It's Not Even Midnight

Memorial Day Weekend, are you set up? What are you doing? E-mail me, don't just say it outloud, weirdo. Nah, say it, weird out the people around you need a little reality check.

So what are you going to do? Hike? Drink? Sleep in? Shop? Head to Emerald Downs... oooh! The ponies! Yes, the ponies are back! If this rain would stop we'd see some real running, but dammit, global warming or El Nino or Terry Taylor seem to be causing some kind of climate trauma. It's raining, two days straight now. But here's another thing on my mind.

My friend seems to be seriously depressed, it's in his act, in his blog, it's live. I know he's not going to suicide, yes, it's a verb, but there's a point when you care enough about someone that you should let them know that they matter. I'm going to call my friends and family this weekend and talk for a bit, let them know I think of them, and tell them straight up that a part of them is inside me. Call it love. Call it too much Merlot (I suggest L'Ecole 2000, it's worth the $35). Call it sentimentalism. But call. It's 30 minutes out of your weekend. Then, back to gathering beads.

Y'all take care.
Geoffers

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How's That Working Out For Ya?

I just read The Mastermind's blog about Monday night, and I'll tell ya... I love that guy. So real, so brutal, so depressed. Go read his, and then read the other blogs there, too. See, blogging is this weird, self-gratifying act of writing your thoughts as if anyone would read them... as if anyone truly cares. It's just entertainment. Hell, I'm sharing cyberwads with Recipes, True Mind Masters, and deviance so deviant it would be deviant to link them here. Get one on your own time, it's America, you have options. Just imagine words like "soaked," "drenched," and "spandex." I'm sure you'll find something.

Anyway, Mastermind's blog talked of how he spent some time correcting the actions of a performer, and I was totally with him on the moment to do so. See, Art's been on stage enough to know that, when you're done, you holster the mic, you SET THE STAGE for the next act. It's courtesy, it's professionalism, it's WHAT YOU FRIGGIN' DO. I told Mastermind I thought it was good opener, just jokin', ya know, seein' as how, golly, it's WHAT I FRIGGIN' DO. I don't know if that rubbed him the wrong way, but if it did, see, that's not on me. It wasn't meant to, but if he took it to heart that's on him. It's called Frame Of Reference.

Some people are easily offended. They don't like loud music, loud clothes, fast cars, slow children at play, or dogs too ugly to live. If you tell them they are wearing blue shoes, and they hate blue shoes and insist, dammit, that those slides are PERIWINKLE, thank you, then you offended them... but that ain't your stressball to squeeze. Let 'em lose it. It's their coronary. If you toss someone a ball and they let it hit them, they either A) have no hands, B) have no coordination, or C) don't like balls coming at them. That reminds me of a Youth Group story, but we'll get into that after I perform the miracle of turning rum into water.

So let's imagine scenario A, they have no hands. You can clearly see they have no hands, what with their reluctance to shake hands, high-five, or offer a reach-around. You KNOW they are at a disadvantage, yet you throw it anyway, they take a restricted-flight to the collar bone, and BINGO, you're the a-hole at the office picnic. First of all, stop drinking at office picnics, even if your boss is pounding PBR, even if she's doing said pounding in your back seat where she's been since just after Happy Hour on Friday. Have some class, get a flask. Okay, so you bopped ol' Hooky, and frankly, it's your fault. It's pretty clear that you shouldn't have thrown a ball at a person with no hands. Apologize, then switch to soccer. Hope that Hooky didn't try and kick those fireworks way back when. Good on you.

Option B, they have no coordination. Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't. It's not totally your fault. You meant nothing by the toss, just to get them into the game because they were, after all, complaining that nobody ever tells them when Happy Hour's going down, especially after their conversation with the Boss lady. That lippy schidt's always a hen with a few pops in the bucket. So Wobbles the Intern has a welt (the uncoordinated always bruise easy, thanks to only eating hand foods, nothing with a fork and some iron, it's for their own safety), and the best you can do is apologize for your part in it, and maybe go 'em one better and offer your skills of retrieving balls, which reminds me of a story involving a corsage, a cumberbund (that's gay, in the non-gay-bashing way) and a can of Aquanet, but we'll save that for when you're sober. Gawd, you drink like a Kennedy.

Finally, C), they don't like to have balls thrown at them. Did you know? If so, then you're a prizzick for forcing a ball into their world, which reminds me of a spandex, but I digress. If You did not know that they detest ball-throwing activities and they get upset, hey, you didn't know and it's either their fault for being in the field of play, or it's their duty to get off the friggin' field, BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE FRIGGIN' BALLS GET TOSSED. It's called Empowerment, taking care of one's own feelings, needs, or withdrawals with conscious decision-making. If they are upset that a ball came at them, cripes, think of how people feel when bombs, motorcycles, or ugly cookie-saleskids come at them. You probably didn't know they were anti-catch, and they probably resent you for being the kind of person who goes around tossing balls. Which reminds me of almost every middle manager I've ever met, but this is going on forever.

In summary, if you ever get offended, you have to come to a conclusion: Did they intend to offend you, or are you easily offended? Only you know for sure. The world is full of offensive images, words, and bosses. It's up to each of us to pick our battles, thicken our skin, and fill our flasks. And for crying out loud, watch your balls.


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My Previous Week

I saw "Cabaret" for the first time. The actual live performance, caught it at a little community theater in Olympia. It was surely a community version of the musical, but it came off without a hitch, and these people were literally in the audience performing, which takes WAY more mangoes than plodding around above the orchestra pit. Face your fears. Then have wine.

I had a show in Puyallup at the Liberty Theater. I MC'ed for a couple of old dogs, Gabriel Rutledge and Brad Upton. I realized how close and yet how far I am from where I want to be as a comedian. I think the real issue is dedication, which I've let slide a bit in the past few months. So it's up to me. That's not funny, that's about as New Aged Cheese as I'll go for the day.

Last night at the Comedy Ubergrind it was "nickname" night. If we didn't choose a nickname - I chose "The Asshole" - then we were tagged with one. Most people chose their own. Including Mickey "The Soldier" what's his who-cares. This dimwit had a bravado that perfectly juxtaposed (I said it) his lack of humor. He ate more crap than a dog on a camping trip. Diatribes about sports highlights nobody saw, using "he/she was on crack" as a punchline, imitating "pigeons" (female crack heads) to show off a silly face and physical mannerisms, then after going over-time and starting a bit about how cell phones are big, which shows he doesn't have one. And not a single segue or linear thought. It was totally scattered, and that's speaking ill of people with ADD. And he EARNED every second of silence he got.

The laughs were more about how bad he was, but he got a taste of the entertainment cocktail, and he just couldn't wait until next week. In fact, he was leaving the club and GOT BACK ON STAGE BECAUSE HE HAD TO SAY SOMETHING. He said it was "good bye," but he was trying to work a bit. So here he is, taking time from the other comics who are funny, taking the mic away from the MC, and being a prick, basically. So we all start booing him from the back, with one guy yelling "beat it" and someone, probably me, yelling "SCRAM" or maybe "YOU SUCK." His demeanor showed that he's got no class, no couth, and no courtesy for the rest of the performers, AND he's not funny, so he's really got zero clout. Comedy didn't start when Mickey walked through the door of the comedy club. He actually called one of us "boobirds" a "bigot." He played that card, as if the color of his skin had anything to do with his jokes being unfunny, and him acting like a dick. I know plenty of very unfunny white people, too, so save that schidt for the bus stop.

I'm out for now. I need to do stuff. I'm looking for a new job. Email me at "GeoffLottRules@yahoo.com" if you hear of anyone hiring, mmkay? Muchas gracias.

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