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.
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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.
1 comment:
Reading this post made me squirm. It's a shot at me, isn't it?
I knew it. I never thought I had a bullseye on me, so that just confirms it.
Well let me tell you, buddy, this pilot is doing just fine. Sure, I've had a couple or six Rum and Diet Tabs. That may make a lesser man unfit to fly, but not me. It's loosens me up. Keeps the old noodle nice and limber.
And excuse me if I like a little inflight banter between me and the other pilots. If they find it distracting, they can turn off their radios. Or shoot it, like Crazy Pete did that one time when he was all hopped up on the "magic roots" those indigenous people gave him when he flying recon for the logging companies over the Amazon. Good times.
And yeah, maybe I do talk a little trash on the squawk box. But that's the way it works among us fly boys, isn't it? A little harmless riffing and ribbing. That's the bond of the sky, my friend. And the rum certainly doesn't help.
But maybe next time I see you about to take a header into Kilimanjaro with plane load Japanese tourists I'll "maintain radio silence" instead of saying something like: "Hey. Nice flying, Lott. Way to kill a bunch of Japs. They could have used more pilots like you in World War II."
Unless this wasn't about me. In which case I am behind you 100%. People need to stop running off at the mouth. Jerks.
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