(Geoffrey Lott will not be able to blog anything on Friday, November 12th. He had a horrific accident on Nov. 11th in Everett, WA, wherein his material self-destructed on the 3rd floor of what was once a Masonic temple. His wounds are healing nicely, and he should be able to return to blogging and general ignorance within the next few days.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
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.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Highly Devolved
Thursday, November 11, 2004
A Thinly Attended Showcase, Deep With Talent, etc.
Hmm... it seems the sun came up today. That's odd. The way some people acted last night led me to believe that we were having the lamest last day on Earth in history. I guess there'd really only be one on record though, except maybe Pompeii.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Forecast Calls For Awss Funnies
Yeah, I said "Awss." It's short for "awesome." That's a word that means "something that you stand in awe of because it's massive and tumescent and possibly veiny." Could be a bull without myostatin, you don't know.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
Monday, November 08, 2004
You're Kidding, Right?
You understand THIS makes everyone around you 100% MORE normal, right?
===========
A Weak-Long HotDog
Already, my week is vacuum packed, tightly sealed, and fully watertight. I have two gigs, a showcase, and most excitingly, the return of HAX-TV!
Tonight, Monday, November 08, 2004, I am heading to the Comedy Uberpants for the final night of the first week of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I am hoping to see my dear friend, James Inman, perform to the highest of his abilities. I know how these things can really mess with a performer’s head. It’s like being conscious of people’s short-changing your dreams, re-living your childhood without the hope of Christmas morning or a hickey, or having a crush on a fair-skinned, substitute choir teacher in a classroom about 11 degrees cooler than necessary. I am also hoping for a stellar performance from Geoffrey G. Brousseau. He has promised me that he will wear tightly sealed, watertight, dolphin-colored courdoroy pantalones c’est soir.
Friggin’ comedy. It takes and takes and takes, and when you’ve had it up to your favorite premise with these staring blumpkins, BINGO a monster set followed by 4 paying gigs. The Muse flirts with us all, a hermaphrodite of Bowie-like energy, lap-hopping like a blossoming 15 year-old girl who misses her dad… and “Friends.”
And today is that day at work where I am pounded ass-wise by Reality:
I sit among 40-somethings who have been where I’ve been, I assume. Disillusioned with Corporate Whoremerica, wanting to make a difference in their lives and the lives of others. Staring at cubicle walls and making inside jokes at Conference Calls, only to end up twice-divorced at 44, one kid a thousand miles away, a mortgage or two, another crow's-grip of wrinkles and graying hair, and hoping beyond hope in a zen effort to scrape-clean this here yogurt cup. Their shuffling feet finding a slicker pace with rumors of donuts in the breakroom. That’s their only happiness of the day. They create work for themselves by confusing the hell out of people, over-talking every point to death (that sounds familiar). “I am IMPORTANT. See, my phone’s ringing!” So do the phones of hostage-takers. Speaking of which…
It’s really tough to see and interact with people who I am sure that, without this job to be at, would not know what to do with themselves all day. I sometimes feel like instituting a non-violent "Fight Club," like telling someone they're bothering everyone, or giving them a backhanded compliment.
"Wow Bill, you lost a lot of weight. How much more to go?"
{God, take me before that path ever comes under my feet. I’d rather die young and glorious than older and broken, blind to the fact that this is NOT Life. My dad's illness, while often hilarious and frustratingly life-affecting, is part of Life, and I thank you for that challenge, and yes, I'm still pissed about it but I have perspective now so can You please see that it loosens it's grip on the man who once read to me when I was 2 and scared of the nightlight? I'd appreciate that.}
Along with that prayer, I resolve myself to never be broken. To follow the path I am supposed to be on, destined for, through the good graces of powers above me, with the drive to learn how to do what it takes, whatever It is, and the serenity to allow everyone else to go pound their donut holes.
===========
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
===========
A Weak-Long HotDog
Already, my week is vacuum packed, tightly sealed, and fully watertight. I have two gigs, a showcase, and most excitingly, the return of HAX-TV!
Tonight, Monday, November 08, 2004, I am heading to the Comedy Uberpants for the final night of the first week of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I am hoping to see my dear friend, James Inman, perform to the highest of his abilities. I know how these things can really mess with a performer’s head. It’s like being conscious of people’s short-changing your dreams, re-living your childhood without the hope of Christmas morning or a hickey, or having a crush on a fair-skinned, substitute choir teacher in a classroom about 11 degrees cooler than necessary. I am also hoping for a stellar performance from Geoffrey G. Brousseau. He has promised me that he will wear tightly sealed, watertight, dolphin-colored courdoroy pantalones c’est soir.
Friggin’ comedy. It takes and takes and takes, and when you’ve had it up to your favorite premise with these staring blumpkins, BINGO a monster set followed by 4 paying gigs. The Muse flirts with us all, a hermaphrodite of Bowie-like energy, lap-hopping like a blossoming 15 year-old girl who misses her dad… and “Friends.”
And today is that day at work where I am pounded ass-wise by Reality:
I sit among 40-somethings who have been where I’ve been, I assume. Disillusioned with Corporate Whoremerica, wanting to make a difference in their lives and the lives of others. Staring at cubicle walls and making inside jokes at Conference Calls, only to end up twice-divorced at 44, one kid a thousand miles away, a mortgage or two, another crow's-grip of wrinkles and graying hair, and hoping beyond hope in a zen effort to scrape-clean this here yogurt cup. Their shuffling feet finding a slicker pace with rumors of donuts in the breakroom. That’s their only happiness of the day. They create work for themselves by confusing the hell out of people, over-talking every point to death (that sounds familiar). “I am IMPORTANT. See, my phone’s ringing!” So do the phones of hostage-takers. Speaking of which…
It’s really tough to see and interact with people who I am sure that, without this job to be at, would not know what to do with themselves all day. I sometimes feel like instituting a non-violent "Fight Club," like telling someone they're bothering everyone, or giving them a backhanded compliment.
"Wow Bill, you lost a lot of weight. How much more to go?"
{God, take me before that path ever comes under my feet. I’d rather die young and glorious than older and broken, blind to the fact that this is NOT Life. My dad's illness, while often hilarious and frustratingly life-affecting, is part of Life, and I thank you for that challenge, and yes, I'm still pissed about it but I have perspective now so can You please see that it loosens it's grip on the man who once read to me when I was 2 and scared of the nightlight? I'd appreciate that.}
Along with that prayer, I resolve myself to never be broken. To follow the path I am supposed to be on, destined for, through the good graces of powers above me, with the drive to learn how to do what it takes, whatever It is, and the serenity to allow everyone else to go pound their donut holes.
===========
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Tony Isn't Too Far Away
I gotta hand to it to Tony Moser.
He's really, *really* trying to get under my skin. Actually, he's trying to get under my shirt, but that's about as likely as Tony getting an applause break at a home for people who exhibit symptoms of OCD by applauding. He's the cure for that little neuronic misfire.
I ask you this, dear, foxy-ass reader:
Who is Tony Moser?
This great technology of ours allows us to find just about anyone, and find out just about anything about that anyone. So I'm like, hell yeah, who the hell is Tony Moser? I whip out the six-finger for a little Googling, and guess whats I find?
Tony Moser: (ca:2000) Crusading Arkansas journalist Tony Moser, 41 -- killed Saturday night by a 1995 Chevy pickup truck -- was a friend of mine. We bonded quickly and intensely on America Online, journalistic colleagues and compatriots, the way it happens suddenly, sometimes in cyberspace. Though it makes me terribly sad, I am not surprised at his sudden, suspicious death.
(from the linked article)
Tony Moser, a critic of the Arkansas Democratic Party political machine, was killed as he crossed a street in Pine Bluff 10 days after being named a columnist for the Democrat-Gazette newspaper and two days after penning a stinging indictment of political corruption in Little Rock.
Looks to me like somebody has assumed the identity of a deceased Akansasian in order to escape a past of illicit cat adoption, dick jokes, and charlie-horsing horses. Tony Moser is dead. Long live Brad Brake.
Oh wait... what's THIS?
More Moser-comma-Tony? No!
Yes: Now He's an Engineer? At Calumet U., Indiana? This is fishier than Tony's ring finger. Much like Tony's dating life, I'm getting to the bottom of this.
Oh for the love of car-seat camping... He's a photographer now? I wonder how many ladies shirts and hopes have fallen after that spiel.
Well then, Tony Moser is either an engineer, a photographer, or a corpse at this point. Sooner or later he'll figure out that when he's finally whomever the real "him" is, people will stop thinking he's THIS.
He's really, *really* trying to get under my skin. Actually, he's trying to get under my shirt, but that's about as likely as Tony getting an applause break at a home for people who exhibit symptoms of OCD by applauding. He's the cure for that little neuronic misfire.
I ask you this, dear, foxy-ass reader:
Who is Tony Moser?
This great technology of ours allows us to find just about anyone, and find out just about anything about that anyone. So I'm like, hell yeah, who the hell is Tony Moser? I whip out the six-finger for a little Googling, and guess whats I find?
Tony Moser: (ca:2000) Crusading Arkansas journalist Tony Moser, 41 -- killed Saturday night by a 1995 Chevy pickup truck -- was a friend of mine. We bonded quickly and intensely on America Online, journalistic colleagues and compatriots, the way it happens suddenly, sometimes in cyberspace. Though it makes me terribly sad, I am not surprised at his sudden, suspicious death.
(from the linked article)
Tony Moser, a critic of the Arkansas Democratic Party political machine, was killed as he crossed a street in Pine Bluff 10 days after being named a columnist for the Democrat-Gazette newspaper and two days after penning a stinging indictment of political corruption in Little Rock.
Looks to me like somebody has assumed the identity of a deceased Akansasian in order to escape a past of illicit cat adoption, dick jokes, and charlie-horsing horses. Tony Moser is dead. Long live Brad Brake.
Oh wait... what's THIS?
More Moser-comma-Tony? No!
Yes: Now He's an Engineer? At Calumet U., Indiana? This is fishier than Tony's ring finger. Much like Tony's dating life, I'm getting to the bottom of this.
Oh for the love of car-seat camping... He's a photographer now? I wonder how many ladies shirts and hopes have fallen after that spiel.
Well then, Tony Moser is either an engineer, a photographer, or a corpse at this point. Sooner or later he'll figure out that when he's finally whomever the real "him" is, people will stop thinking he's THIS.
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