The Geoff Lott Rules Live Tour Of Comedy & Talking

=--==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==--==

Saturday, September 18, 2004

One More Wrung

At some point in the past month I took a step up the comedy performance ladder. I don't know what nor when it was... wait a second, it just hit me, but I'll save it for later... but I am working with a different set of tools on stage. Different for me, everyone's gotta get their own tool box and build their own cabinets. To follow my blog from Monday with something self-milking may seem, at first, egotism at it's most gorgeous. Call it what you will. I truly do not give a Siamese Roca.

Last night at Giggles I did two sets, 15 and 20+ minutes (recorder ran out at 22). First show had 4 Everett'ians in it, right up front, who got pretty loosey-goosey... that was Siegfriedy... shithouse before the show. A few rows back were 5-8 Boeing employees, also well into their cups at that point. I started by telling the drunks to Shut the F Up, saying "I'm not nice like David (Katims, the MC), I used to teach." Kind of ad-libbed, got a huge response. Bank it. I spent the next 15 minutes interacting with crowd, verbally cow-sticking them into their corrals, hoping the headliner would have a more well-behaved crowd. Regardless, I did 3-5 actual jokes and somehow filled 15 minutes so much it had joke cleavage. Bouncy Bouncy.

And I had a ton of fun up there. I wasn't frustrated by the crowd, I didn't care that they were talking, I went back and forth with them and delivered a couple of pretty hot lines that got the crowd howling. Afterwards, nobody told me I was "good." They told me "Dude, you were f*cking hysterical," or "Holy crap dude, I had to leave the room I was laughing so hard." I was happy and humbled by it. One woman stopped me at the bar next door and told me my set "was like watching someone dance on a high-wire, but only (I) know that I have a parachute." I'd say it was trickery, but I kind of knew what I was doing.

I decided to have fun. I think that was my secret, the Geoff's Hard Lemonade I made from happy hour lemons. I discovered that making people laugh is more important than doing ALL of my material. I put my writing ego aside and let whatever talents I have for comedy and humor play out on stage. "In the moment," as it were. I think I'm gettin' it. No ego, no hate, a wink and a smile, and just have fun. There will be nights where it will feel like work, that's okay. I love my job.


I Love Football
I have an obsession with football. I love this time of year. Rain and gray weather and sun breaks and football on TV for 12 hours a day for 2 days. I found myself last night watching Boston College vs. UConn. A good basketball game, but a crappy football matchup. And I didn't care, it was FOOTBALL. If Bethune-Cookman College for the Blind lined up against my neighbor I'd probably take the Blind to cover. I love football. Come here football. Let me love you. Down. Set. Red 3, Red 3. Love.

========================
"What Would Lance Armstrong Do?"
========================
Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Friday, September 17, 2004

Stop The Unsanitary!

Today in the kitchet at work there is a high-end Rubbermaid tub full, CHOCK full, of oatmeal - chocolate chip cookies. I know because I made 'em. And humpy-humps to the lo-carb lifestyle, these things are the white tiger of your first day on the diet. I dare say I outdid myself this time 'round. This is at-home, from-scratch, half-organic/half-heartstopping baking. It's a zen thing I do now and again for 3 dozen

For reasons varying from humility to legal implicity, I try to make a phantom drop of the cookies. It's always best to drop 'em off then swing in when people are fueling up at 9am. Dropping off their monster lunches wrapped inside insulated bags, which they then put in the fridge. Filling insulated, $30 REI mugs with free sock-filtered coffee. Telling nobody in particular that "oh my, someone brought cookies, this is going to ruin my diet" as they waddle to the bucket o' goodness, zwip-zwipping over in stretch polyester pants matched to their light purple eyeshadow. (i know the color is lilac, but after the cookie making, one mention of the color wheel and my penchant for the ladies becomes suspect) To throw people off, I stand idly by staring at the tub with a look on my face reminiscent of Sandra Bernhard at a Firefighter Calendar signing. My gawd, I just mentioned another gay icon. Dang Firefighters!

Anyway, I work with some of the great unwashed hands in the history of The Death Star's Network Integrity department. I've seen people stir the inside of their Hawt Placket with their finger, then jam it back in the microwave sans Chinet. No, I'm not hacking Gaffigan, this is my reality. So I guess what I'm saying is that if you see free food layed out for all to paw at, the previous paws may have been wrist-deep in a BBQ Tuna & Swiss wrap. I'm more worried one the net'wenches will steal my bin.

My Biggest Crushes, circa 8:47am, 9/17/04
First off, this started a while back, this funny little crush I have. Being 30 and still crushing is funny, because I know I'm not going to do anything stupid to let the crushee in on the fact that I'm making a lot of money off the toilet cam... whooops! I keed, I keed.


1) Giada Di Laurentiis: She's an executive chef at an exclusive Hollywood eatery, owned a catering company at 25 that worked for the MGM execs, and has Italian sensibilities in the kitchen... and elsewhere? Also, Giada (we're on a first name basis) has possibly the cutest hands ever. I can't figure out what it is, that they are perfectly proportioned or manicured or covered in olive oil, but she could knead my dough any ol' time, if ya know how my yeast is risin', and I think you do.

2) Jack Hourigan: No, Jack's a woman. She co-hosts "How To Boil Water" on the Food Network... that's two now... hmm... okay, and she's friggin' hilarious. Also single, a big sports fan, and working with a nerdball. The problem is that she got paired up with Tyler Florence on the show, instead of the other French guy she started with. Ty-Flo is a pretty boy convinced of his ability to pre-heat the oven, if a ya know where my knobs are turning, and I think ya do.

3) Misty May: Gold medal winner in Women's Beach Volleyball, 2004 Olympics. Endorsement money coming in. 5'10" without the gigantism head, and she has a really great ass, if ya know where my eyes are lookin', and I know you do.

4) Genevieve Gorder: Handy with a nailgun, and has access to Paige Davis' face. Gimme.

5) Wanda Sykes: In a word, mmmmmm.


It's Friday. If you're a comic who shat the bed on Monday and you don't know you did, you're not a comic. If you're a friend who stopped by, I'll be at Giggles tonight with Tom Cotter. Call me, we'll get a drink afters. All others, take care. I'm out.

"Clean or Dirty?"
------------------------------
Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Thursday, September 16, 2004

Was That A Little Harsh?

From the stats I've seen, over 100 unique hits have been to my Open Mic review. That seems like a lot for a webpage lacking pictures of (insert outlandish bodily function/fetish here), doesn't it? And from the looks I got tonight from a couple comics tonight, perhaps they may have been amongst the 100+. So be it.

I won't apologize for voicing my opinion. Frankly, stand-up comedy is a passion of mine, one of very few in my life. And not that every performance at an OPEN MIC has to be ready for an HBO audition... But WOW, some of that stuff was HORRIBLE. Anybody can get on the list... except me that night as I showed late... and therefore you're not going to always watch a "comic," per se. Some of them are just people who are getting their rocks off. But 3 minutes at an open mic does not a comic make. Last year I did nearly 200 sets from 3-45 minutes in length as a means of sifting through what was funny and what wasn't. Built an act, found my voice, and at the same time realized that I will never be easy like Sunday morning about my act. It will always change, as long as I want it to, and hopefully it will always get better. Evolve or bomb.

So if you're a comic who thinks you were shat upon by my review, you'll find me at clubs all over the place sooner or later. Want to talk about it, please do so. Bitch about me if you want, it's your perogative. I will also gladly give whatever pointers I can about your performance. Not that anybody should take The Comedy Gospel of My Big Head to heart, but hey, we all want each other to get better, so that Seattle has a rep as a kick ass scene for comedy. If you want to get better, great! If you don't, that's great, too. But I can only ride in a fart-filled car before I roll down the window and start pointing fingers. And if I caused the discomfort, you can count on me claiming the devastation.

Go blog yourself.



Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Tuesday, September 14, 2004

This One's For The Ladies

Gotta start on a serious note. Ladies, to reiterate what you've heard, read, been told, and told your friends, WATCH YOUR DRINKS ON THE SOCIAL CIRCUITS. Two dear friends of mine had their drinks drugged last weekend, and got out of the situation by the grace of instincts, and a guardian angel-sent taxi cab. There are some seriously lecherous MF'ers out there who really don't care that you aren't interested, have a family that cares about you, or guy friends who would rock the Marcellus Wallace on your enemies with little provocation.

The first way to tell somebody has doctored your drink is that you'll feel really drunk way faster than you thought. Room-spinning, stomach-turning, Anna Nicole Smith-eloquent drunk. Get a bartender, call a cab, go to the doctor, just get the F out of there and get safe. You'll probably need a scrunchie 'cuz you'll probably throw up. That's GOOD, get it out of your system.

It's happening a lot more in the Seattle area. It doesn't matter if you aren't a Girl in the throes of Going Wild, we all deserve a social goodtime, but like any party, a few assholes stink it up for the rest of us. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's time we drink responsibly. Trust your instincts.

Oh My Lord, This is A Woman...
French Tennis Player Amelie Mauresmo and her paleolithic paw.


Reasons # 784-787 Why This Place Is In The Can



784: The hair-pulling managers I am creating efficiency and cost reports for were manic as of 5:45pm yesterday. First off, that's way too late to make me think they had an efficient day. If you can't get it done in 6 hours, fix your assembly line. This morning, when all the reports need to be perused and approved by said managers... they are all gone. I'm thinking of pasting a chart into a report they present that shows how much they are paid per year vs. how much their knowledge is actually worth.

785,786,787: Recently in the news there were 3 local, off-beat character stories. Larry, the guy who eBay'ed his ex-wife's wedding dress, the dude with the GOTMILF license plate, and a 38 year old man who was stalking Avril Lavigne. All of these people work for The Hole. Yes, they are, or were, in the stalker's case, my co-workers. Larry Starr is cool as hell, that guy is as funny and real as they come, no beef with him. The GOTMILF guy actually had a very funny letter campaign back and forth with the Dept. of Licensing due to some tightass being offended by what the letter "F" on his plates represented. I want to F that person's mom in the back of their minivan with the grandkids watching on closed-circuit LCD player. And the stalker guy, well, he's in jail or some mental facility. I totally see why. Have you heard Avril Lavigne? Gawd, that's horrendous caterwauling Great White North style. Welcome to my Tuesday.

Waiting To Laugh... Waiting... HA... More...

Last night was the weekly sloughing of dead premises at the Underbelly. There were highlights to be spoken of, but most of it needs to be called out for the crap that it was. Almost every rule of being a comic was broken, from not playing to stereotypes to being unfunny. I'll try to be fair, but when you see your calling bashed in the funny pouch with a clown nose-topped dick-joke ya go a little Sean Penn. Deal.
Attention...
This is going to be mostly uncensored, and I'm using names. These are simply my opinions, and if you don't agree with them, you're probably not a very funny comic. This has only to do with a person's performance, not them as a person, unless your name is Brad, then you are an idiot.
Also, if you think i'm being mean, deep down I would like to see a very strong comedy scene in Seattle so that everybody evolves and gets better. This is review, not the truth. Enjoy.


Killorn brought some awesome chocolate chip cookies that were devoured by the comics. It was very sweet of her, and gawd knows I love me a good cookie. Thanks to Brad for eating more than your share you idiot. Killorn rocks.


  • James "Oh, That Guy" Heneghen MC'ed the event and was surely the highlight of the night, a pro, a vet (literally) and a good guy. Despite numerous attempts to liken him to Neil Young all night, I like Heneghen. Thanks to Brad for the bad Neil Young refrences you idiot.
  • Suzanne Park was first up for the night. She's Korean, and as you can imagine, she has an amazing amount of jokes that an Asian comic can do about their crazy family. She started with a joke about her dad not being able to pronounce his "R"s or "L"s and how his best friend Larry wasn't cool with it. Why stereotype groups when they will do it themselves? BTW, Suzanne, don't wear those pants on stage again. They cast a shadow that was reminiscent of Gene Shalit. A quote from her website: "So here is my big pet peeve: guys who wear XXL athletic department shirts. If you're one of them, stop wearing those damn shirts. A-holes." How come I didn't think of that? Oh right, because that's not funny.
  • James Alberson. Wow. This was crap. Starting off with a Kobe Bryant "rape is okay" angle, then switching it up at the end to make it seem like he is, indeed, a love-makin' man. You had me at "I wanna talk about somethin'..." You had me wretching. Stop wasting time and get back to being short.
  • TK Kasnick. Now with Reddish Hair! I just can't watch this act. I had a moment last night while in the bathroom, TK's on stage, and I could see one of those clips on A&E talking about stand-up comedy. A voiceover in my head said "... and some just never get it." Nothing Brad said during this set was funny because he is an idiot.
  • TJ Orthmeyer. What I would look like if I had never learned to walk. A mountain of a man, he stood so far to the front of the stage that he couldn't see the light of the laser pointed on his chest. Man, his eyes are WAY back in his head. Chongo like funny. More delivery, more energy, get your hand out of your gawddam pocket. Are you on stage or trying to strike out at a bar? Luckily Carl saved us by playing music. Brad was an idiot.
  • Updated at 3:21pm: Bob Lindsey. Freddie Mercury, but married to a woman. I think it was his first time on stage. From there he did a street joke and another joke I'd heard about a one-eyed iguana. Eh, it was what it was.
  • Blaine Reeder. He always gives it up for the MC. Not sure about the Guess glasses and Punk Rock collection, but hey, he doesn't watch TV, so we know he's weird. Good ninja cyborg joke, took it out near the ledge, is working on some new jokes and I'm sure he'd love to tell you all about them. Nice work Reeder. We'll return to Blaine later.
  • Joe Larson. Simply adorable.
  • Chad Roberts. Well, he says he is not gay... good set, Chad did his funnies and kept it moving. It's so nice to see a lineup of pros here, Blaine, Joe, and Chad. A solid move through the first 1/3rd of the lineup. Nice work Roberts. As always, Chad's the best person to sit next to in the back of the room. Soft hands. Nevermind.
  • Jeremy Whitman. He's dark, and it sneaks up on you. Fawkin' funny guy, he pulled up short on a necrophilia joke, and in fact told me later that he had 3 more tag lines on it. It's almost ungodly to have that many, but it shows talent. Good work Whitman.
  • Jeremiah Hill. EMT. Got it. Good guy, I can't pick on him. Close your eyes and he sounds like a woman, okay? Happy?
  • Dorothy Nesbit. DOA. Kidding. She's precious in that substitute teacher kind of way, but only to little kids. She may get her lunch eaten above grade 5. And NO, we're not sleeping together, but that's not from a lack of my trying.
  • Geoff Brousseau. Even when he's off, he is on. Last night he was on by being a little off. Get it? Started with a perfectly written joke about rising gas prices and the war, and still has the finest drunk-driving joke ever written. His shirt made him look like a little kid. So damn huggable. Nice work Shoogs.
  • Major. Follow this pile's stage name with any derogatory name or noun, and you've summed up his adult life. About 6'3'', 300lbs. Bald. Possible "white power" tattoo on the left upper arm. Camo pants tucked into boots. Black muscle shirt and pocket vest. If you want to wear a muscle shirt, FIRST, you must have a muscle, no? How can you get that fat and have NO muscle tone? Quote from his act: "I told my girlie to take off her panties. And she said No, No. She's not that kind of girl." (reaches into his pocket to pull out red silkies.) Thank you Crap With Feet. Enjoy Militia Weekly.
  • Lizzy Pilcher. The second tallest paramilitary performer, bedecked in a Soviet hockey jersey. Brousseau offered to set up a Pilcher vs. Major grudge match. No go. Lizzy is funny, straight-up, but she's got this mental block when she goes on stage that I've seen her slap to the side and get to the real Lizzy. Just relax Lizzy. Blaine's not booking you. Yet.
  • Robb Westvang. Hmm... when is homicide justifiable? Here's a guy who saw Miami Vice and said "Yes. This is my look." Spikey hair, constant 4-day growth of beard. He'd look cool if he were taller, and didn't have spikey hair and that beard. And wasn't him. All I heard of this set was "Guys, if you can't find the G-spot in 7 years, you are OUT. I have 6 months left." Is anyone else drunk?
  • Bryley Hull. I didn't see this set. I was upstairs when Bryley was on the stage. But we did hang at The Red Door in Fremont a couple weeks back and I like Ms. Hull aplenty.
  • Doug Gale. Oh you beautiful elf. To craft a joke that gives the "I'm Rubber, You're Glue" defense in a legal setting, along with tackling gay rights all under 30 seconds, I'm sorry, I have not what you have, sir. I bow before thee. You win. Brad is an idiot.
  • Bobbie Jean. Why did she have to open her mouth? Puns, sex jokes, no mention of the fact that she wasn't wearing panties. Can't confirm, but she looks like the kind of gal who likes comfort and curb sexing. I loved her boots and bangs, which is the name of the first Faster Pussycat album.
  • Ed Rubin. Stop listening to CR Larsen's sets. Deal?
  • My hands hurt.
  • Peter Greyy. Peter says he pooped it. I say BOO to that, Peter. You did better than most who got up, and Peter's a great guy. Dude, do whatever you like, but remember to hone something. I know you write a lot and there's the want to try everything. Do what you do. I ain't got beef witchoo.
  • HEREIN THE FINEST TAG OF THE NIGHT. Peter ended on a Julia Childs joke that was summed up about how Ms. Childs wanted to be sauteed and consumed at her funeral. Heneghen tagged it with "Well, nobody wanted to eat her when she was alive." Okay, drugs aren't all bad.
  • Daniel Juan. It was his first time on stage and he tried to get off early, but the crowd championed his cause. He did his time. I salute you sir. Never come back.
  • Shawn Cain. This is where the show hit the dead spot on the ocean. Called "up-currents," they look non-threatening, but the water of the ocean is smooth because it's the top of a harsh upward-thrusting current, and it is unpleasant if you're unprepared. To sum up Shawn Cain's act, I quote Shawn Cain: "Vagina Blood Fart." Three nouns, non-sequitir, non-humorous. He made a joke about his sister being named Candy Cain, and then a peppermint reference. There must be a sacrifice.
  • Something Van Bibber. Technically not a midget, but very short. He got on stage in a really orange shirt, and either sat or put his butt area on the stage stool (his new nickname, btw) but looked like he never sat down. Short and weeeird. Hates gay people and good writing. Tried to go over time. I almost started doing shots here. Of heroin. Into my glans. Look it up.
  • James Lewis. Despite what your acting coach has told you, James, the crowd you are performing for is not on your shoes. Look up. Hi. You stood stage right the whole time, as if you were ready to run from the lights as soon as possible. Considering that you delivered a set reminiscent of David Cross, minus the wit, humor, and spit-shine, golly, it's okay to bump yourself some nights. To have no delivery, no presence, and no definable punchlines and yet still be on stage is some sort of phantasmic oxymoron of existing in a comedy club. One more of those and I'm sorry, we can't help you. I would have settled for a joke about prostate milking from you, just to see if you had any life experience beyond what you've sniffed from "The Daily Show," remote in one hand, al dente ween in the other. If you're going political, be political, not Sci-Fi. President Bush taking poor people to Mars? After your set I slapped a W sticker on my fun-bag. Your neck-conjoined aunts love it. You inspired me, though. Today I bought a throwing knife.
  • Woody Wood. Two words: Fitted Shirt. He was wearing his dad's clothes, and he looked like a dooooork. He's almost 21, so we can look forward to him dying in a bar fight before Hanukkah.
  • Larry G. I get it. He's a ladies man. How can you not fill 3 minutes? A thong as a punchline? Larry G is back. You've been warned. I wanted more, I really did.
  • Gervin. Got 'er done. GOT. ER. DUN. I wanted to drink beers with Gervs post-show but homey bounced quick. I didn't get the "Drug Emporium" tee, however. I'd say ironic, but he looked too hoi polloi to grasp the level. Either way, I e-mailed him to wingman for me this weekend.
  • Dan Moore. Mini-wolverine. After Larry G and Gervin, I thought Dan was being projected onto a screen. He's wee, but precious. It's important to go slow, but my gawd, at one point he was retreating. I expected more out of Dan. He got heckled by Major, for crying out loud. You get heckled by a guy who once ate a baby, step it up! STEP. IT. Yeah.

    So that's that! Thanks for hanging in there. I had to relive it, and now I'm going to punch someone with crutches.
    And now I hear that HAX TV is off tonight... FAWK!


Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Monday, September 13, 2004

Wingin' and Slingin'

It's almost like the guy behind me is growing more annoying by annoying me. He has become my arch-enemy. I haven't said much about other people's annoying habits, but his are just killers. Here's what my today has been like so far:

1) Allergy lady telling everyone about her nasal routing surgery. She plowed her head clean open with the help of a doctor, a bottle brush, and a fifth of Old Crow. Then she told everybody who stopped by about what was extracted or reportedly seen by the doctor's booger-cam, when really the peeps were only stopping by to feign concern in exchange for the good candy on her desk. She knows how to swing the cocoa bean, and none of the bullcrap Tootsie Roll 17-pounder from Coscto. I'm talking foil-wrapped choco-sedatives. And I denied myself the bounty because I didn't want to see... are you ready?... THE BEFORE/AFTER PICTURES OF HER NASAL SURGERY. Enjoy your Krackle.

2) Around 9:17 I could hear a "chck... chck... ch-chck" from over the Great Wall of Whiner. It was the sound of a nail clipper in-action. About 15 minutes ago I got out of a meeting with her, where I glanced at her nails. Not freshly painted, but not too short nor chipped. See where this is going? I glanced at her footwear as she walked by... SANDALS. She was cutting her toe nails. That alone should warrant my own bowl of candy.

3) Boston Shipdit behind me has a habit of leaning his wee form (5'5"-ish) back in his chair and tahssing (with Boston accent) a pen at the ceiling just hard enough to cause a slight bounce effect. He then catches it and repeats his game of "The one with the pen that is stupider than the one with my cell phone" for the duration of the call. I want to side-arm a handful of uncapped Mr. Scents markers at his head so he understands how annoying that is. He cannot NOT make noise.

4) The Cell Phone thing he does: Everyone who works here has a cell phone. Call it an apology, if you will. The Boston Crap Pie there has 2, one personal, one business. With the number of cell phones and the number of calls going around due to our being taken over by the Orange Julius, phones vibrate like crazy around here. VIBRATE. We try and keep the noise to a minimum. Not this guy. His ringer is set to "Holy crap, Raahn, how many horsepower you got in that phone?" Here's why that is stupid. If he's in his office or has his phone on him, he can set it to vibrate and know when someone's trying to get a hold of him. If he leaves the ringer on and walks away for 30 minutes to go be short in another part of the building, the ringer goes off for everyone BUT him to hear. He may as well have his kid stand at his door and yell 'DAAAAAAD! MOM'S LAWYER IS ON THE PHOOOOONE!' for all the good that ringer does.

I'm about to go wing the pens, crush his phone under my heel, and hold his face in the garbage can until he admits to being annoying and promising to work from his hotel room until his contract is up, then stare blankly into his window with a sign that says "You Have Been Warned."
Or I guess I could ask him to keep it down.



Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.
And Now, Back To Our Regularly Scheduled Crapton of Crap

What a weekend. I spent Fri-Sunday volunteering for SkiForAll, a non-profit that plans and executes outdoor excursions and operations for disabled people of all ages. That sounded pretty Rambo, let's reign that in.

I volunteered for my own reasons, none to be paraded around for any kind of accolade. Mostly I did it because Life plays by absolutely NO rules, and who knows when the rules you thought were in place are going to change, sans bow-crossing warning shot? The only thing I think I have is an integrity or moral currency or karma or paranoia that drives me to give when I've been given to. Nobody ever told me to do it, but I can only give when I know what it's like to receive. That, by the way, is a standard for Loving, but that's for another exhaustion-fueled blog. I've been blessed, and when counting said blessings, I had plenty to share.

The highlight of my weekend was not seeing an 18-foot male orca within 30 feet of our boat. Those animals, by the way, are fawking amazing. SeaWorld is not the place to see them. To see them out there was basal, primal, made me think of the first person to ever see one. That expedition prob'ly went through pants like Elvis through peanut butter. 18 feet of seal-eating, shark-killing, pack-hunting, family-loving killzone. Yet if one freaks out half-way through a flaming-hoop jump and it makes the 6 o'clock headline, we stare in wonder. I'm surprised Keiko wasn't knocking back Body Gloved trainers like Keg mints. (you haven't had a choco-mint from the Keg? Why are you still reading this? GET THEE TO A KEG!) The campers we took out had an amazing time, too. They were all very keyed in on where the pods (human term for "whale posse") were playing, and a mammoth school of salmon kept the pods on the hunt. I ain't seen a mammal close on a fish like that since this one guy ate 19 linear feet of scrod at Ivar's. WHATEVER, it's almost 1 in the morning on a MONDAY, make up your own references, Ahab.

So why volunteer? No pay, some play, and if you don't learn something about yourself and the world then you ain't paying attention. I wanted to give, and I hope that, in some way, I did. Some people will never really fathom love, bliss, fulfillment, enlightenment, or unconditional acceptance in their lives. Maybe they have and they haven't yet realized it. But I realized for a split second yesterday that I was counted on in a moment of need, and to fulfill that need simply because it needed filling was enough reward for me. I do plenty of comedy, which I love to do, for no charge. And I also do quite a bit for a decent chunk of change. Yep, it feels great to do what you love AND get paid for it. I have a fair presence in the Seattle Comedy Circle(s). But after a while I had to see how Life goes on without knowing I was even around.

And it turns out that I missed jack-point-crap in "my world" this weekend. I hope I haven't sounded preachy in this, and if you think I am preaching then you should volunteer and see what it's all about. Pick an organization, there's a LOT out there you can give your time to that requires no political, religious, or financial agenda. If you're wondering what to do, just do SOMETHING, once.

Oh, and the highlight of my weekend was getting schooled in bowling by a kid who is a nationally-ranked Special Olympian in bowling and powerlifting. I asked him how he got so good at bowling. He said "I bowl a lot." "Oh yeah, why?"
"Because it's FUN!"
It's not one of the things he CAN do. It's something he does. And he does it because it is fun.
Yep. It sure was.

And now, off to bed, up early to work out, then in to the office to do something that has no effect on the world whatsoever. Oh... that might be my answer right there.

Thanks for reading. Who's up for coffee?


Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.