light and disappears in the dark, but that thing is THERE, and without the shadow, we wouldn't know where the light's coming from. Yin/Yang, Dark/Light, Hogg/Hazzard, Vader/Skywalker, where you at? I haven't denied once that events could turn sour in a caffeine-nicotine-sped heartbeat, because I've mis-timed my whoopee cushion salutes enough in the past to know how to mess it up. Sometimes, the knowledge of failure is all you need to ensure success. Put that on a magnet and sell it, $5, gimme half.
I'm looking forward to at least one good fist fight in 2005. Not sure when or where, and I may get thumped, but oh lord, I'll have fun. America sucks, by the way. We're not truly free to do what we want, but some laws are there to protect us. It depends on the What we are being protected From that bothers me. But we suck a lot less than a lot of places, except Europe, which is still a couple thousand years of civilization ahead of us. We may have more toys, but money can't buy class.
I'm outta here. Thanks for reading. Catch you on Saturday. E-mail me if you like.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Thursday, December 30, 2004
Wednesday, December 29, 2004
Paris Hilton Video Effects Analagous To Major Searching
See, what I'm doing there is making a title that will be hit about a billion times by people who have yet to see the Paris Hilton video. "Paris Hilton Video" should get a lot. Then the word "analogous" is gonna get attention because of the words "anal" and "log" and "us." In the meantime, a 5'2" earth-momma who favors tropical flower short sets is roaming the workplace telling people "See Ya Next Year, meeeaaa ha ha ha ha!" So yes, your fears are realized; people still say that.
Thank you God for the Sybase group's giftbasket having Bailey's in it. Thank you sparsely attended workplace.
Dude, Did You Put A Scene In?
Pornaoke is a hit! Who'd-a thunk it? What is it? It's like Karaoke, but with porn. No, you're not making the "bow bow, chikka-chikka-chikka, bow bow" guitar sound to the music. Even better. The "DJ," - yep, that's his Viking van out front with the "LUVBORG" plates - puts up a scene from a pornographic movie, likely something from his "Tuesday" collection, and random people "off the street" make up the voices and noises of the people having sex on camera.
This will never happen in the states. I mean, COME ON people, they could only do it in a public place like a smokey BAR attended by ADULTS, and we can't risk the people who ARE NOT IN THE BAR being offended.
And lord knows it's gonna lead to other things, like people leaving the bar ready to have sex after watching those videos! Because that's NEVER happened before Pornaoke, has it? Come on American bars, this is a GOLD MINE!
"Okay, we need McKenzie and the Southern Oregon Men's Rugby Team on stage for this next scene from 'Friends In Low Places; Starrla's New Roommates.' "
Where Do You Think You're Going?
Seeing as how I haven't had one work-related e-mail since 3pm Monday afternoon, I'm getting the F outta here. The Bailey's is almost gone, the contractors are still here, and nobody has brought in a decent muffin plate in 2 weeks. I'm leaving. Plus, I just saw Sandie the earth momma and told her "See ya next year!" She got pissed that I jumped her punchline. I WIN, I WIN, I WIN! Leave 'em wanting more.
Tonight, 9:30pm, Pegasus Pizza. Be there.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thank you God for the Sybase group's giftbasket having Bailey's in it. Thank you sparsely attended workplace.
Dude, Did You Put A Scene In?
Pornaoke is a hit! Who'd-a thunk it? What is it? It's like Karaoke, but with porn. No, you're not making the "bow bow, chikka-chikka-chikka, bow bow" guitar sound to the music. Even better. The "DJ," - yep, that's his Viking van out front with the "LUVBORG" plates - puts up a scene from a pornographic movie, likely something from his "Tuesday" collection, and random people "off the street" make up the voices and noises of the people having sex on camera.
This will never happen in the states. I mean, COME ON people, they could only do it in a public place like a smokey BAR attended by ADULTS, and we can't risk the people who ARE NOT IN THE BAR being offended.
And lord knows it's gonna lead to other things, like people leaving the bar ready to have sex after watching those videos! Because that's NEVER happened before Pornaoke, has it? Come on American bars, this is a GOLD MINE!
"Okay, we need McKenzie and the Southern Oregon Men's Rugby Team on stage for this next scene from 'Friends In Low Places; Starrla's New Roommates.' "
Where Do You Think You're Going?
Seeing as how I haven't had one work-related e-mail since 3pm Monday afternoon, I'm getting the F outta here. The Bailey's is almost gone, the contractors are still here, and nobody has brought in a decent muffin plate in 2 weeks. I'm leaving. Plus, I just saw Sandie the earth momma and told her "See ya next year!" She got pissed that I jumped her punchline. I WIN, I WIN, I WIN! Leave 'em wanting more.
Tonight, 9:30pm, Pegasus Pizza. Be there.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, December 27, 2004
An Open Letter To Dickwads, Cock-Knockers, And F*ckTards
At some point in the past week I've had a number of people make comments about my comedy, life, or personality. These people have zero knowledge of me what-so-ever, and don't really get what I'm doing with comedy. And since it's not their place to make a judgment on things that affect them not, I am having fun walking my dog "Righteous" on a leash made of "Truth."
Last night's set at Gigglets was up & down, with basic laughs coming from stuff I knew would work, and chuckles on the new stuff. That's what Open Mic'ing is about, working the new stuff, a skill, a bit, a joke, a chunk. It's not, in my mind, about the whoring of old jokes so that my ego isn't rankled. And yet two complete diaper-wipes had something to say after my set.
One guy made mention of my set not being "killer" and that I "tanked on purpose." I told him that I'm not whoring old material (he's suspect for writing his own) just to kill for 6 minutes at an open mic. The other guy, who is the new SpongeBen DirtPants, purports his act like a Yiddish Dat Phan, and said that I was passive aggressive. I told him he could f*ck off. Those two got into a verbal altercation shortly there-after, mostly because of miscommunication between overblown egos and false senses of hilarity.
So anyway, if you have something to say about me, my life, or my comedy, make sure you do it to my face, and be prepared to defend your case. If you just don't like me, believe me, I began disliking you a long time ago, so we're square. But when a couple of people I have very little if any respect for decide they're going to make judgment calls based on their own skewed "head in the ass" views of the comedy world we co-exist in - let alone a judgment by a complete stranger - I begin to wonder how sad and pathetic their lives really are. From what I can tell of the shabby clothing, lack of jokes, and Small Man's Complex, the answer is Quite. I guess I must be getting a lot better at this, if people are taking shots at me for reasons that don't affect them.
Look out, World. Duke Discerning is on the case.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Last night's set at Gigglets was up & down, with basic laughs coming from stuff I knew would work, and chuckles on the new stuff. That's what Open Mic'ing is about, working the new stuff, a skill, a bit, a joke, a chunk. It's not, in my mind, about the whoring of old jokes so that my ego isn't rankled. And yet two complete diaper-wipes had something to say after my set.
One guy made mention of my set not being "killer" and that I "tanked on purpose." I told him that I'm not whoring old material (he's suspect for writing his own) just to kill for 6 minutes at an open mic. The other guy, who is the new SpongeBen DirtPants, purports his act like a Yiddish Dat Phan, and said that I was passive aggressive. I told him he could f*ck off. Those two got into a verbal altercation shortly there-after, mostly because of miscommunication between overblown egos and false senses of hilarity.
So anyway, if you have something to say about me, my life, or my comedy, make sure you do it to my face, and be prepared to defend your case. If you just don't like me, believe me, I began disliking you a long time ago, so we're square. But when a couple of people I have very little if any respect for decide they're going to make judgment calls based on their own skewed "head in the ass" views of the comedy world we co-exist in - let alone a judgment by a complete stranger - I begin to wonder how sad and pathetic their lives really are. From what I can tell of the shabby clothing, lack of jokes, and Small Man's Complex, the answer is Quite. I guess I must be getting a lot better at this, if people are taking shots at me for reasons that don't affect them.
Look out, World. Duke Discerning is on the case.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Saturday, December 25, 2004
Merry Christmas. Nog Me.
This is my vote for Parental Unit Of The Year.
Bratty Turds Lose Toys On E-Bay Auction
HOUSTON - The kids were naughty, Dad put the presents on eBay instead of under the tree — and Mom's been crying ever since. Now, even the tree's down.
Saturday morning was sure not to be very jolly for three brothers — 9, 11 and 15 — who didn't straighten up when their father told them Santa wasn't too pleased with their fighting, cuss words and obscene gestures.
Thank you, Technology! I can't wait to play Santa some day.
More later. Hot Buttered Rum is calling.
=====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Bratty Turds Lose Toys On E-Bay Auction
HOUSTON - The kids were naughty, Dad put the presents on eBay instead of under the tree — and Mom's been crying ever since. Now, even the tree's down.
Saturday morning was sure not to be very jolly for three brothers — 9, 11 and 15 — who didn't straighten up when their father told them Santa wasn't too pleased with their fighting, cuss words and obscene gestures.
Thank you, Technology! I can't wait to play Santa some day.
More later. Hot Buttered Rum is calling.
=====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, December 23, 2004
It's A "Mike The Headless Chicken" Christmas!
Last night at Pegasus, the comedy show was cancelled due to lack of funding, due to lack of owner's interest in putting on a show. There weren't but 17 people there, which rivals a moderate weekend at Laughs. Yeah, livin' the dream.
But I showed up about 9:50 after a prior engagement, that being an engagement party, because I knew that the headliner, Colin Moulton, is always entertaining. When I showed, we huddled up and found out that there was no money to throw around, so we didn't have to do a show at all. And we did a show for 17 people because some of them were there for the show, and some just needed to laugh. I did about 20 minutes, mostly new, about the holidays and religion and skewed views of Christmas traditions thanks to the dichotomy of parenting and Christmas carols. Most of it worked, and that which did not I was able to save through some slower talking and making a point as to why I think Wal-Mart is the new Catholic Church. It's an older bit (6 months?) but slid into the whole vibe of the set.
Colin closed it all up with a couple of funny songs and the fun story of "Mike The Headless Chicken." Colin's got a lot of new material, and he did about 30 minutes of fun. So the crowd and establishment got a fully free 50 minutes of comedy. Colin will return to the area in a few weeks, and I highly recommend you go see him at Pegasus or at the Crazy Moose Casino in Mountlake Terrace. Please, check out Colin Moulton and have some laughs, dammit. DAMN IT. He's funny, entertaining, and a really good light in the comedy darkness.
========
Back to yesterday's News:
Recount Chocula:
So we have a governor in the state of Washington. Right now it's still Gary "Cutest Paintbrush Haircut Ever" Locke. Our Governor-Elect, still in the air. Is it Chris "Just Chris, Thanks" Gregoire or Dino "Aaw Shucks" Rossi? Don't know. As of yesterday it was Greggers. Every day before that it was Rossi.
Democracy doesn't work unless we all vote. And when we all vote, democracy doesn't work. This will be a good learning experience for all people, especially Democrats who were too high or too busy whacking off to Fahrenheit 9/11 to go vote. ABSENTEE BALLOT, dipshit. Send it back with the first NetFlix toss.
In other words, our system has failed us again. While it takes a moment to lick its wounds and pull it's levers we'll sit in rapt attention, pondering how a decrepit canary skeleton like Jean Enersen never gets publicly assualted for being, by all accounts, a monster rag.
Your Holiday Tidings
This will be filled in after I stop laughing about the "canary skeleton" line. Got myself on that one.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
But I showed up about 9:50 after a prior engagement, that being an engagement party, because I knew that the headliner, Colin Moulton, is always entertaining. When I showed, we huddled up and found out that there was no money to throw around, so we didn't have to do a show at all. And we did a show for 17 people because some of them were there for the show, and some just needed to laugh. I did about 20 minutes, mostly new, about the holidays and religion and skewed views of Christmas traditions thanks to the dichotomy of parenting and Christmas carols. Most of it worked, and that which did not I was able to save through some slower talking and making a point as to why I think Wal-Mart is the new Catholic Church. It's an older bit (6 months?) but slid into the whole vibe of the set.
Colin closed it all up with a couple of funny songs and the fun story of "Mike The Headless Chicken." Colin's got a lot of new material, and he did about 30 minutes of fun. So the crowd and establishment got a fully free 50 minutes of comedy. Colin will return to the area in a few weeks, and I highly recommend you go see him at Pegasus or at the Crazy Moose Casino in Mountlake Terrace. Please, check out Colin Moulton and have some laughs, dammit. DAMN IT. He's funny, entertaining, and a really good light in the comedy darkness.
========
Back to yesterday's News:
Recount Chocula:
So we have a governor in the state of Washington. Right now it's still Gary "Cutest Paintbrush Haircut Ever" Locke. Our Governor-Elect, still in the air. Is it Chris "Just Chris, Thanks" Gregoire or Dino "Aaw Shucks" Rossi? Don't know. As of yesterday it was Greggers. Every day before that it was Rossi.
Democracy doesn't work unless we all vote. And when we all vote, democracy doesn't work. This will be a good learning experience for all people, especially Democrats who were too high or too busy whacking off to Fahrenheit 9/11 to go vote. ABSENTEE BALLOT, dipshit. Send it back with the first NetFlix toss.
In other words, our system has failed us again. While it takes a moment to lick its wounds and pull it's levers we'll sit in rapt attention, pondering how a decrepit canary skeleton like Jean Enersen never gets publicly assualted for being, by all accounts, a monster rag.
Your Holiday Tidings
This will be filled in after I stop laughing about the "canary skeleton" line. Got myself on that one.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, December 22, 2004
Commercial Brake
First off...
I'd like to apologize to Killorn O'Neill for these false-start blogs that seem to raise her respiratory and refresh rates. It's nice that people want so badly to read blogs of mine that they are taken to commenting on my lack of daily production. I really apologize so very much to anybody who read today's blog, or a blog from earlier this week, that left them empty or wanting more. I promise to do better. Mmkay?
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand BLOW ME.
TV's Yule Log: That's right. From 6am-9:30am this Christmas Morn, channel Q-13 (the "Q" stands for "Merry") will broadcast a flaming... heh-heh, I just got that... flaming yule log set to the tune of KING-FM's classical holiday hits. Gather round, all ye, and bask in the plasmatic warmth of a two-dimensional log. If you have not a fireplace available, and want that badly to watch a log on fire, your access to open flame should be denied.
If you go to the Q-13 (the "Q" stands for "Alternative") website there is no mention of the flaming logcast. Oooh, surprise! So the kids who have no Christmas gifts this Saturday don't even get to watch 'toons, they're stuck with a pre-recorded chimney fire. Rad. The "Q" stands for "Meant Well."
Debbie Matenopolous: FIRST, my apologies to Ms. Matenopolous. She was not intentionally the subject of this entry. BUT...
Jillian Barberie: Speaking of flaming logs, this ho-tard is as bothersome as I've encountered on the airwaves. She's got that perma-hoarse, "Oh ma gaw-id!" patois that belies her real talents lie in delivering the news from behind a boob-job and waxed brows. There was a clip from a show last night where a character said he was gonna work his game on Matenopolous, and Jillian jumped in immediately after the clip to say "OH MY GAW-ID, that is SO... HIL-AIR-I-OUuuuusss." Yeah, the retart needs attention. JB, you're on TV, that's enough.
These and other stories as I feel like it:
Two Reasons To Not Watch FOX in the Morning
Recount Chocula
What The Dilly?
Relentless Pursuit of Relaxed Performance
The Law Of Attraction
What To Do When Your TV Bleeds
Childhood Trauma And How To Never Get Over It
Stocking Stuffer Ideas
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I'd like to apologize to Killorn O'Neill for these false-start blogs that seem to raise her respiratory and refresh rates. It's nice that people want so badly to read blogs of mine that they are taken to commenting on my lack of daily production. I really apologize so very much to anybody who read today's blog, or a blog from earlier this week, that left them empty or wanting more. I promise to do better. Mmkay?
Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand BLOW ME.
TV's Yule Log: That's right. From 6am-9:30am this Christmas Morn, channel Q-13 (the "Q" stands for "Merry") will broadcast a flaming... heh-heh, I just got that... flaming yule log set to the tune of KING-FM's classical holiday hits. Gather round, all ye, and bask in the plasmatic warmth of a two-dimensional log. If you have not a fireplace available, and want that badly to watch a log on fire, your access to open flame should be denied.
If you go to the Q-13 (the "Q" stands for "Alternative") website there is no mention of the flaming logcast. Oooh, surprise! So the kids who have no Christmas gifts this Saturday don't even get to watch 'toons, they're stuck with a pre-recorded chimney fire. Rad. The "Q" stands for "Meant Well."
Debbie Matenopolous: FIRST, my apologies to Ms. Matenopolous. She was not intentionally the subject of this entry. BUT...
Jillian Barberie: Speaking of flaming logs, this ho-tard is as bothersome as I've encountered on the airwaves. She's got that perma-hoarse, "Oh ma gaw-id!" patois that belies her real talents lie in delivering the news from behind a boob-job and waxed brows. There was a clip from a show last night where a character said he was gonna work his game on Matenopolous, and Jillian jumped in immediately after the clip to say "OH MY GAW-ID, that is SO... HIL-AIR-I-OUuuuusss." Yeah, the retart needs attention. JB, you're on TV, that's enough.
These and other stories as I feel like it:
Two Reasons To Not Watch FOX in the Morning
Recount Chocula
What The Dilly?
Relentless Pursuit of Relaxed Performance
The Law Of Attraction
What To Do When Your TV Bleeds
Childhood Trauma And How To Never Get Over It
Stocking Stuffer Ideas
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, December 20, 2004
I May Very Well Be A Complete Cock
This morning I came in to work with a pretty good attitude.
In the car on the way to work I had a couple of interactions with other drivers that truly made me feel like we are seeing the first few stages of a time when we'll be forced to drive teflon-coated pods shaped like used bars of soap. There's a deficiency in a lot of people when it comes to keeping their car in their own lane, or knowing when to pull in to traffic, or paying 90% attention to what's going around them. Though this may sound like a traffic flaming, it's not. Traffic is cars full of people, I'm traffic, so I don't really bitch about it. But holy shit, I wish I could incapacitate a number of people every single day for doing things that bother me.
For example, I was moving along at 40-ish and a woman pulled into traffic from a java drive-thru (probably a pun of "Expresso") while still holding her coffee. I know she was holding it because I was within 75 feet of her at the time she pulled out, and there was nobody behind me. Steering with one hand, sipping something with soy in it, and driving into the flow of traffic, I have to either slam on my brakes or change lanes to avoid an accident. The lane next to me is blocked by three cars, so I make split-second decision that I don't have enough to comfortably cover a collision deductible and decide to brake, hard.
But there was a second when I thought "Sooner or later, she has to learn." It's never worth it to wreck yourcar to prove someone else wrong, but I would have been one of the few people in the history of car accidents to be attended by paramedics while sporting a boner. I hope that stupid rag spills on her new Uggs and gets cheated on. Regardless, she'd never put it all together that, had she waited two seconds longer, the time it takes you 'TO READ THESE WORDS,' I would have passed her and she'd have full run of the lane. Maybe it was a lesson for me to "slow down, man." But I doubt it. She's a shit.
I arrive at work, and sit down to hear a couple of the worst laughs I've ever heard. As a comic, the Laugh is what you want to hear. But at work, these are the laughs of people who laugh to fill silence, not because something was particularly funny. I'm guaranteeing there's nothing funny happening here today. I've already heard two people use the phrase "Get 'er Done" in conversation, and say "I love that guy" when referring to the coiner of that phrase. He's not getting any play on my website.
Next up is FunTurtle Sandie. Her appearance supports the argument that we evolved out of the water, what with her flat feet and her set just in front of her gill slits. She of The Laugh That Annoys Me Most, and oh BOY! Sandie is JOLLY today! Yes she is! It's the Holidays! She's wishing everyone Happy Holidays and strolling around the building. From what I can tell, those are her "To Do's" for Monday: Well-wishing and a 3rd-floor constitutional. What's getting under my skin is that she's wearing bells on her feet. A lot of bells, small ones. Their volume is noticeable from nearly 100 feet away. That's too much jolliness for a Monday morning, too much joie de vivre. Jingly jingle, jangle, SHING SHING SHING SHING SHING. I keep thinking the cat needs to go out or is shoe-pooping in the closet. Good thing I sped to work today.
Time Magazine selected President Bush as "Person of the Year." This is a great decision. President Bush has done more to reignite an interest in the broad sweep of politics than anybody in the past 12 years. Clinton was disliked by many, loved by many, but so few people committed to talk about leaving the country with Billy Jeff Clinton in the Oral Office.
Also, Bush being named "Person Of The Year" is fitting. For years now people have complained through their brace-aligned toofers about being "A person! I'm a person! I'm not a mailMAN, I'm a mailPERSON. I'm not a Gay. I'm a Person who gays!" Okay, Persons for Diversity and Terms of Inclusive Coverage: The Man You Love To Hate is Now One of YOU. Good job dedicating your time to that cause.
If the elected is male, it should be "Man Of The Year." If the elected is a woman, she can be called "runner up after the recount."
So in looking at these 3 issues, I notice that all of them involve women or minority groups acting out. That's what I see here. Am I mad at women? Only at women who feel they are owed something because they are women, and are then ungrateful when they get it. Ever opened the door for a women who just walks through and never acknowledges you? The White Heart says "well, at least I did a good thing," while BlackHeart grumbles "You can still assault her from here. Come on, just a threat."
As for "minority" groups, please just be who you are. As individuals, not a group. If you tell me "We ARE being who we ARE, you racist bigot facist doody ass with bad fashion and thinning hair!", then you really better start clamming up when I say something that sounds like a stereotype.
People are bad drivers. People are flamboyant. People like fried chicken. People do it from behind. People like drinking a lot. People like other people and hate other people. Some people can't stand the site of two people kissing.
People are people, so why should it be/you and I should get along so awfully?
Because some days... People forget they are people, and that other people may not feel like dealing with them or their stereotypical people behavior on a day like today. 6.5billion People walking the dirt. If you can't get along, I'm going to have to ask you to dance for me, then do long division, then finally let the cat out.
===============
I knew today would suck when I woke up to my roommate asking me:
"Dude... you f*cking seen my snake?"
===============
don't worry, I know this was disjointed.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
In the car on the way to work I had a couple of interactions with other drivers that truly made me feel like we are seeing the first few stages of a time when we'll be forced to drive teflon-coated pods shaped like used bars of soap. There's a deficiency in a lot of people when it comes to keeping their car in their own lane, or knowing when to pull in to traffic, or paying 90% attention to what's going around them. Though this may sound like a traffic flaming, it's not. Traffic is cars full of people, I'm traffic, so I don't really bitch about it. But holy shit, I wish I could incapacitate a number of people every single day for doing things that bother me.
For example, I was moving along at 40-ish and a woman pulled into traffic from a java drive-thru (probably a pun of "Expresso") while still holding her coffee. I know she was holding it because I was within 75 feet of her at the time she pulled out, and there was nobody behind me. Steering with one hand, sipping something with soy in it, and driving into the flow of traffic, I have to either slam on my brakes or change lanes to avoid an accident. The lane next to me is blocked by three cars, so I make split-second decision that I don't have enough to comfortably cover a collision deductible and decide to brake, hard.
But there was a second when I thought "Sooner or later, she has to learn." It's never worth it to wreck yourcar to prove someone else wrong, but I would have been one of the few people in the history of car accidents to be attended by paramedics while sporting a boner. I hope that stupid rag spills on her new Uggs and gets cheated on. Regardless, she'd never put it all together that, had she waited two seconds longer, the time it takes you 'TO READ THESE WORDS,' I would have passed her and she'd have full run of the lane. Maybe it was a lesson for me to "slow down, man." But I doubt it. She's a shit.
I arrive at work, and sit down to hear a couple of the worst laughs I've ever heard. As a comic, the Laugh is what you want to hear. But at work, these are the laughs of people who laugh to fill silence, not because something was particularly funny. I'm guaranteeing there's nothing funny happening here today. I've already heard two people use the phrase "Get 'er Done" in conversation, and say "I love that guy" when referring to the coiner of that phrase. He's not getting any play on my website.
Next up is FunTurtle Sandie. Her appearance supports the argument that we evolved out of the water, what with her flat feet and her set just in front of her gill slits. She of The Laugh That Annoys Me Most, and oh BOY! Sandie is JOLLY today! Yes she is! It's the Holidays! She's wishing everyone Happy Holidays and strolling around the building. From what I can tell, those are her "To Do's" for Monday: Well-wishing and a 3rd-floor constitutional. What's getting under my skin is that she's wearing bells on her feet. A lot of bells, small ones. Their volume is noticeable from nearly 100 feet away. That's too much jolliness for a Monday morning, too much joie de vivre. Jingly jingle, jangle, SHING SHING SHING SHING SHING. I keep thinking the cat needs to go out or is shoe-pooping in the closet. Good thing I sped to work today.
Time Magazine selected President Bush as "Person of the Year." This is a great decision. President Bush has done more to reignite an interest in the broad sweep of politics than anybody in the past 12 years. Clinton was disliked by many, loved by many, but so few people committed to talk about leaving the country with Billy Jeff Clinton in the Oral Office.
Also, Bush being named "Person Of The Year" is fitting. For years now people have complained through their brace-aligned toofers about being "A person! I'm a person! I'm not a mailMAN, I'm a mailPERSON. I'm not a Gay. I'm a Person who gays!" Okay, Persons for Diversity and Terms of Inclusive Coverage: The Man You Love To Hate is Now One of YOU. Good job dedicating your time to that cause.
If the elected is male, it should be "Man Of The Year." If the elected is a woman, she can be called "runner up after the recount."
So in looking at these 3 issues, I notice that all of them involve women or minority groups acting out. That's what I see here. Am I mad at women? Only at women who feel they are owed something because they are women, and are then ungrateful when they get it. Ever opened the door for a women who just walks through and never acknowledges you? The White Heart says "well, at least I did a good thing," while BlackHeart grumbles "You can still assault her from here. Come on, just a threat."
As for "minority" groups, please just be who you are. As individuals, not a group. If you tell me "We ARE being who we ARE, you racist bigot facist doody ass with bad fashion and thinning hair!", then you really better start clamming up when I say something that sounds like a stereotype.
People are bad drivers. People are flamboyant. People like fried chicken. People do it from behind. People like drinking a lot. People like other people and hate other people. Some people can't stand the site of two people kissing.
People are people, so why should it be/you and I should get along so awfully?
Because some days... People forget they are people, and that other people may not feel like dealing with them or their stereotypical people behavior on a day like today. 6.5billion People walking the dirt. If you can't get along, I'm going to have to ask you to dance for me, then do long division, then finally let the cat out.
===============
I knew today would suck when I woke up to my roommate asking me:
"Dude... you f*cking seen my snake?"
===============
don't worry, I know this was disjointed.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, December 17, 2004
Some Weekend Fundle Fondling
First up: The Fountain Of Youth Flows In CC's
Peter Greyy, local comic, MC extraordinaire, and pop-culture MF'ing GURU (fah real, he would destroy Ken Jennings) has directed me to one of the most morbidly fascinating websites I've ever come across. Just so I don't offend people who hate seeing children dressed as pets dressed as members of the Partridge Family (oddly enough, none dressed as partridges), here's another website Peter turned me on to;
AWFUL PLASTIC SURGERY!!! Get ready to lose at least the next 30 minutes of your day.
The site covers celebs and pseudo-celebs who have yanked, stapled, unhinged, filled, emptied, inserted, Shop-Vac'ed, and down-right FAWKED their faces and places up and over in the pursuit of the image in their head that says "Now my parents love me."
You may assume this site would be brimming with Michael Jackson photos like so many hairplugs. Guess again. Mandy Moore got a new nose for graduation. Nicole Kidman's botox addiction. The Cat Woman, Jocelyn Wildenstein. J'Lo's new-no's. Benjamin Bratt's smaller nose. It's all on that site. How do they stay looking so young? Distorted self-image and lack of acting ability.
I'm not going to get into the argument over why people get "work done," I'll just let you enjoy some truly frightening faces:
Michaela Romanini: Her niece is marrying into Italian whatever. She's marrying Gollum.
Kylie Minogue: Can't get you outta my head. You = the doc's hypodermic needle.
Pete Burns: Former "Dead Or Alive" frontman, these pics almost make me ill. He's still awaiting the Neptunes sampling "You Spin Me" (whatever it's called) to pay for his sex-change.
Farrah Fawcett: Either Ryan O'Neal busted a nerve, or she still thinks she's Farrah Fawcett. Tragic.
Viktor Yushchenko: This Ukranian politician was once a dapper gentleman, but his Farrah obsession has turned him into a sad Lil Kim wanna be. Now he's darker than her.
Lil Kim: This is pretty bad, too. She's trying to look like a white girl, which would make her the second white female rapper, behind Eminem. I love the Chinchilla eyebrows.
Paris Hilton: First off, check out the nose job. Little Ms. Perfect, still under general anesthesia, had a snip and clip on the ol' Hilton facade.
Next up is a comparison of the young lady from teens to now, which is only like 3 years later. I hope she gets a really good, really dedicated, really insane stalker on her trail. I'm talking about a guy in his mid-30s who is really into Hentai, lives in the basement of his aunt's house, and can't stop listening to Enya, dumpster-diver, a seat-sniffer. Paris Hilton had her nose done, her cheeks done, and wears blue contacts. She's not even good enough for herself. She's going to make Courtney Love look like Oprah, which is Courtney's next surgery. You GO, SISTAH.
Next Up: Explanation For The Lack Of Info
Killorn O'Neill's website is out of commission, if you haven't heard. Since Killorn's been back from Mexico, from where she blogged, her site's been down from her host, which is why she hasn't been able to update it with anything. The pictures, oh, THE PICTURES are great on there right now. But it's been a week and we're all pretty tired of them, irony is so great the 15th time around. Picture this: An update to the site. A blog. Is Mitch Hedberg still a Local Club?
Please forgive Killorn as she settles back into the stress and strain of daily life, everything from going to work to having DSL in her house finally, it's all a bit too much for my favorite leprechaun. Or as Beka Barry calls them "Leprosychads" (see comments). Retard. So please give Killorn a few more days to get things together. We all know her as a vivid and emotive author, and I'm sure her next blog entry will be worth the wait.
Killorn couldn't poop in Mexico.
(ed. note: Killorn O'Neill's website was updated with entertaining and honest writin' later on the day this blog was posted. We all thank and love Killorn for sharing of herself and her love of Pantera and Splenda. White Powder!")
Finally: The Economy Of Suffering
A contractor here at the Orange Julius has spent the better part of the past 3 days coughing, sniffling, then doing that back-of-the-nose inhale/snork/clearing thing. KOOF KRRRF... GGGRRSSSSSS!
Now, if he'd stayed home one day, he misses 8 hours of work. Being at work and being ill he's touching all kinds of things with his sticky hands. Let's say 3 other people get his illness, and miss a day each. 3 people x 8 hours = 24 hours of lost blogging. You can see how it goes.
So, please, the next time you're not feeling well just stay home. You could probably use a day off if you're still battling that brown-bottle flu, having caught it the 3rd time this month.
I'm off to pull my shirt over my nose and lob Halls drops at the guy's hotdog neck.
=============================================
Was Your Ballot Rejected?
Apparently Mr. McArthur Raper just can't get a fair shake in this world. What a horrible name to have. McArthur. Gay.
Sorry, Carly Alexander Holzboog, your name's too stupid to register as a valid voter. I voted twice, once as Geoff Lott, then once as the dumbest name of all time:
Anthony "I'm Driving The Car From Uncle Buck" Moser.
=============================================
Have a Great Weekend! Go See TRACY TUFFS this weekend at Giggles Comedy Club! He's recording his live CD and you're ready to rock the hoozy. Sneak in some of your own airplane bottles.
* * *
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad's New Self.
Peter Greyy, local comic, MC extraordinaire, and pop-culture MF'ing GURU (fah real, he would destroy Ken Jennings) has directed me to one of the most morbidly fascinating websites I've ever come across. Just so I don't offend people who hate seeing children dressed as pets dressed as members of the Partridge Family (oddly enough, none dressed as partridges), here's another website Peter turned me on to;
AWFUL PLASTIC SURGERY!!! Get ready to lose at least the next 30 minutes of your day.
The site covers celebs and pseudo-celebs who have yanked, stapled, unhinged, filled, emptied, inserted, Shop-Vac'ed, and down-right FAWKED their faces and places up and over in the pursuit of the image in their head that says "Now my parents love me."
You may assume this site would be brimming with Michael Jackson photos like so many hairplugs. Guess again. Mandy Moore got a new nose for graduation. Nicole Kidman's botox addiction. The Cat Woman, Jocelyn Wildenstein. J'Lo's new-no's. Benjamin Bratt's smaller nose. It's all on that site. How do they stay looking so young? Distorted self-image and lack of acting ability.
I'm not going to get into the argument over why people get "work done," I'll just let you enjoy some truly frightening faces:
Michaela Romanini: Her niece is marrying into Italian whatever. She's marrying Gollum.
Kylie Minogue: Can't get you outta my head. You = the doc's hypodermic needle.
Pete Burns: Former "Dead Or Alive" frontman, these pics almost make me ill. He's still awaiting the Neptunes sampling "You Spin Me" (whatever it's called) to pay for his sex-change.
Farrah Fawcett: Either Ryan O'Neal busted a nerve, or she still thinks she's Farrah Fawcett. Tragic.
Viktor Yushchenko: This Ukranian politician was once a dapper gentleman, but his Farrah obsession has turned him into a sad Lil Kim wanna be. Now he's darker than her.
Lil Kim: This is pretty bad, too. She's trying to look like a white girl, which would make her the second white female rapper, behind Eminem. I love the Chinchilla eyebrows.
Paris Hilton: First off, check out the nose job. Little Ms. Perfect, still under general anesthesia, had a snip and clip on the ol' Hilton facade.
Next up is a comparison of the young lady from teens to now, which is only like 3 years later. I hope she gets a really good, really dedicated, really insane stalker on her trail. I'm talking about a guy in his mid-30s who is really into Hentai, lives in the basement of his aunt's house, and can't stop listening to Enya, dumpster-diver, a seat-sniffer. Paris Hilton had her nose done, her cheeks done, and wears blue contacts. She's not even good enough for herself. She's going to make Courtney Love look like Oprah, which is Courtney's next surgery. You GO, SISTAH.
Next Up: Explanation For The Lack Of Info
Killorn O'Neill's website is out of commission, if you haven't heard. Since Killorn's been back from Mexico, from where she blogged, her site's been down from her host, which is why she hasn't been able to update it with anything. The pictures, oh, THE PICTURES are great on there right now. But it's been a week and we're all pretty tired of them, irony is so great the 15th time around. Picture this: An update to the site. A blog. Is Mitch Hedberg still a Local Club?
Please forgive Killorn as she settles back into the stress and strain of daily life, everything from going to work to having DSL in her house finally, it's all a bit too much for my favorite leprechaun. Or as Beka Barry calls them "Leprosychads" (see comments). Retard. So please give Killorn a few more days to get things together. We all know her as a vivid and emotive author, and I'm sure her next blog entry will be worth the wait.
Killorn couldn't poop in Mexico.
(ed. note: Killorn O'Neill's website was updated with entertaining and honest writin' later on the day this blog was posted. We all thank and love Killorn for sharing of herself and her love of Pantera and Splenda. White Powder!")
Finally: The Economy Of Suffering
A contractor here at the Orange Julius has spent the better part of the past 3 days coughing, sniffling, then doing that back-of-the-nose inhale/snork/clearing thing. KOOF KRRRF... GGGRRSSSSSS!
Now, if he'd stayed home one day, he misses 8 hours of work. Being at work and being ill he's touching all kinds of things with his sticky hands. Let's say 3 other people get his illness, and miss a day each. 3 people x 8 hours = 24 hours of lost blogging. You can see how it goes.
So, please, the next time you're not feeling well just stay home. You could probably use a day off if you're still battling that brown-bottle flu, having caught it the 3rd time this month.
I'm off to pull my shirt over my nose and lob Halls drops at the guy's hotdog neck.
=============================================
Was Your Ballot Rejected?
Apparently Mr. McArthur Raper just can't get a fair shake in this world. What a horrible name to have. McArthur. Gay.
Sorry, Carly Alexander Holzboog, your name's too stupid to register as a valid voter. I voted twice, once as Geoff Lott, then once as the dumbest name of all time:
Anthony "I'm Driving The Car From Uncle Buck" Moser.
=============================================
Have a Great Weekend! Go See TRACY TUFFS this weekend at Giggles Comedy Club! He's recording his live CD and you're ready to rock the hoozy. Sneak in some of your own airplane bottles.
* * *
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad's New Self.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
You're Doing It Again
Holy Holiday Blitz, it's that time of year again. We climb over giftbaskets to find the amber bottles of pain killers, bop-bop-bopping across the linoleum as our rum-buttery fingers sssploork! it into the air. Why does everyone seem to be so down on medicating ourselves? It's been said hundreds of times, even if there was never a mind altering chemical or plant invented or discovered in our history, there'd still be plenty of people spinning around in the front yard claiming that they saw "God, and she looked like Jackson Browne." Do whatever you wanna do, I really don't care. But really it's not in your power to tell others what to do. Deal with you, first, then worry about how little other people think of you.
====
One of the most well-known comics pretty much continued to lose his mind and composure and ran himself out of the Seattle comedy scene. He sponged off a woman for over a year, complained about all he did not have, and continuously made an ass of himself. He ended his last stint by ingratiating himself with the club and organization that helped launch him forward, and he is now back East doing Krishna-knows-what. I wish him well, but he f*cked himself time and again. Laters.
Mitch Hedberg made a recent trip through town and played a theater show. A few months back he blew up at the manager of a local club due to the manager not being forthright about ticket prices and therefore, quite likely, Mitch's pay for the weekend. Mitch stormed off-stage during the first show and did not return for the second. That was documented on his website in an apology to Seattle. So Mitch returned recently with Stephen Lynch as his opener. (Lynch is the boy-next-door guitar-playing funny man with some dark and twisted lyrics. It's funny, but don't confuse it with stand-up, which consists of spoken word and jokes). From an eyewitness account, Lynch had a great set. Mitch hit the stage and... (from my friend's e-mail) "BTW I went to the Moore and saw Mitch Hedberg……….OK he was so wasted it got to the point where he wasn’t funny and was going off on a rage and pretty much had to be cut off. I enjoyed his opener though…"
This is from Mitch's website:
"By the way, I need to do something about what happened in Phoenix. I am well aware I went over the top. I do not want a license to have shows like that but if you have it in your hearts (and you were THERE) can you forgive me for the self-indulgence?"
He goes on to offer a free show in Phoenix if they can arrange it. So there's a pattern of self-defeating behavior
A local performer also had a personality snap in her cerebellum, e-mailing Geoff Brousseau about some imagined slander against her. At the same time she's doing that, she's calling other comics looking for MY phone number, to give me basically the same message she had relayed to Brousseau. So here's a person that most people who claims in her e-mail to "know a lot of people," yet she can't figure out which Geoff is which. Brousseau's the handsome one with the luxurious dark hair, I'm the blonde one who hates women in their late 40's who have never resolved their dad issues, and we both hate cupid stunts.
So far, that's 2 comics crapping on their reputations, and one trying to use shit for Shine-ola. The first comic and I had our own little run-in. Never met Hedberg, but it's sad to think he may very well be out of comedy in a year if he continues down the road he's on. Clubs won't book him if he's freaking out every other show and can't spend one hour a day on the wagon. They'll book him, but his fee will drop considerably. The last performer, who is not funny and will not be called a comic by me, is coming unhinged.
Three comics, three near collapses. I hope that a few others will finally lose their shit and stay off the comedy radar for good. These people are pulling friggin' Kobe Bryant-sized boners out here, just f*cking themselves but good. So if nothing else, I think there are lessons to be learned here. We each carry that shoulder-riding devil, and sometimes it takes us down a few streets with a nudge, a hint, a whisper, or by nearly pulling our friggin' ear off. As adults, we must take note of when the Puckish one is talking loudest, and if you can anticipate when the little hor-ned one will come a-knockin', then congrats, you're way ahead of the games. Still, it's up to each of us to work our crap out, and ridicule those who don't.
Oh, and Tony Moser reminds me of a little something I brought back from Mexico: A Raw Ass.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
====
One of the most well-known comics pretty much continued to lose his mind and composure and ran himself out of the Seattle comedy scene. He sponged off a woman for over a year, complained about all he did not have, and continuously made an ass of himself. He ended his last stint by ingratiating himself with the club and organization that helped launch him forward, and he is now back East doing Krishna-knows-what. I wish him well, but he f*cked himself time and again. Laters.
Mitch Hedberg made a recent trip through town and played a theater show. A few months back he blew up at the manager of a local club due to the manager not being forthright about ticket prices and therefore, quite likely, Mitch's pay for the weekend. Mitch stormed off-stage during the first show and did not return for the second. That was documented on his website in an apology to Seattle. So Mitch returned recently with Stephen Lynch as his opener. (Lynch is the boy-next-door guitar-playing funny man with some dark and twisted lyrics. It's funny, but don't confuse it with stand-up, which consists of spoken word and jokes). From an eyewitness account, Lynch had a great set. Mitch hit the stage and... (from my friend's e-mail) "BTW I went to the Moore and saw Mitch Hedberg……….OK he was so wasted it got to the point where he wasn’t funny and was going off on a rage and pretty much had to be cut off. I enjoyed his opener though…"
This is from Mitch's website:
"By the way, I need to do something about what happened in Phoenix. I am well aware I went over the top. I do not want a license to have shows like that but if you have it in your hearts (and you were THERE) can you forgive me for the self-indulgence?"
He goes on to offer a free show in Phoenix if they can arrange it. So there's a pattern of self-defeating behavior
A local performer also had a personality snap in her cerebellum, e-mailing Geoff Brousseau about some imagined slander against her. At the same time she's doing that, she's calling other comics looking for MY phone number, to give me basically the same message she had relayed to Brousseau. So here's a person that most people who claims in her e-mail to "know a lot of people," yet she can't figure out which Geoff is which. Brousseau's the handsome one with the luxurious dark hair, I'm the blonde one who hates women in their late 40's who have never resolved their dad issues, and we both hate cupid stunts.
So far, that's 2 comics crapping on their reputations, and one trying to use shit for Shine-ola. The first comic and I had our own little run-in. Never met Hedberg, but it's sad to think he may very well be out of comedy in a year if he continues down the road he's on. Clubs won't book him if he's freaking out every other show and can't spend one hour a day on the wagon. They'll book him, but his fee will drop considerably. The last performer, who is not funny and will not be called a comic by me, is coming unhinged.
Three comics, three near collapses. I hope that a few others will finally lose their shit and stay off the comedy radar for good. These people are pulling friggin' Kobe Bryant-sized boners out here, just f*cking themselves but good. So if nothing else, I think there are lessons to be learned here. We each carry that shoulder-riding devil, and sometimes it takes us down a few streets with a nudge, a hint, a whisper, or by nearly pulling our friggin' ear off. As adults, we must take note of when the Puckish one is talking loudest, and if you can anticipate when the little hor-ned one will come a-knockin', then congrats, you're way ahead of the games. Still, it's up to each of us to work our crap out, and ridicule those who don't.
Oh, and Tony Moser reminds me of a little something I brought back from Mexico: A Raw Ass.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Holiday Spirits
Whynchoo tell ME what's up? Quit be lookin' at me like you're all THAT. You ain't all THAT, PUNK.
Oh look at MEEEE, I'm intense and serious! OOOOH, I'm better than YOU. Why? 'Cause y'ain't grown up with no cousins? You think I had it better 'cause my cousin's always around? Man, they are CRAZY, you think you're stronger for never knowing your uncles? You are BLIND my friend. Now you just walk around here acting like the uncle you never had to the nephew you never was, and you get off on that. That means YOU are crazy, Mr. RolePlaying whatever.
You ain't no Uncle Superman, bitch! Give me, MMPH, give me that bottle... Look you son of DAMMIT you spilled it! I'm no son of a bit LOOK HOW MUCH YOU SPILLED... you know I only get one chocolate milk a week, dammit. I'm leaving anyway. It's hard for you to be this big an asshole when everyone expects you to stink. You ain't sneakin' up on nobody.
What? Yeah, you do that. You come to my house when I'm home. Good luck getting past the moat. What? Yeah, I'm gonna build one right now, you think I ain't got it to build a OH GOD build a moat? I'll build a moat before OH GRRRGGGGHHFFFF you even wake up from your second wine nap, putz. I'm gonna dig a BLAAARRRRRR I threw up don't worry about that I'm digging a moat, you'll see, I'm BLAAALALALAALAAAARRR it's in my nose MMRRRAAAAAAK oh that BURAAAAAAWWWKKKKKKKK I'm leaving anyway. Whatever.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Oh look at MEEEE, I'm intense and serious! OOOOH, I'm better than YOU. Why? 'Cause y'ain't grown up with no cousins? You think I had it better 'cause my cousin's always around? Man, they are CRAZY, you think you're stronger for never knowing your uncles? You are BLIND my friend. Now you just walk around here acting like the uncle you never had to the nephew you never was, and you get off on that. That means YOU are crazy, Mr. RolePlaying whatever.
You ain't no Uncle Superman, bitch! Give me, MMPH, give me that bottle... Look you son of DAMMIT you spilled it! I'm no son of a bit LOOK HOW MUCH YOU SPILLED... you know I only get one chocolate milk a week, dammit. I'm leaving anyway. It's hard for you to be this big an asshole when everyone expects you to stink. You ain't sneakin' up on nobody.
What? Yeah, you do that. You come to my house when I'm home. Good luck getting past the moat. What? Yeah, I'm gonna build one right now, you think I ain't got it to build a OH GOD build a moat? I'll build a moat before OH GRRRGGGGHHFFFF you even wake up from your second wine nap, putz. I'm gonna dig a BLAAARRRRRR I threw up don't worry about that I'm digging a moat, you'll see, I'm BLAAALALALAALAAAARRR it's in my nose MMRRRAAAAAAK oh that BURAAAAAAWWWKKKKKKKK I'm leaving anyway. Whatever.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So You've Decided To Quit
Wow. I didn't think you and I would be having this conversation, but I guess it's time.
It appears you've quit. You have given us nothing to go on here. You haven't done anything for yourself and ,therefore, nothing for the rest of us. You made a conscious decision to do nothing. I'm sorry, I thought better of you. And I was wrong.
No, really, it's on me, I shouldn't have given you that much credit. It's my fault to hold you to the standards so high. Dammit, see, I am doubting myself again. You appeared to be able to handle it, and my ability to judge a person's aptitude on this equipment has been clouded by altruism and philanthropic endeavors. I once thought you'd be the best person for the job, and I was wrong.
So now what? I hope you have a back-up plan. For crying out loud, remember when we met, that day you were staring at the 2 in the address of the methadone clinic, pudding in your hand? You didn't even have a cup, just that handful of pudding, and I knew, right there, you had the touch to handle... I'm sorry... I'm just upset by this decision of yours. By not deciding, you've decided, and that's... see? I'm really... I can't do this. Okay, friend. Here's your severance gift card. And here's the last of my SunChips. It's harvest Cheddar. Remember our laugh over that? Cheddar can't be harvested! Yeah... Okay then. Off ya go. You be well. Be well.
Okay call security and get that freak off the grounds in 10 seconds or your family dies.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
It appears you've quit. You have given us nothing to go on here. You haven't done anything for yourself and ,therefore, nothing for the rest of us. You made a conscious decision to do nothing. I'm sorry, I thought better of you. And I was wrong.
No, really, it's on me, I shouldn't have given you that much credit. It's my fault to hold you to the standards so high. Dammit, see, I am doubting myself again. You appeared to be able to handle it, and my ability to judge a person's aptitude on this equipment has been clouded by altruism and philanthropic endeavors. I once thought you'd be the best person for the job, and I was wrong.
So now what? I hope you have a back-up plan. For crying out loud, remember when we met, that day you were staring at the 2 in the address of the methadone clinic, pudding in your hand? You didn't even have a cup, just that handful of pudding, and I knew, right there, you had the touch to handle... I'm sorry... I'm just upset by this decision of yours. By not deciding, you've decided, and that's... see? I'm really... I can't do this. Okay, friend. Here's your severance gift card. And here's the last of my SunChips. It's harvest Cheddar. Remember our laugh over that? Cheddar can't be harvested! Yeah... Okay then. Off ya go. You be well. Be well.
Okay call security and get that freak off the grounds in 10 seconds or your family dies.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
This Is Majorly Sucking
Right now on Saturday Night Live, there's a shitpile passing for a sketch where these dicklumps are putting "Alexander The Grump" and syphillis-gun Colin Farrell through the paces of a "rhyme run." Lots of rhymes to get laughs instead of actual wit or anything. Lindsay Lohan is on the show, also, and there's not one mention of Colin using a sLohan to getting his nicotine-darkened fingers wet. He's a cad, she's a mess, it's a match made in fan fiction. That show sucks.
Good Bye, First Amendment
In Lancaster, PA a city councilman is trying to rid a farmer's market of a picture of President Bush.
Citing that the close and bitter election has cast sadness throughout all of Lancaster, this commie hemmorhoid believes the city needs a "time of healing." Regardless of how you think Pres. Bush should be removed from office, this City Councilman needs to be removed from his car and beaten crotch-wise. Somebody PLEASE hit that guy with the shovel he used to stack bullshit that first got him elected, PLEEEEEEEEEEEAASE! What's funnier is that this guy's name is "Nelson Polite." Hello Sexually Repressed. That has to be a fake name. Satan's in Lancaster, and he's Yellow Paged under "Polite, Nelson." No spouse.
The poster of the poster is a baker, a business owner. W.'s been good to the small business owner. It's at a "farmer's market," a group that is likely quite liberal, what with the shaping, painting, and selling of all kind o' beads, pots, and knitted clothing. It doesn't matter if it's in the middle of a church-run home for out of work porn starlets, THIS IS STILL AMERICA AND YOU CAN SAY, POST, SING, AND EXPRESS WHATEVER THE HELL YOU LIKE.
As long as it's popular, otherwise, don't bother me. Who knew Republicans would become the new hippies? You can't say shit in this country without someone getting offended. Fine. The worst is that nobody will ever take a moment and reflect on why they were offended. Say something offensive, and the person will likely stomp away to tell the manager of the coffee boutique, who will then ask that you please be nice. Or the offended party will quickly and forcefully reach into their pocket, ball up their fist, and retract it violently, wrapped around a cell phone to call their friend and tell them how they were just, ga-friggin'-sp, offended! HOW DARE THEE!
Get a sense of humor about yourself. You're going to die. No matter how much good you do in life, no matter how many petitions you hold in front of supermarkets, nor how many pockets-worth of coins you toss in the "Save Kids Without Playstations" cannister at the store, YOU WILL BE FORGOTTEN. If you can't laugh at that, we'll see you at the open mic. You have three minutes. Don't f*ck up.
Tony Moser reminds me of a white Derrick Cameron.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Good Bye, First Amendment
In Lancaster, PA a city councilman is trying to rid a farmer's market of a picture of President Bush.
Citing that the close and bitter election has cast sadness throughout all of Lancaster, this commie hemmorhoid believes the city needs a "time of healing." Regardless of how you think Pres. Bush should be removed from office, this City Councilman needs to be removed from his car and beaten crotch-wise. Somebody PLEASE hit that guy with the shovel he used to stack bullshit that first got him elected, PLEEEEEEEEEEEAASE! What's funnier is that this guy's name is "Nelson Polite." Hello Sexually Repressed. That has to be a fake name. Satan's in Lancaster, and he's Yellow Paged under "Polite, Nelson." No spouse.
The poster of the poster is a baker, a business owner. W.'s been good to the small business owner. It's at a "farmer's market," a group that is likely quite liberal, what with the shaping, painting, and selling of all kind o' beads, pots, and knitted clothing. It doesn't matter if it's in the middle of a church-run home for out of work porn starlets, THIS IS STILL AMERICA AND YOU CAN SAY, POST, SING, AND EXPRESS WHATEVER THE HELL YOU LIKE.
As long as it's popular, otherwise, don't bother me. Who knew Republicans would become the new hippies? You can't say shit in this country without someone getting offended. Fine. The worst is that nobody will ever take a moment and reflect on why they were offended. Say something offensive, and the person will likely stomp away to tell the manager of the coffee boutique, who will then ask that you please be nice. Or the offended party will quickly and forcefully reach into their pocket, ball up their fist, and retract it violently, wrapped around a cell phone to call their friend and tell them how they were just, ga-friggin'-sp, offended! HOW DARE THEE!
Get a sense of humor about yourself. You're going to die. No matter how much good you do in life, no matter how many petitions you hold in front of supermarkets, nor how many pockets-worth of coins you toss in the "Save Kids Without Playstations" cannister at the store, YOU WILL BE FORGOTTEN. If you can't laugh at that, we'll see you at the open mic. You have three minutes. Don't f*ck up.
Tony Moser reminds me of a white Derrick Cameron.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Via Con Dios, Cabo. Hi, Seattle, You Bitch.
Not sure if anyone's reading this today.
It's Friday, 12/10/04. I've returned from my vacation to read a blog here and there, caught up on some gossip, and have had the interior of my car defamed, degraded, and metaphorically defecated upon. Being away for a week, I've heard that a few comics have left the area, possibly for good, some have made waves and are doing guest spots this weekend, and some are still boring people with their depressed, repressed, unresolved issues. Yeah, Killorn, I'm talking about you... know who.
There's an old saying from the infamous Cabo San Lucas watering hole "El Squid Roe" that goes like this, "What Happens In Cabo... (everybody screeeeam!) STAYS IN CABO!" I would like some things to stay in Cabo. Like the water puma. The sea cobra. The turtle whistle. DOODLE DOOOO! The trash neighbors. AAAWHA'HA'HAAAAA! The beach dumping. Patrick Swayze. He sucks.
More later. I need a liver-flush tea and shiatsu.
Hey, where's our dawgmanned Governor? Give it up Gregoire, cut your hair above your ears and get on with your golf lessons.
Here's something odd. In checking my website stats, # of hits and what-not, I had over 300 in the past week, which is a lot. Most of them were aimed at my blog, and within that, quite a few searches for Mishna Wolff, the comedian, as well as the close confidant (not sure how attached they are) of comedian Marc Maron. Marc was in town last weekend at Giggles Comedy Club, and I hope, for your sake that you did NOT see him, because the rest of the comedy you see in Seattle will suck sludge in his wake. Mishna's got some great material, as well as a stage presence that is very laissez-faire, like she's bending your ear in front of the organic market. And Marc Maron, well, shit, that's HIM on stage. That's not a character, that's Marc Maron, and that is what most comics strive for, to be themselves on stage.
This weekend, go check out Daniel Tosh at Giggles. Funny? Yes. Off-beat? Uh-huh. Rail-thin? Check. In love with me? A bit, yeah, a bit.
As I return to the drizzle (Snoop-speak for "drippage") and gray skies, I have pants to press, set lists it write, and shows to do. I look forward to seeing y'all soon. Until then, throw $5 or a toy in for Toys For Tots. Just a little something for someone else this time of year.
Tony Moser called, he'd like to come over. I said "no." I'm not zoned for animals.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
It's Friday, 12/10/04. I've returned from my vacation to read a blog here and there, caught up on some gossip, and have had the interior of my car defamed, degraded, and metaphorically defecated upon. Being away for a week, I've heard that a few comics have left the area, possibly for good, some have made waves and are doing guest spots this weekend, and some are still boring people with their depressed, repressed, unresolved issues. Yeah, Killorn, I'm talking about you... know who.
There's an old saying from the infamous Cabo San Lucas watering hole "El Squid Roe" that goes like this, "What Happens In Cabo... (everybody screeeeam!) STAYS IN CABO!" I would like some things to stay in Cabo. Like the water puma. The sea cobra. The turtle whistle. DOODLE DOOOO! The trash neighbors. AAAWHA'HA'HAAAAA! The beach dumping. Patrick Swayze. He sucks.
More later. I need a liver-flush tea and shiatsu.
Hey, where's our dawgmanned Governor? Give it up Gregoire, cut your hair above your ears and get on with your golf lessons.
Here's something odd. In checking my website stats, # of hits and what-not, I had over 300 in the past week, which is a lot. Most of them were aimed at my blog, and within that, quite a few searches for Mishna Wolff, the comedian, as well as the close confidant (not sure how attached they are) of comedian Marc Maron. Marc was in town last weekend at Giggles Comedy Club, and I hope, for your sake that you did NOT see him, because the rest of the comedy you see in Seattle will suck sludge in his wake. Mishna's got some great material, as well as a stage presence that is very laissez-faire, like she's bending your ear in front of the organic market. And Marc Maron, well, shit, that's HIM on stage. That's not a character, that's Marc Maron, and that is what most comics strive for, to be themselves on stage.
This weekend, go check out Daniel Tosh at Giggles. Funny? Yes. Off-beat? Uh-huh. Rail-thin? Check. In love with me? A bit, yeah, a bit.
As I return to the drizzle (Snoop-speak for "drippage") and gray skies, I have pants to press, set lists it write, and shows to do. I look forward to seeing y'all soon. Until then, throw $5 or a toy in for Toys For Tots. Just a little something for someone else this time of year.
Tony Moser called, he'd like to come over. I said "no." I'm not zoned for animals.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Hola America!
Well I sure as hell hope you're enjoying comedy, TV, and your cellphone not ringing. Best I can tell, we're having a liver-flush of a time South of the Border. Mexico, not Portland.
I'm running out of time here in the Cafe Interneto, as the Policia locales are on the trail of a missing marlin statue. You try getting a 7-foot papier mache fish in a cab, see if you don't attract a little attention.
The Ladies are off for massages at 1pm, Shoogs and I are heading to the beach for our daily fitness regime of 8 minutes of swimming followed by looking for the smokes, then it is off to town for some shopping. I kid you not, the girls here are in Catholic Schools, complete with outfits. Tomorrow we snorkel! All of this, and come Friday night, Jefe here gots himself a corporate gig. Oh. Crapolita.
Via Con Dios, Mes Amigos,
ARRIBA
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I'm running out of time here in the Cafe Interneto, as the Policia locales are on the trail of a missing marlin statue. You try getting a 7-foot papier mache fish in a cab, see if you don't attract a little attention.
The Ladies are off for massages at 1pm, Shoogs and I are heading to the beach for our daily fitness regime of 8 minutes of swimming followed by looking for the smokes, then it is off to town for some shopping. I kid you not, the girls here are in Catholic Schools, complete with outfits. Tomorrow we snorkel! All of this, and come Friday night, Jefe here gots himself a corporate gig. Oh. Crapolita.
Via Con Dios, Mes Amigos,
ARRIBA
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
And Away We Go
I'm heading out of town for a week, off to sunny Cabo San Lucas. I'm looking forward to it in ways I can't even explain. Especially since this past week has been worthy of launching myself out of Seattle for some respite from. I have a gig the night after I get back, a paying, fancy, corporate holiday party gig so who knows what I'll be like after a week off-stage? It'll be fun, though. Some jokes you only have to tell once a week to keep them polished, but there is a lot of new stuff that the company wants me to work in to the performance. I'm whoring, a little, but it's also a personal challenge for me that I get to step on stage with material formulated specifically for a company, to hone in on their culture and people, as well as be able to do my own act. It's hard enough writing from thin air sometimes, but tailoring an act around a central theme, in this case, "Clothing For Cats," is a challenge as well as a creativity primer.
I'm trying to not be too exacting in writing lately. Some people can sit and pour over jokes that are written out and refine and juggle them, but I can only take that so far. The funniest and most powerful I've ever felt on stage is when I'm shooting from the hip, letting whatever's inside just come out. There's nothing rehearsed, and the audience knows that, and it is rather exhilirating for everyone in attendance. I can see the words flashing across my mind in slow motion, mileposts I connect with other terms and phrases, like the funniest words stick out and my senses guide me there. Then after my set I usually end up taking the mask off the severed head and see my own face there. Or was that in "Empire?" Maybe "Jedi," but "Empire" is still the best.
You can never really plan for what's going to happen at a comedy show. All you can do, as a comic, is be open to experiencing the middle ground you meet the audience on. Ego often forces a comic to stand in front of a cold room and deliver joke after joke without getting so much as a nose whistle. Ever feel like that? Like you're in line and the brat taking your order is throwing attitude so you're like "F*ck you, here's my order, it's your job to take it" and the whole thing leaves you feeling a little worse? That's what it's like for a comic to bomb and yet keep pushing on with the act. It's okay to break your character and tell the audience to loosen up, to ask what's wrong, to direct the funny back on them instead of on your problems. They need some levity, too, or your nachos are going to be topped with whatever was in the dustpan... if you're lucky.
Stay flexible, that's what I'm saying. Whether on stage or a yoga mat or yet another witness stand, gotta stay flexible. I say this while staunchly defending my position that if you cross a certain decibel level in the work place you should disciplined ass-wise with a proper caning. My hypocrisy is perhaps someone else's opportunity to be flexible.
I am the F*CK out of here. Have a good week. Via con Dios.
==========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I'm trying to not be too exacting in writing lately. Some people can sit and pour over jokes that are written out and refine and juggle them, but I can only take that so far. The funniest and most powerful I've ever felt on stage is when I'm shooting from the hip, letting whatever's inside just come out. There's nothing rehearsed, and the audience knows that, and it is rather exhilirating for everyone in attendance. I can see the words flashing across my mind in slow motion, mileposts I connect with other terms and phrases, like the funniest words stick out and my senses guide me there. Then after my set I usually end up taking the mask off the severed head and see my own face there. Or was that in "Empire?" Maybe "Jedi," but "Empire" is still the best.
You can never really plan for what's going to happen at a comedy show. All you can do, as a comic, is be open to experiencing the middle ground you meet the audience on. Ego often forces a comic to stand in front of a cold room and deliver joke after joke without getting so much as a nose whistle. Ever feel like that? Like you're in line and the brat taking your order is throwing attitude so you're like "F*ck you, here's my order, it's your job to take it" and the whole thing leaves you feeling a little worse? That's what it's like for a comic to bomb and yet keep pushing on with the act. It's okay to break your character and tell the audience to loosen up, to ask what's wrong, to direct the funny back on them instead of on your problems. They need some levity, too, or your nachos are going to be topped with whatever was in the dustpan... if you're lucky.
Stay flexible, that's what I'm saying. Whether on stage or a yoga mat or yet another witness stand, gotta stay flexible. I say this while staunchly defending my position that if you cross a certain decibel level in the work place you should disciplined ass-wise with a proper caning. My hypocrisy is perhaps someone else's opportunity to be flexible.
I am the F*CK out of here. Have a good week. Via con Dios.
==========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
You Really Need To Get Over Yourself
Holy mackarel. Seriously, take some ludes and drop your throttle a little. You've got too much yaw to land that thing, you're going sideways on it there. Ease back. More. Now cruise a little.
Sure enough, we're all flying the best we can around here, but you seem to have to radio to all the other pilots about what you see wrong with their patterns. That's how most pilots come to a stop, quickly, against a mountain. What do you care if I'm barrel-rolling into 15-degree dive and pulling tail-stalls? I'm not on your flight path anyway, Hindenburg, so maintain radio silence instead of sonicating everyone with your banality. I'm switching channels.
I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I've realized that missives directed at nobody in particular are great tools of making people squirm in their seats. I've had people be aksin' me who these are aimed at, "is it so & so?," "it has to be Boogly, right?" Of all the possible targets, people never think they have a bullseye on them. Good, because we shouldn't fret over what other people think of us. Good, because eventually the person handing out bullseyes will be just another dipshit handing out fliers for their crappy one-nighter in Twisp, and we breeze on by. And Bad, because some people have zero sense of self, and the Self is running kid-like around the room, and sooner or later, someone's taking it to a closet and doing a naughty to it. Like giving it the emotional foundation to be a comic. Quel horreur!
I realized that in most of my anonymous directives I am finding a piece of myself that I am fed up with, and this is my way of telling it to sit down and asking for it's house key. It all comes back to releasing fear from my life. Fear of not being funny, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my ability to store fat, fear of ending up Bradley Lewis' roommate (which would congeal the previous fears into one), fear of a government that is running unchecked like an oil light on a '78 Buick. It could seize at any moment, you know?
Comedy is the hardest thing I've ever pursued. It has so many random little awards and disappointments, and losing hurts more than winning feels good. I can have a great 15 minute set, but if 2 jokes bomb then I had only a good 13 minute set, in my mind. Or, I can have a crappy 3 minute set, but if a new joke gets a big laugh and an applause break then I consider it a good set. Backwards? Yes. Rational? Yes, oddly enough. Don't ask why. It's just the order of the comedy universe.
Also, it's nice to be in a position where I don't have to take crappy gigs. Some guys who are "just comics" take every single paying gig they can get their hands on. In the end, they develop an act that caters to the brown and smelly end of the comedic anatomy, instead of the synapse-firing/blood-pushing side. Work your way up and the jokes get harder. The funny is thinner way up there, you have to pace yourself. Shit jokes will get you work, but the work will be shit. Grab a spoon.
And when all is said and done, I've seen Willie Nelson parodies do 10-times better than a clever and solid joke. You never know what people are going to laugh at, especially when they don't even know where they got their jacket. "Found it" = "Hell gig."
What the hell am I talking about? Oh yeah...
...so touch down lightly, refuel, and get someone to de-ice those wings. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that problem and you won't have to pee into a bag. You are in my prayers.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sure enough, we're all flying the best we can around here, but you seem to have to radio to all the other pilots about what you see wrong with their patterns. That's how most pilots come to a stop, quickly, against a mountain. What do you care if I'm barrel-rolling into 15-degree dive and pulling tail-stalls? I'm not on your flight path anyway, Hindenburg, so maintain radio silence instead of sonicating everyone with your banality. I'm switching channels.
I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I've realized that missives directed at nobody in particular are great tools of making people squirm in their seats. I've had people be aksin' me who these are aimed at, "is it so & so?," "it has to be Boogly, right?" Of all the possible targets, people never think they have a bullseye on them. Good, because we shouldn't fret over what other people think of us. Good, because eventually the person handing out bullseyes will be just another dipshit handing out fliers for their crappy one-nighter in Twisp, and we breeze on by. And Bad, because some people have zero sense of self, and the Self is running kid-like around the room, and sooner or later, someone's taking it to a closet and doing a naughty to it. Like giving it the emotional foundation to be a comic. Quel horreur!
I realized that in most of my anonymous directives I am finding a piece of myself that I am fed up with, and this is my way of telling it to sit down and asking for it's house key. It all comes back to releasing fear from my life. Fear of not being funny, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my ability to store fat, fear of ending up Bradley Lewis' roommate (which would congeal the previous fears into one), fear of a government that is running unchecked like an oil light on a '78 Buick. It could seize at any moment, you know?
Comedy is the hardest thing I've ever pursued. It has so many random little awards and disappointments, and losing hurts more than winning feels good. I can have a great 15 minute set, but if 2 jokes bomb then I had only a good 13 minute set, in my mind. Or, I can have a crappy 3 minute set, but if a new joke gets a big laugh and an applause break then I consider it a good set. Backwards? Yes. Rational? Yes, oddly enough. Don't ask why. It's just the order of the comedy universe.
Also, it's nice to be in a position where I don't have to take crappy gigs. Some guys who are "just comics" take every single paying gig they can get their hands on. In the end, they develop an act that caters to the brown and smelly end of the comedic anatomy, instead of the synapse-firing/blood-pushing side. Work your way up and the jokes get harder. The funny is thinner way up there, you have to pace yourself. Shit jokes will get you work, but the work will be shit. Grab a spoon.
And when all is said and done, I've seen Willie Nelson parodies do 10-times better than a clever and solid joke. You never know what people are going to laugh at, especially when they don't even know where they got their jacket. "Found it" = "Hell gig."
What the hell am I talking about? Oh yeah...
...so touch down lightly, refuel, and get someone to de-ice those wings. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that problem and you won't have to pee into a bag. You are in my prayers.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Gabriel Rutledge, That's Who!
It's Official: Gabriel Rutledge is the Winner, Best All Around Comic, and Coolest MoFo of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I competed with Gabriel in a contest earlier this year and was impressed time and again at how he captured crowds and was cool and collected, and how we both got beat by a 20 year-old comedy anomaly, Fahim Anwar. And I think by Scott "The Stick" Black, but Gabe could've been 2nd overall that week. I was just happy and honored to lay my head on his shoulder. Scott has funny teefuses on!
Gabriel's next mission will be to erase the section of his blog where said he was gonna get a day-job, as well as remove that picture on his website where he looks like Tim Curry circa "IT" in a snow-patrol parka. He's so darling, that picture doesn't do him yustice. It's hard enough to get laughs sober, prepared, and well-rested. Gabriel won this grueling competition of 18 shows over 3 weeks while battling bronchitis, laryngitis, and HIV. He doesn't have HIV, but he would have won even if he did, although he wouldn't have ever mentioned to the audience that he had HIV, he would have simply winked at the comics and handed them the microphone he just spat his game into. HIVLARIOUS!
I am really happy for Gabriel and his achievement. His act is universal, it appeals to so many people, and that is so hard to create, unless, like Gabriel, you are open to the universe. His observations are so perfectly accessible that you laugh your ass off, like an Occam's Razor of punchlines. The funniest jokes are those that are simplest to understand, and it is the harsh task of any public communicator to simplify your thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words, let alone make it funny enough to be called a joke, and to make it a joke that works largely EVERY SINGLE TIME. Damn, the guy's GOOD, ah'ight? WORD!
Congratulations to Gabriel Rutledge. He beat 31 other comics from around the continent, in rooms where he had to prove, night in and night out, what comedy really is. Here's hoping his winnings will pay for the respirator and stem cells, and a little something left over for the family. It is the holidays, yo.
Your gift? Gabriel's Comedy. Enjoy.
Way To Go, GABE!
==========
Why not, here's what a Blog is. Get yours today!
Oh, and watch HAX-TV tonight, 9pm, Ch. 77
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Gabriel's next mission will be to erase the section of his blog where said he was gonna get a day-job, as well as remove that picture on his website where he looks like Tim Curry circa "IT" in a snow-patrol parka. He's so darling, that picture doesn't do him yustice. It's hard enough to get laughs sober, prepared, and well-rested. Gabriel won this grueling competition of 18 shows over 3 weeks while battling bronchitis, laryngitis, and HIV. He doesn't have HIV, but he would have won even if he did, although he wouldn't have ever mentioned to the audience that he had HIV, he would have simply winked at the comics and handed them the microphone he just spat his game into. HIVLARIOUS!
I am really happy for Gabriel and his achievement. His act is universal, it appeals to so many people, and that is so hard to create, unless, like Gabriel, you are open to the universe. His observations are so perfectly accessible that you laugh your ass off, like an Occam's Razor of punchlines. The funniest jokes are those that are simplest to understand, and it is the harsh task of any public communicator to simplify your thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words, let alone make it funny enough to be called a joke, and to make it a joke that works largely EVERY SINGLE TIME. Damn, the guy's GOOD, ah'ight? WORD!
Congratulations to Gabriel Rutledge. He beat 31 other comics from around the continent, in rooms where he had to prove, night in and night out, what comedy really is. Here's hoping his winnings will pay for the respirator and stem cells, and a little something left over for the family. It is the holidays, yo.
Your gift? Gabriel's Comedy. Enjoy.
Way To Go, GABE!
==========
Why not, here's what a Blog is. Get yours today!
Oh, and watch HAX-TV tonight, 9pm, Ch. 77
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Just Some Random Thoughts
I'm thankful for all of the people in the Seattle Comedy Scene. Whether by deed, word, or immature and misguided emotional outburst, we're all making each other better in one way or another. Some really great people to hang out with, but wow, some of you are F*CKED TO THE CLOUDS. It's fun watching you freak out and self-destruct. And if you think I'm talking about you...
How I know that I have found the right woman:
Laying by the fire. We watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. We sip a light Pinot Noir. My shirt is off. She makes a man out of me right there.
Gleefully, she is yanking the hair out by the root. Wax on... Deep breath in... FSSSSHT wooOOP!... Waxing is not for the faint of sack. When one experiences pain, the brain's pain centers release endorphins and a bit of dopamine in order to counteract the pain, resulting in a feeling of bliss and calm. (this is why some people enjoy some pain with their pleasure; see "Open Mic") I've got enough of those running through my body right now to downshift that OxiClean guy.
Killorn did a masterful stuffing of the bird by showing her Thanks for people in her life. Check it out. She is a writer of inspiring and humbling gifts (talent can be developed, but hers is Inspired from above), painting pictures in my head when I read or hear her words. I hope she never stops writing and publishing. On top of that, she fed a number of local comedy scenesters on Thanksgiving, and I've heard rave reviews from all who attended. Later that night, with punch-softened brains and pants unbuttoned (pros wear sweats on such days, recognize), I'm sure they basked in the glow of full bellies and love that is Killorn's gift of hostessing. Good work, Short-pants. Here's to the LA-Mexico leg of our flight, now in under 96 hours. Acting shoes on, centered... and BE the whatever.
How the F*CK do the Seahawks suck this bad? Losing 38-9 at home to a team that had not won a road game all season? I haven't seen a collapse like this since they opened a gymnastics school for lepers. Personally, I think Mike Holmgren's got his eyes on another job. He wants out of Seattle for some reason. Maybe he's pursuing his career as a chef? That's what I've heard.
Magnets. Mark my words. Invest in magnets as a biotech option. No shittin'.
Do you understand that at least once a day I hear some pop-culturetard say "Waaaasuuuup?" or "You're so money"??? You do now. Before Christmas, I will be drunk at work. I'll be making a booty-blog.
Tony Moser is a savant. I can't understand his fascination with organic lip balm or why he won't eat soup with a spoon, but hey, working with the guy is fantastic. Fabulous. TRUTH. He will be there to film the demise of rap, and this asshole will be holding his boom.
I have a strong belief that, if I was ever in the position, I could wrestle to death a cougar.
Wine's wearing thin, gotta roll. Have a great Monday.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
How I know that I have found the right woman:
Laying by the fire. We watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. We sip a light Pinot Noir. My shirt is off. She makes a man out of me right there.
Gleefully, she is yanking the hair out by the root. Wax on... Deep breath in... FSSSSHT wooOOP!... Waxing is not for the faint of sack. When one experiences pain, the brain's pain centers release endorphins and a bit of dopamine in order to counteract the pain, resulting in a feeling of bliss and calm. (this is why some people enjoy some pain with their pleasure; see "Open Mic") I've got enough of those running through my body right now to downshift that OxiClean guy.
Killorn did a masterful stuffing of the bird by showing her Thanks for people in her life. Check it out. She is a writer of inspiring and humbling gifts (talent can be developed, but hers is Inspired from above), painting pictures in my head when I read or hear her words. I hope she never stops writing and publishing. On top of that, she fed a number of local comedy scenesters on Thanksgiving, and I've heard rave reviews from all who attended. Later that night, with punch-softened brains and pants unbuttoned (pros wear sweats on such days, recognize), I'm sure they basked in the glow of full bellies and love that is Killorn's gift of hostessing. Good work, Short-pants. Here's to the LA-Mexico leg of our flight, now in under 96 hours. Acting shoes on, centered... and BE the whatever.
How the F*CK do the Seahawks suck this bad? Losing 38-9 at home to a team that had not won a road game all season? I haven't seen a collapse like this since they opened a gymnastics school for lepers. Personally, I think Mike Holmgren's got his eyes on another job. He wants out of Seattle for some reason. Maybe he's pursuing his career as a chef? That's what I've heard.
Magnets. Mark my words. Invest in magnets as a biotech option. No shittin'.
Do you understand that at least once a day I hear some pop-culturetard say "Waaaasuuuup?" or "You're so money"??? You do now. Before Christmas, I will be drunk at work. I'll be making a booty-blog.
Tony Moser is a savant. I can't understand his fascination with organic lip balm or why he won't eat soup with a spoon, but hey, working with the guy is fantastic. Fabulous. TRUTH. He will be there to film the demise of rap, and this asshole will be holding his boom.
I have a strong belief that, if I was ever in the position, I could wrestle to death a cougar.
Wine's wearing thin, gotta roll. Have a great Monday.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Olympic-sized FunnyPool
Last night I went to Olympia with Tracy Tuffs for a comedy show at the Bar Code. Had a great show. Tracy will be at Giggles all weekend. I'll be there Saturday night, both shows, 8pm & 10pm, in the event you want to come out and catch a fun, turkey-hangover show.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Give Thanks For This, Too
The Neptunes are overrated.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Are We, As a Nation, Sexually Repressed?
I dunno. This picture's been on the Top-5 of Yahoo's Most Popular Photos for like 2 Weeks now:
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
For Thee, On The Day We Giveth Thanks & Eat Till We Crap
What am I thankful for this year?
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Thank You, Kind Patriot!
I'm walking into work this morning through the back door of the building. It's mostly the front door, since most people park in the back. It's a little before 9am, and I am one of three people arriving to the door about the same time. Due to regulations of insecurity and perceived attention of Orwellian stature, we have Photo-ID badges along with the access badge you wave over the sensor so the door that you don't really want to go through will unlock.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
What A Dick!
Ashton Kutcher Tools Around Hollywood In Penis
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Not Sure What Else You Need To Know
I'm not even kidding anymore, quit it. You know exaclty what I'm talking about, so drop the games. This isn't old news, you know where I'm coming from, where EVERYONE YOU KNOW is coming from. You're doing it again, you know you're doing it, and you're too wrapped up in your own little narrow world to see it.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
The Results Are In: Open Mic Concedes To Everything
I got bumped last night at the Underground’s open mic, after originally making “the list.” I don’t have a fragile enough ego that needs or demands my 3 minutes like it’s OWED to me, so it was more a waste of time than anything else. Due to the conventions in place on Open Mic nights, spots are first allotted to performers who have brought people to see them, then the pros, then it's kind of a free-for-all. I got bumped most likely due to the debacle from last Thursday. nah, that's conspiratorial nonsense. I got bumped because I haven't purchased a Lex Cooper tape in two years. Last night was a deep pool of acts, 41 in attendance, 29 slots, with only about 4-8 non-performers in the crowd. Or at least, that is how many who had no intent of getting on stage. Going on stage in that room would equate to attending 28 other kid's birthday parties, wondering why they were so special as to get a toy they were just going to abuse and forget after 3 minutes.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Consider The Source
Last night was a nice little open mic showtastictardoganza at Giggles. I usually go there instead of, by all accounts, the much-lamented Sunday Night show at the Comedy Underground for a couple of reasons. First off, 10-15 comics show up, and most of them are actually pretty good. Second, everyone gets a fair amount of time, 5-8 minutes. Also, the audience, although sometimes low in numbers, are usually pretty attentive. They also have access to the comics hanging in the bar area, so there's a little more 'open' feel to emit as a performer.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Old Dirty Bastard's Dead. And So is Dirt McGirt.
I have a deep belief that we are spirit-beings experiencing a human life. You know you are human because you make and follow through on decisions. Sometimes you act without conscience thought, until it's too late and you have to hide the evidence. We've all been there, late at night, not thinking straight, roommate's been pissing you off, and WHAMMO, you've just killed the last of their Pepperidge Farm Milano stash. Thought, decision, action. Decision. That's the human talking.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Stuck In The Middle With Poo
(Geoffrey Lott will not be able to blog anything on Friday, November 12th. He had a horrific accident on Nov. 11th in Everett, WA, wherein his material self-destructed on the 3rd floor of what was once a Masonic temple. His wounds are healing nicely, and he should be able to return to blogging and general ignorance within the next few days.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Highly Devolved
Thursday, November 11, 2004
A Thinly Attended Showcase, Deep With Talent, etc.
Hmm... it seems the sun came up today. That's odd. The way some people acted last night led me to believe that we were having the lamest last day on Earth in history. I guess there'd really only be one on record though, except maybe Pompeii.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Forecast Calls For Awss Funnies
Yeah, I said "Awss." It's short for "awesome." That's a word that means "something that you stand in awe of because it's massive and tumescent and possibly veiny." Could be a bull without myostatin, you don't know.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
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