Just Keeping It Real
So today I've had a few recruiters contact me in hopes of setting up interviews. The pay for the positions is pretty close, all the way across the board. Also, the one that is a little below is probably the most fun out of any of them. So what to do?
First of all, I'm sick of the ridiculous Telecom industry, I'm out of this idiocy. Here's the problem with it: Cheap MoFo's. Here's why: Research shows that most people (greater than 60%) who use cell phones are concerned with the phone's 1)Price, 2)Look, and 3)Features, in that order of importance. Even if it cost $300, people would make calls on a Peanut M&M if it took pictures. A phone that takes pictures... finally! And if one company decides "Hey, enough of this 'going for customers with actual money' bullschidt, let's give our $400 cell phones to EVERYONE who wants one, and make up the cost on a schiddy plan!," then all the other companies have to follow suit as a matter of selling down to the Joneses. When you're baking cookies as fast as you can, and the owner's giving a dozen away, as long as the cookie-taker promises (calling plan) to buy another dozen tomorrow, that next day better yield some results. We can't get paid in gold fronts, burned DVDs of "The Rundown," or animal pelts. We need KIZZASH. DIG? Our marketing people didn't. Goodbye $2,120,000 in Revenue.
Second, I am sick of IT. IT is like working with every geek from 11th Grade Physics: Too many inside jokes about contiuums and cookies, loadbearing and wormhole security. I shouldn't even be in IT, I'm not a virgin and I friggin HATE "Farscape." I need to get out of IT before I hear any more acronyms. SCTI, ASCI, MSN, DEV, PRISERV, .COM, hey, how about F U?
Third, I am on the wave of change, about to turn this board down the face of a cresting tube. It's not a huge wave, I'm not trying to go extreme and ride a thunder sine over a reef. Even if I fall, I'm not going to be driven through the reef like a steamroller hitting warm cheese. Nope, Just gotta keep my balance, point down the wave, and turn back up it when I'm ready for more. Hang Loose. Mahalo. Beer me.
Fourth, I want to do comedy more, make more money at it. I'm not going to be road-dogging it, but I sure can't do a lot of comedy when I'm stuck at this desk. I can't write, I can't focus to write jokes, all I can muster some days is sitting here wondering when all that work's gonna get done, while I write 'ponst my blog. And feeling not one smidge sorry 'bout it.
F*ck AT&T Wireless. It's So Much Worse Than You Know.
Take Me Home
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, June 10, 2004
Tuesday, June 08, 2004
Kill? No. That Would Be Unfair to People In Hell.
Stouty McNoisyknickers, the human pile who sits behind me, is fully on my nerves this morning. He's a person who is afraid of silence, afraid of his own thoughts. Here's how I know. I've seen him walk an entire hallway and flick a hand out on every third stride, to bank off a cubicle wall or a doorway. He will walk from one end of the building to another without a peep (yes, this floor is that devoid of life that I can see/hear him coming) and once he approaches an area where he knows there are people, he begins to whistle. No actual tunes, just random notes to fill what was once occupied by thoughts. He is an almost constant factory of sniffling and throat-clearing. Not the full-on lung/throat/nasal catharsis, more like the "sniff-sniff-KHM, ah", as if he popped his clutch too early, and that's 10 times/hour/hour. I'm not on anti-depressants, unless you count staring into his window and making a slashing motion across my heart a drug.
It's a character study in overly-ebullient personalities. Okay, we get it dude, you are FUN to work with! The kind of fun you get by letting a Springer spaniel loose in the building, lots of face licking and stumpy tail-wagging. He's a high-five from peeing in the Aspenwood Conference Room. He's a go-getter, a bulldog, a roper, a fireplug, a head-butter, a buttplug, a butthead, a firecracker, and most importantly of all, a selfish shankre. He's in charge of a bunch of contracts and vendors and really just another person in an office who cannot save this company from full assimilation. So why would he get to me?
Because I feel like I am pinned down behind enemy lines here. As if I have nothing but a lock-knife, 3 shots in a service revolver, a stick of wintergreen, and 2 cigarettes. I have to make every one of these items count before I make it to daylight. As I round the corner of the work garage, I see his stout form pacing back forth, breath breaking the calm of the night as he double-sniff-hacks his way to giving away his position. He's the only thing between me and that fence. On the other side of that fence lies a place I haven't seen in 3 months… Silence. Glorious, empty, idea & progress-filled SILENCE.
He's my albatross in an otter suit. He's an otter wrapped in a Snausage. It's almost as if everything he does is to say "LOOK AT ME. I AM CONTRIBUTING TO THE FUTURE OF… I MEAN, I AM HELPING BUILD THIS COMP… I WORK HERE! I AM SHORT!" The reality of the situation is that soon I will be working for another company, he'll still be here, and I'll be calling him randomly to whistle, clear my throat, and speak in analogies while he slowly descends into madness. By "madness" I mean "reality of the hopelessness that is The Death Star."
And he likes baseball. That alone should be grounds for torture.
=============
I Want To Know What Love Is. I Want You To Show Me. But Don't Be a Perv.
Hey, here are some parallels I've drawn between Love and stuff. I think this could be fun. If you have any, please e-mail them to me and I'll post them here.
Love is a many splintered thing.
Love is a rose. Somewhere, somebody just got 12 red nodules because of it.
Love is a tree. It's fully alive, yet totally flammable once it dries up.
Love is a frog. It's call in the middle of the night is both hilarious and frustrating. Oooh, Warts!
Love is a storm. You get wet and blown about, and need soup afterwards.
Love is a hug. When you give, you can receive. Too much or too little can hurt.
Love is a beer. It can cool you off, ease your spirits, and should be crushed when empty.
Love is a shoe. Many types for many occasions, and the more you wear, the more likely you will get a fungus or funny bumps.
Love is a drug. You may not be addicted to it, but then again, maybe you haven't had the good schidt.
Love is a knee. It can bend and stiffen to move you forward, or trick you and make you fall.
Love is a martini. Strong and pure, and it helps to knock one down at lunch.
Love is a knee to the balls. 'nuff said.
Love is a cocktail. I only want the top-shelf to feed my addiction.
Love is a kitten. Soft and innocent, falling off the couch, and scratching up your hands.
Your turn, FleaCollars. I gotta get back to work. Whistley Time!
==========
I vote "Milkshake" as the WORST song of the past 6 months. Close to whatever shyte N.E.R.D. put out.
Take Me Home
Stouty McNoisyknickers, the human pile who sits behind me, is fully on my nerves this morning. He's a person who is afraid of silence, afraid of his own thoughts. Here's how I know. I've seen him walk an entire hallway and flick a hand out on every third stride, to bank off a cubicle wall or a doorway. He will walk from one end of the building to another without a peep (yes, this floor is that devoid of life that I can see/hear him coming) and once he approaches an area where he knows there are people, he begins to whistle. No actual tunes, just random notes to fill what was once occupied by thoughts. He is an almost constant factory of sniffling and throat-clearing. Not the full-on lung/throat/nasal catharsis, more like the "sniff-sniff-KHM, ah", as if he popped his clutch too early, and that's 10 times/hour/hour. I'm not on anti-depressants, unless you count staring into his window and making a slashing motion across my heart a drug.
It's a character study in overly-ebullient personalities. Okay, we get it dude, you are FUN to work with! The kind of fun you get by letting a Springer spaniel loose in the building, lots of face licking and stumpy tail-wagging. He's a high-five from peeing in the Aspenwood Conference Room. He's a go-getter, a bulldog, a roper, a fireplug, a head-butter, a buttplug, a butthead, a firecracker, and most importantly of all, a selfish shankre. He's in charge of a bunch of contracts and vendors and really just another person in an office who cannot save this company from full assimilation. So why would he get to me?
Because I feel like I am pinned down behind enemy lines here. As if I have nothing but a lock-knife, 3 shots in a service revolver, a stick of wintergreen, and 2 cigarettes. I have to make every one of these items count before I make it to daylight. As I round the corner of the work garage, I see his stout form pacing back forth, breath breaking the calm of the night as he double-sniff-hacks his way to giving away his position. He's the only thing between me and that fence. On the other side of that fence lies a place I haven't seen in 3 months… Silence. Glorious, empty, idea & progress-filled SILENCE.
He's my albatross in an otter suit. He's an otter wrapped in a Snausage. It's almost as if everything he does is to say "LOOK AT ME. I AM CONTRIBUTING TO THE FUTURE OF… I MEAN, I AM HELPING BUILD THIS COMP… I WORK HERE! I AM SHORT!" The reality of the situation is that soon I will be working for another company, he'll still be here, and I'll be calling him randomly to whistle, clear my throat, and speak in analogies while he slowly descends into madness. By "madness" I mean "reality of the hopelessness that is The Death Star."
And he likes baseball. That alone should be grounds for torture.
=============
I Want To Know What Love Is. I Want You To Show Me. But Don't Be a Perv.
Hey, here are some parallels I've drawn between Love and stuff. I think this could be fun. If you have any, please e-mail them to me and I'll post them here.
Love is a many splintered thing.
Love is a rose. Somewhere, somebody just got 12 red nodules because of it.
Love is a tree. It's fully alive, yet totally flammable once it dries up.
Love is a frog. It's call in the middle of the night is both hilarious and frustrating. Oooh, Warts!
Love is a storm. You get wet and blown about, and need soup afterwards.
Love is a hug. When you give, you can receive. Too much or too little can hurt.
Love is a beer. It can cool you off, ease your spirits, and should be crushed when empty.
Love is a shoe. Many types for many occasions, and the more you wear, the more likely you will get a fungus or funny bumps.
Love is a drug. You may not be addicted to it, but then again, maybe you haven't had the good schidt.
Love is a knee. It can bend and stiffen to move you forward, or trick you and make you fall.
Love is a martini. Strong and pure, and it helps to knock one down at lunch.
Love is a knee to the balls. 'nuff said.
Love is a cocktail. I only want the top-shelf to feed my addiction.
Love is a kitten. Soft and innocent, falling off the couch, and scratching up your hands.
Your turn, FleaCollars. I gotta get back to work. Whistley Time!
==========
I vote "Milkshake" as the WORST song of the past 6 months. Close to whatever shyte N.E.R.D. put out.
Take Me Home
Sunday, June 06, 2004
Nick DiPaolo, Alley Doorway, Levitation: Discuss...
June 4th, 2004. Giggles Comedy Club, Seattle, WA. Second Show, approximately 2315 hours. Headliner, Nick DiPaolo, recently of Comedy Central's "Tough Crowd With Colin Quinn," and a pants-pee funny comedian, not to mention good Italian boy from Queens.
Sitting front & center, at least for that stage, is a really drunk guy... Second Show Friday, whaaaa?... and his lippy date, who is probably really nice, but on that evening was not so, although I would NEVER call anybody a retarded whore. (great, now every Googler pricing mentally challenged escorts is going to be hitting this page) So drinky show guy says to Nick, "Say something funny." That's not a good heckler line, folks, that's really as dumba as it gets. If you want to heckle, say something weird. That will loosen it up.
Nick starts going back and forth with the guy, and the not retarded not a whore date says "He's trying to make YOU laugh." Well the shine's off the turd at this point and the guy says he paid for the show and he's not laughing (the crowd was really tight that night anyway, but they were in it for Nick's funnies). Standard banter follows, then it's time to move on and keep the show going, but the guy says something else to Nick and gives him the finger, so Nick leans down and says something along the lines of "That's all you can do is give me a little finger and think..." then the schidt came down.
That's about when I heard a few glasses fly, saw a few nachos fly, and then saw a headliner fly. The guy threw a drink in Nick's face (that dick! Microphones are pricey!), and Nick wasn't having it. I set my drink down and hoofed it down front, where Nick had already pulled the dumbass's shirt over his head a la "Slapshot." Everything was cooling off until a ninja dropped in. I knew it wasn't a real ninja, though, because a real ninja wouldn't have been seen by anybody. There would have been only a puff of smoke and perhaps a fortune cookie left behind. The fortune would read "Look not at what you see. See more than you look at. Eat at Wong's. Say 'Hi' for me, I am ninja Doo Me Po." So yeah, it wasn't a real ninja and I saw him go for Nick so I'm like "HEELL NAW" and KEE-AYE, I uncoil a front snap-kick to his undercarriage. He disappeared in a cloud of smoke... it may have been a real ninja afterall, or just a Marlboro Red-loving burqa fanatic. Either way, sorry about punishing your junk.
So the fight breaks up, ninja's gone, and the drinky dude's out the club. The side door of the showroom is open because it's hotter than a birthday gift from Winona Ryder, and that door opens to an alley of sorts that runs the side of the club. So drinky dude's heading down the alley and figures "Why not?" He ducks back into the showroom, grabs a glass off a table and tosses at the stage in Nick's direction. Something like 8 guys, a woman, and that poor excuse of a ninja dive outside to grab the guy, which they succeed at doing. It was entirely outside of the club. Then I hear a pretty loud, slapping/thudding sound, kind of like when a bad career, a heroin-laced comedian, or a watermelon hits the face of a drunken show-goer.
Later on the authorities showed up to take care of things. I'll tell you what, when Optimus Prime speaks, you listen. He's pretty cool. I thought Cobra Commander was kind of snooty, but hey, he used to run a majorly evil, underground evil network of evil. He's got some control issues.
The Moral Of The Story Is:
You don't sit in the front and bring a not-lippy whore to a show, then yack at a New York stud of comedy and expect to not have schidt on your shoes afterward. In other words, he got what he deserved, a bear-hug from Terry Taylor.
=============================
Oh really?
The rock band Creed announced the other day that they were breaking up after 3 albums.
Choose from below:
1) It's about time.
2) The president of the band's fan club replied to the news with, "Oh schidt, now I'm gonna be 33, living at home with NOTHING to do on Friday nights."
3) The president of the band's fan club, and the rest of the world, shrugged.
4) A ninja would never have done that.
5) Who?
Take Me Home
June 4th, 2004. Giggles Comedy Club, Seattle, WA. Second Show, approximately 2315 hours. Headliner, Nick DiPaolo, recently of Comedy Central's "Tough Crowd With Colin Quinn," and a pants-pee funny comedian, not to mention good Italian boy from Queens.
Sitting front & center, at least for that stage, is a really drunk guy... Second Show Friday, whaaaa?... and his lippy date, who is probably really nice, but on that evening was not so, although I would NEVER call anybody a retarded whore. (great, now every Googler pricing mentally challenged escorts is going to be hitting this page) So drinky show guy says to Nick, "Say something funny." That's not a good heckler line, folks, that's really as dumba as it gets. If you want to heckle, say something weird. That will loosen it up.
Nick starts going back and forth with the guy, and the not retarded not a whore date says "He's trying to make YOU laugh." Well the shine's off the turd at this point and the guy says he paid for the show and he's not laughing (the crowd was really tight that night anyway, but they were in it for Nick's funnies). Standard banter follows, then it's time to move on and keep the show going, but the guy says something else to Nick and gives him the finger, so Nick leans down and says something along the lines of "That's all you can do is give me a little finger and think..." then the schidt came down.
That's about when I heard a few glasses fly, saw a few nachos fly, and then saw a headliner fly. The guy threw a drink in Nick's face (that dick! Microphones are pricey!), and Nick wasn't having it. I set my drink down and hoofed it down front, where Nick had already pulled the dumbass's shirt over his head a la "Slapshot." Everything was cooling off until a ninja dropped in. I knew it wasn't a real ninja, though, because a real ninja wouldn't have been seen by anybody. There would have been only a puff of smoke and perhaps a fortune cookie left behind. The fortune would read "Look not at what you see. See more than you look at. Eat at Wong's. Say 'Hi' for me, I am ninja Doo Me Po." So yeah, it wasn't a real ninja and I saw him go for Nick so I'm like "HEELL NAW" and KEE-AYE, I uncoil a front snap-kick to his undercarriage. He disappeared in a cloud of smoke... it may have been a real ninja afterall, or just a Marlboro Red-loving burqa fanatic. Either way, sorry about punishing your junk.
So the fight breaks up, ninja's gone, and the drinky dude's out the club. The side door of the showroom is open because it's hotter than a birthday gift from Winona Ryder, and that door opens to an alley of sorts that runs the side of the club. So drinky dude's heading down the alley and figures "Why not?" He ducks back into the showroom, grabs a glass off a table and tosses at the stage in Nick's direction. Something like 8 guys, a woman, and that poor excuse of a ninja dive outside to grab the guy, which they succeed at doing. It was entirely outside of the club. Then I hear a pretty loud, slapping/thudding sound, kind of like when a bad career, a heroin-laced comedian, or a watermelon hits the face of a drunken show-goer.
Later on the authorities showed up to take care of things. I'll tell you what, when Optimus Prime speaks, you listen. He's pretty cool. I thought Cobra Commander was kind of snooty, but hey, he used to run a majorly evil, underground evil network of evil. He's got some control issues.
The Moral Of The Story Is:
You don't sit in the front and bring a not-lippy whore to a show, then yack at a New York stud of comedy and expect to not have schidt on your shoes afterward. In other words, he got what he deserved, a bear-hug from Terry Taylor.
=============================
Oh really?
The rock band Creed announced the other day that they were breaking up after 3 albums.
Choose from below:
1) It's about time.
2) The president of the band's fan club replied to the news with, "Oh schidt, now I'm gonna be 33, living at home with NOTHING to do on Friday nights."
3) The president of the band's fan club, and the rest of the world, shrugged.
4) A ninja would never have done that.
5) Who?
Take Me Home
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