Not Sure What Else You Need To Know

I'm not even kidding anymore, quit it. You know exaclty what I'm talking about, so drop the games. This isn't old news, you know where I'm coming from, where EVERYONE YOU KNOW is coming from. You're doing it again, you know you're doing it, and you're too wrapped up in your own little narrow world to see it.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.

Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.

And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
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Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.

Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.

And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

The Results Are In: Open Mic Concedes To Everything

I got bumped last night at the Underground’s open mic, after originally making “the list.” I don’t have a fragile enough ego that needs or demands my 3 minutes like it’s OWED to me, so it was more a waste of time than anything else. Due to the conventions in place on Open Mic nights, spots are first allotted to performers who have brought people to see them, then the pros, then it's kind of a free-for-all. I got bumped most likely due to the debacle from last Thursday. nah, that's conspiratorial nonsense. I got bumped because I haven't purchased a Lex Cooper tape in two years. Last night was a deep pool of acts, 41 in attendance, 29 slots, with only about 4-8 non-performers in the crowd. Or at least, that is how many who had no intent of getting on stage. Going on stage in that room would equate to attending 28 other kid's birthday parties, wondering why they were so special as to get a toy they were just going to abuse and forget after 3 minutes.

So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:

GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)

Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.

Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.

I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.

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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Consider The Source

Last night was a nice little open mic showtastictardoganza at Giggles. I usually go there instead of, by all accounts, the much-lamented Sunday Night show at the Comedy Underground for a couple of reasons. First off, 10-15 comics show up, and most of them are actually pretty good. Second, everyone gets a fair amount of time, 5-8 minutes. Also, the audience, although sometimes low in numbers, are usually pretty attentive. They also have access to the comics hanging in the bar area, so there's a little more 'open' feel to emit as a performer.

Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.

This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.

As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Old Dirty Bastard's Dead. And So is Dirt McGirt.

I have a deep belief that we are spirit-beings experiencing a human life. You know you are human because you make and follow through on decisions. Sometimes you act without conscience thought, until it's too late and you have to hide the evidence. We've all been there, late at night, not thinking straight, roommate's been pissing you off, and WHAMMO, you've just killed the last of their Pepperidge Farm Milano stash. Thought, decision, action. Decision. That's the human talking.

So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.

Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.

Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.

And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
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From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files

Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.

Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.