What You Are Laughing At

Meta-Post-It Note: Just Be

1: Is anybody actually reading this thing?

2: Holy crap, what is singing to me on the new Quizno’s commercials? Nothing Pavlov’s my dog for a hoagy like a yodeling tumor. Too bad it’s memorable. “Hey babe, let’s grab Quizno’s for dinner. I want a Southwest Fire-Grilled Turkey and Cyst.”

3-whenever: I revisited another important lesson last night: Just Be. It’s been a while since I felt like I could Just Be. The past few weeks have entailed a comedy competition, I have a tooth that needs a little work, I turned 30, I went to Las Vegas, I was violently ill in Vegas, I’m not going to Open Mics, I learned about the Prayer of Jabez, and I’m spending time on the phone instead of in the company of “M,” which is good for pacing but bad for expression of attraction. If you know not what I mean by that, stop reading now. To Just Be: Apply no pressure to myself to apply pressure to any other situations, allowing things to build of their own accord. Have wine. Sleep.

Really all I wanna do right now is write and perform and hang with “M.” I’m working for a rather poorly-run company, being micro-managed down to the last keystroke… heh-heh, stroke… and told that it’s the “only way to properly run a business.” Who knew that Big Brother was so anal retentive? I never had a Big Brother, but now I see why folks who did are so scarred the rest of their lives. Big Brother ought to just sock me in the arm, not make me feel like I have to clock out when I pray that the voices in my head stop telling me to “go for the hammer.” To Just Be: Plumb the depths of these moments for all the comedy gold there is, panning through detritus for shiny nuggets. Then it’s time for Merlot. Merlot can ya go?

EVERYBODY is stressed here, even the delirious Little House On The Floodplain neighbor of mine. Some people combat stress with drinking, shopping, eating, exercise, creative expression, or nervous energy. I’ve done all of those, mostly shopping, exercise, and creative expression through nervous energy (peed my pants at the store, called it performance art). Floodplain Sally over here combats stress with an overabundance of nervous laughter and a yearning, burning for a life in the hills. To quote the deeply troubled and soulfully pristine troubadour Bruce Dickinson, “RUN TO THE HEEEEEELS!” I will not miss conversations about the family cat’s trust issues, nor the amount of arm hair shed from this month’s eczema flare up. To Just Be: Put on the headphones and listen to Jim Gaffigan.

I think I have Asperger Syndrome. I have a hard time making small-talk with people of lower intelligence. This is a relief. I was worried that I was just another elitist snob who wanted the dumb to die. WHEW.

Urban Outfitters is getting press again for a shirt that says “Voting Is For Old People.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s true. Nobody wants to vote because you can’t Text Message it in. I think more people voted for American Idol than the last 5 school levies. If we don’t vote, Ryan Seacrest has already won.

If I could be anywhere right now, I’d be in Florence, Italy on a patio with a local family who wants nothing more than to talk about Life and drink wine. You know why? Because we are short on time and long on stress and that leads to white noise. The world’s problems have never been settled on battlefields or in bedrooms. They are settled at the tables of great minds and brave hearts, half drunk on wine instead of power. Then you retire to your room to make love all frigging night. That’s what Life is. Deny that, and you’re just another non-voting Commie Pinko assneck who gives crank to Quizno's lemur tumor-pups.

Kill Hack Comedy,
Geoffers