The Geoff Lott Rules Live Tour Of Comedy & Talking

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Friday, April 02, 2004

I had a good set last night at Giggles Open Mic. I still think comedy is a joke. I once had grandiose notions of being part of the revolution of comedy. It won't happen. Too many styles fitting too many people's ideas of funny. Comedy reminds me a lot of what it takes to make it in great in the Budoir:
Do what you think is funny.
Something like that.
If you see me on stage and you're offended, I don't care. At least you got the joke. Next we'll work on your definition of "joke."

Take Me Home
Creating Memories One Mouse-Click At A Time

I'm at work today. It's gorgeous out, and I'm at work. You, too, are in front of a computer. I don't want to be here. Unless you're tracking al-Quesadilla operatives with your computer, then you should be doing THAT instead of reading this.
So here's what I'm dealin' with today. Got a couple new reports I'm supposed to run for a couple of teams that are spread out all over. These reports reflect how much time it takes teams to accomplish the work they are asked to do. I formulated an equation which I bristle at divulging, but here goes:
TIME = $$$, where $$$ = money.
Keep the time down, keep the cost down, keep the people happy. Long story short, this is not going to amount to a hill of fiddled beans when I'm 50. I know this. This is a job. That's it. Not a spiritual quest. Not a calling. A job. Justification of the ways and the means. I'm doing what I don't want to do. Me and every other person out there is doing it about 40 hours a week. I should be commended for the fact that I don't have a drug problem, neck tattoos, or a Benadryl addiction. I'm a winner, even if I'm working for a Loser.
In the meantime, my company keeps the people down, and the money down. I hope to be on the next train to LayOffBerg. Time will tell. Or is it Money? I better run a report.

Not funny.
Geoff

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Thursday, April 01, 2004

The Freedom of Not Giving a Sh*t

Today, I do not give a sh*t. This may be temporary. It may last a few days. But for today, I'm riding shotgun on the Apathy Express, the 9:09 out of Olympia, and I'm embracing it.
I'm at work running a report nobody cares about for reasons nobody can remember. This morning I was in Olympia with someone about whom I do care (it would be untoward and grody to say "about whom I give a sh*t," pardon the break), then I had to come in to run these reports. An hour of driving so I could engage in a staring contest with this ridiculous database that can bite my honeybaked. All this technology sh*t's really cool if you give a sh*t, but I don't, so it's basically sh*t.
I am fully in touch with the fact that I am the most important person in my life. If you think that's selfish, guess what I won't be giving? Did you guess "a sh*t?" I have no kids. I have no wife. I am solely responsible for making my life as close to not-sh*tty as I possibly can. When it comes to your life, I don't give a sh*t. When it comes to mine, I take all the sh*t I didn't give elsewhere and I build a protective cabin with a hammock with it. It doesn't stink, because it's not real sh*t, and also because when you don't give a sh*t, your non-given sh*t don't stink. I just told you I'm living in a sh*t cabin, dear reader. Yes, I'm in therapy.
The truth is this: To the extent I am here doing my job, and I left M, who thinks you're fakin' it, in Olympia to be here, I give some semblance of sh*t. The nice weather outside, the lovely woman with whom I should be picnicking or trying to impress with consecutive push-ups or swing-dancing geriatrics before snacktime (pleeeease let it be butterscotch anything), the mild headache and chalkboard/fingernail laughter emitted from a conference room (ROME DID NOT CONQUER THE WORLD IN MEETINGS...) behind me remind that until the day I can truly act out on my not giving a sh*t, I need to at least fake like I have sh*t to give. Even if it's left in a flaming bag on a doorstep, at least when I give, I mean it.
And if you could see videotape of the mutilation of Americans in Iraq or Janet Jackson's tit for an hour a night, which would you TiVo? Vote with your heart. And Ryan Seacrest should be punched in the d*ck.


Geoff Lott, on your side, right after this nap.

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Wednesday, March 31, 2004

Go Up Early, Drink Up Late

I haven't much enthusiasm for comedy right now. Rephrase... here...
I love comedy. I love performing. It's how I express myself, looking at the idiosyncracies of idiocratic idiots and realizing that on any given minorly hungover, underfed, vitamin deficient day, I AM that idiot. I am no worse than the best around, but I'm way better than the worst.

This is what's up with me. I did this contest where I knocked out 19 sets in 9 days, and a total of 23 sets in 21 days total. That's a lot of time listening to yourself talk. I was on auto-pilot for delivery, but my heart was totally in the moment of the Finals week. Fully in-tune with the audience, riding the wave of my delivery and confident that I was going to get both cheeks into every punchline I swung at. I was parking punchlines in the cheap seats, leading the wave, AND bringin' hot dogs to your grill, you gifted little creature, you. I was in it. I was on it. I f*cking BROUGHT IT, I dug a hole, I planted it, it rooted and grew to give you shade and a place to hang a tire swing from.

Now I just wanna sit under the tree and hope that I get Newton'ed by a comedy apple. That may very well happen, but the meat isn't cooking while I sit in shade and anticipate in-spur-ay-shun. It's time I get back to the kitchen, bring forth the squashes and the sauces, brulee the creme, and fire up the grill. I'm doing that tonight. I'll be working on new recipes. I'm inspired, focused, and getting back to Fearless. I hope you brought a bib and a bucket. The main course is gonna stick to your ribs, full carb, full fat, full flavor. You don't like what's on the menu? Fine, eat from here.
Otherwise, grab the vino and loosen your belts.

Dig in.
Geoffers

p.s. YES, I am in counseling. Don't worry, all's well. I'll write and talk more later. In the meantime, enjoy your baggage.

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Tuesday, March 30, 2004

Take Me It's Not As Bad As It Looks... It's Probably Worse

Whistle Stumpenlegs behind me here at work has some sort of brain disconnect. This is a person who is frightened of silence. As if his thoughts will never manifest if he doesn't make some sort of noise at all times. He observes a strict open door policy, which is to say "Well hello, this here fella is one heck of a fella to know and to be a fella with. Come on in and we'll ring up a few whistly tuney tunes! WOO HOO WEEEE!" If I had an "Open Door Policy" it would be this: "If my door is open, close it."
I'd be way more upset if I weren't blogging about his bass-ackwards attempts at being "folksy" or so obscenely wine-drunk right now.

What's That Guy's Deal?

I encountered a complete a-hole today at Starbucks. The guy two spots ahead of me in line gets to the counter, and as he's ordering, he's got his face turned downward to his hand while he counts change, likely to be used to pay for his coffee. He's likely muttering, as the gal behind the counter says, "I'm sorry sir, I didn't get your order." His head snaps up and he leans with one hand on the counter, and repeats, in a condescending tone, "GRANDE DECAF NON-FAT 2-PUMP SUGAR FREE HAZELNUT NO FOAM EXTRA HOT LATTE."
The only man who should drink something that complicated is either Ryan Seacrest, because he's a teenage girl, or Geoff Lott, because I order whatever the frango I feel like ordering.
So the dude pays in change, even though he's wearing a pair of Cole Haans and the outfit of a man who is desk-boundly employed. In CHANGE, is this a Summer Camp? NO, it's a friggin' Starbucks. Hit a Coinstar first, use a Debit Card, or just steal a fresh drink off the counter, but don't pay in Change, Skippy, 'cause then they gotta count it, and my life is getting shorter than Joan Rivers' eyelids.
As the drink is placed on the counter, the cockstomer and the barista have a clash. The barista, already backlogged and dredlocked (how Now! that's What I Call Hip Hiring!), reads the order outloud, the way they've been taught, and leaves the "no-foam" part of his recitation. The asstomer says "No foam, right?" Barista dude - "Yeah, sorry, no foam." Dickstomer - "Are you sure?" Barista - "Positive, you can look and see, sir." Cockstomer - "Because I don't like a lot of foam on the lattes that's there." In the meantime, my drink is sitting next to the drink of a man who has an aversion to all things frothed. I carry some pretty colorful baggage, my friends, but I know when to leave them in the car, and YES, I usually crack a window.
I decide that I'm going to get my drink, even if someone ends up with a bruised kidney, because hey, I'm not sure how FoamHomer is gonna react. I will throw an elbow if necessary, in Starbucks or anywhere it's called for. So I stand as close to the guy as possible, reaching across him, my arm about 8 inches from his face... 8 inches,yeah, I measured it, heh heh... and say "Excuse my reach, I'm in the way." I didn't touch him, I didn't yell at him, and I even held back from hugging him and gently petting his balding bird-like head, whispering, "There we go, you're safe now. The foam won't get you."
The dictatertot throws a lengthy order into the hopper, and one bit of it, the least-important bit of it, next to "In a cup, please," is left out. Pop the top, check the foam levels. WTF? The point of this story is this: Whenever you think your Iced Grande Non-Fat Light Ice Latte is pushing boundaries, there's some change-paying waste of bladder space crying over foamed milk. You're fine.



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Monday, March 29, 2004

This morning I sat on my couch and began meditating. I try to start the day with some inner-searching to allow my spirit catch up from the dream world it was just in. Some people call it hokey, but nobody's ever died by my hands. At least not since I started meditating. At least not with a garden trowel... Never you mind.
I began to meditate on the energies of my friends and loved ones (they're the same, actually), to radiate love and happiness to each of them. I imagined each of their faces, heads bowed, hands open to the prosperity and joy of the universe. Each breath I took lifted me higher into a state of conscious unconsciousness, to be awake and alert yet deeply removed from the Daily World.
I began to understand why some of my friends are angry at life. I began to see how I can encourage other friends. I could see myself making changes I've wanted to make. I could see one very special person's arms opening to allow love and happiness surround them, as their hesitations and fears were broken down by the strength of self-belief and incoming affection, fully in tune with their own ability to Love. We hugged each other across the planes of existence.

My breathing flattened my energy out to wrap around my Life, an entity I was once frightened of, the potential to be Great, the accompanying prosperous living of nice homes and things, with the right woman, perhaps children. No longer frightening, I embraced it and implanted thoughts of Who and What I want from my Life so that my beacon is set to address those things.
I understood fully that we can not be fixed, as we are not broken. Our souls cannot be damaged if we hold on to them and follow a moral compass. We each have a little bag where the slights and hurts of interactions past reside, and unless that bag is emptied and the contents placed in order and promptly burned, we carry our "baggage" and knock into others along our way. I imagined my bag, a black canvas bag. I opened the drawstring and poured out the contents. I saw how one hurt resembled an older one, but the colors of the newer one were much brighter. The older one was still solid, yet the color had faded. Carrying it around only added to the weight of the bag. I began to pile these items into a pyramid. I asked the Divine Power to take these things away from me. And they began to dissipate. They began to disappear.
As the love I sent to my dearest people radiated over me, as I allowed my spirit to open to the good of Life, as the hurt of a lifetime or more fell away I realized something in the middle of this universe, of which I am for my own existence. I realized something profound, something true, something grounding in the middle of my quest for Higher Consciousness...

People like dick jokes.
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Nice day out. How about shutting that computer down and doing something for YOU right now? I DARE YOU.

By-eeeeeee!
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