Video!

From The Paramount show.

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The Election Results Are In

But nobody's gonna hear crap about them until we get an impacted ass full of the Britney Spears announcement that she, having listened to everyone, finally, CANNOT SUSTAIN ANYTHING MEANINGFUL OVER A GIVEN PERIOD OF TIME.

Britney, who believes we should follow the President right now no matter whut (her word), is getting divorced from Kevin "Sperm For Sweat" Federline (his word). They have two young sons together, not to mention years of total screwed up-edness to look forward to with the OTHER kids Kevin made with another woman I can't remember, but whom does not bother me in the least, and therefore is my favorite of the Kevin Federline Baby-mommas.

I, as a man soon to be married (her word), cannot tell you how important it is to give marriage not ONLY a solid two-year run, but also to just pop out kids and make a circus of it and do everything you can to focus on your marriage being focused on, instead of focusing on the Marriage. It's much like putting chrome 18-inch rims on a tractor. Then using that tractor to pull a VW Corrado to a Chuck E. Cheese, before the Corrado tells the Tractor to be careful with the tokens, "them games is like gambling, I sway-ur to Pat Sajak (my words)."

I wish I could say more, but I am off to revel in victory of Votes! Money doesn't buy class, just everything else that matters to classless people.



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Duhmocracy In Action

Each registered voter has a duty to perform next Tuesday: Use the turn signal and get in the flow of traffic. On the other end of that jaunt, at some point, there is a voting ballot with your name on it. That makes it easier to track your movements from the cabal headquarters, which isn’t where you may think it is. (You didn’t hear it from me, and you didn’t hear the words “time-share in Estacada.")

The past few elections and opportunities to vote have raised a lot of questions in our society. Who controls voting procedure? Why is it different from place to place? What would generate a larger voter turn-out? Why isn’t there any free food at voting sites? Does question 4 answer question 3? Why vote when I rarely seem to win, no matter how many ballots I complete?

Democracy is a form of government For the People, Of the People, and By the People. The common thread to all of those tenets is “People.” The common flaw to those tenets is “People.” By the People? Have you seen The People? Bad drivers, cell-phone wireless earpiece yappers, 15 items in the 10-Or-Less line, and their vote counts just as much as yours and mine. But I am not deluded by our Democratic Voting Procedure. I am encouraged by it. Without The People, the computers will take over and control the voting, and luckily we are hundreds of minutes away from that happening. Eventually the computers will take over the voting, too, and it’s going to be terrible! Computers will be voting based on logic and numbers, instead of feelings and politics.

Oh no.
The horror.

I am an American. A tax-payer. A homeowner. I have a Bachelors Degree. I read. I bathe regularly, whether I need it or not. I vote. I vote so that a victory of one of my favorite initiatives will crush the dreams of its opponents. I vote to get one of those “I Voted!” stickers that remind other people to feel guilty for abstaining. I vote, even though there is no veggie platter or meat tray available. And I know that when I make my marks on my mail-in ballot and send it in if I can find a stamp, my vote will arrive safe and sound to a highly trained volunteer. And then my ballot, my VOTE, will OFFICIALLY not count.

As stewards of our environments it is a very small, yet very important effort to partake in something many people have died to defend: Our freedom to let our neighbors screw things up because we didn’t go vote. Be American. Vote Like It Matters.

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The Post Office = P.O.

Couple weeks back I go to the Post Office to send some stuff to a buddy of mine, a couple of comedy promos, headshots (ones I stole), and a brownie wrapped in toilet paper. Went for a padded mailer envelope, runs about $2 at the P'Office. The line is 9 deep, running about 4 minutes/transaction, listening to every old MF shuffle their feet to the counter before asking 5 questions about stamps. I can't wait to be that old and just completely throw people's lives off-skej (schedule) with my pre-planned "folksiness." Then again, maybe these oldsters don't have any friends still alive or family around to help them, which makes me think "Wow, your family won't help you? What a pile of crap you must've been."

I grab the mailer, 10th now in line, and it's just taking fo-rever. I say quietly, "Oh my, this is most unpleasant, this wait. I have so much to accomplish that I simply can NOT wait any longer. 'Tis best now to excuse myself." So I f*ck-off to the self-serve kiosk where I can weigh my package... AND what I'm sending to my buddy... buy the postage for it and get on with my day.

I bag my goods in the envelope, deftly and gorgeously scrawl the address on the front of it, seal it with a mucous-laden loogie though it had the adhesive on it already, and weigh it up. $4-ish bucks for 3 day, fine, hit it. I slap the thing on it, drop it in the thing, and get the F outta there. TOTALLY FORGETTING TO PAY FOR THE ENVELOPE.

I guess you could say I "stole" it, since I procured its use without the proper exchange of currency for the sundry good. I decided that my life and time was too valuable to wait in line for that $2, so I'd return soon when it wasn't so busy and drop the $2 on the mailer without a big explanation. It’s the right thing to do, and it’s got an air of neighborliness not seen since Eddie Haskell commented on the Beauty of the Beaver’s Mom’s pearl necklace.

So I head back to the P’Office and do the math… what I make per hour = X, and the cost of the envelope = Y, and Karma = Z. So (X/Y) = Z, or X*Y/Z = Public Education In Math. After about 7 minutes in line, with no hope for moving any faster (who the hell are the elderly sending everything to? Are they willing off their figurines early?), I say quietly, “THIS NONSENSE IS NONSENSE AND I’M GONNA LEAVE.” I turned on my heels and headed right out to the door, and the F to my life.

Then I realized, hey, how about a quick explanation on a piece of paper about the situation? I could tuck a couple of dollars into an envelope, or a check! I could write a check and drop that in and throw it in a processing bin and they’d see it and run it up front. Well, that may actually screw up the whole process, slowing it down EVEN MORE (call Steven Hawking, his wormhole is in Bellevue) while they take the envelope up to get rung in. That is assuming that they didn’t just rip it open and take the cash, or hell, even the check and then assume my identity and write blogs and end up in my car some morning swearing at people in Pig Latin. I’d cut in line and just drop it on the counter, in hopes they didn’t think I was trying to rob the place, if they could put F & CK together and figure the deal out. Nope, too risky.

You can’t trust people to do the right thing, I guess.

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I Need Your Opinion

Thanks for swinging by here.

I'm at the point where I need to leap and know that the net will catch me, or keep eyeing the cliff. Let's not get into where the cliff is or what it offers vs. the exhiliration of the leaping. I need your ideas...

To the right of this blog are some truly outstanding works of literary stuff.

WHICH ONES ARE YOU FAVORITES? Let me know. Because, see, I have to leap, eventually, and it can be a controlled leap with a harness that I can secure to the cliff and let out more rope each time I leap, but the effort to climb back up can tire you out. I need to find what my best writing was and is, and take it to the next level, which means I gotta step up, which means I need to get booked for about 10 gigs at a high rate so I can not worry about this bullshit day job.

Email me, lemme know!

Love,
Geoff

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Bursting The Dam

My recent trip to Utah started the way most short flights do: scanning the gate area for unruly children (see previous blog, “You Can’t Afford NOT To”). There was one kid who was nuts, doing the screaming that only kids can scream when they want to see how loud they can be. A well-dressed older man on a mobile phone (cell = cellular = old technology) nearby said into that phone, “One sec…” hit his mute button, then yelled “AAAAAAAAAAH!” His outburst was unexpected, but necessary, and effective.

The kid stopped dead in his tracks, wide-eyed staring at the man who had just interrupted his yelling. The look on the kid’s face can be best described as “I lose.” EVERYONE turned suddenly, and the gentleman put his hands up to his mouth and said “Oh dear, I thought it was yelling time! Sorry fella!” His jovial tone made everyone giggle a bit, and I’m pretty sure I chuckled as I sent his aura a metaphysical Starbucks card. The kid did not peep the rest of the afternoon. This yelling trick is now in my repertoire.

Let’s reverse field a bit. I got through security in my usual “extra 5 minutes because of the rod in my leg” situation (see previous blog, “How I Got This Scar...”). I always get pulled aside because the rod in my leg sets off the machine. Every time. I’ve been through without the rod, nothing. I went through with it, DEET DEET. Then I get to sit in the little Plexiglas corral while they wave the wand over me to make sure I’m not getting on the plane with any extra dignity or expediency. Security is of the utmost importance, until some of these wussies get on board with my Vigilante Justice movement. Then I gather my shoes… SHOES!... book bag crammed with belt, phone, watch, and my clown nose and I’m off to pay $8 for a Balance bar.

This time through I needed water like Courtney Love needs water. I paid $2 for a 20oz bottle at the little shop, and moved on to my gate. As we boarded I held it in my hand, walking past the gate agent, a flight attendant, another attendant, and then one more attendant. It was in plain view. Nobody said anything about it, seeing as there IS a restriction on liquids being brought through security. I understand the gels, because people who wear hair gel shouldn’t be allowed to fly.

I made my way to my seat, an aisle seat across from two people whom the field of medicine would label “mastodon.” They wore matching shirts… SHIRTS!... as if they would not be able to find one another in the event they became separated. Just look for the sweaty head. Immediately upon sitting I hear a voice that is laden with the echoes of needing to have some sort of control in life. The tattle-tale. The one who got left out because she complained, and then proceeded to complain because she got left out. A World-Class Nag.

“Excuse me. Where did you get that water?”, she asked, emphasizing water like it were a stack of Valrhona 70% cocoa bars. (I really like those)

“At the news stand,” I replied, very nicely for someone who was on his way to Utah.

“Well they said I couldn’t bring water on the plane and I’m diabetic and I have the kind that I need a lot of water because I get thirsty,” frumped she.

“Oh.”, I exclaimed.

“Yeah, I need water for my…” she trailed off looking for something in the distance. I was a little flummoxed because in all my travels I had never had this encounter. I understand that she wasn’t asking me for my water, but it suddenly seemed that water was the great equalizer! I was in POWER because I had a bottle of water, and how could I be so callous as to just flaunt it? HOW DARE I! Everyone knows that diabetes can only be cured by Dasani! (made by Coca Cola, also a cause of diabetes!)

As she continued railing against the gods and flight attendants keeping all water out of her body, a man, a woman, and a tiny baby being held by the woman approached. They looked at their tickets, at the empty seat to my right, and the man said “Well mine is back there.” I said “Hey, I can move back to your seat and you two can sit next to each other,” which is a really nice thing to do, unless the guy was looking forward to time away from his wife and baby. Life isn’t perfect, stop groaning.

They say “Sure,” I stood, grabbed THE WATER BOTTLE OF DESTINY!, and moved back two rows to a middle seat between a guy wearing a NorthFace parka and some other guy wondering who wears a NorthFace park in the Summer on a plane. (man named Craig, that’s who) They weren’t any happier to see me than I was to smell the unwashed parka, but there I was. And it wasn’t very good camouflage.

Five minutes later a flight attendant of the female persuasion was stopped by Diane Betes (of earlier Water Fiasco fame) who started pointing and yammering on. Flight Attendant (FA) came back to ask me if I had a bottle with me, and I said Yes. FA then mentioned with a sigh that she had to take it, I understand, but she’d BRING ME TWO MORE BOTTLES. Of Dasani, mind you.

Mrs. Betes TOLD ON ME instead of just asking for a couple bottles of water. Her problem would be solved by simply asking for water, but instead she had to bring me into it as though her disease were my fault. As stated earlier, I walked past a number of FA’s who saw the bottle and didn’t say a word. And now I’m getting tattled-on at the age of 32 by a woman wearing a man’s polo shirt from “Extra Room Clothiers & Fudge.” I wish I were kidding.

Throughout the flight to Salt Lake City it was mentioned to me by a number of FA’s how much trouble my bottle had caused. They had all heard about it. The only threat my bottle of water posed to anyone was to the tattler’s piehole. I could only shake my head. They got their message across loud & clear: Some people, ya know? This wasn’t a patriotic move by the complainer; she was concerned only about the fact that she was put-out by not getting her share of water, and therefore, someone needed to suffer. For the record, when the drink cart came through 30 minutes later, The Betes Twins ordered Cokes.

When returning through Salt Lake City’s security, planning on grabbing a seat for the leg wanding, Latter Day Saint style, I pushed my bucket of goods into the scanner and set to walking. There is some very high-tech stuff at Salt Lake’s airport in the security section, mind you. X-ray scans, a water-sniffing turtle, etc. So I was surely going to trigger 1,000 times the number of alarms my leg usually sets-off.

But I didn’t. When you think you’re going to set off someone’s alarms, yet you don’t, it’s best to not blurt out “It’s about time I got through with this thing!” Just shut up and move on with it. It works, sometimes.

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An Argument For Robots Everywhere

Customer service, dead websites, people who speak English but don't understand logic, and people who DO speak English but can't figure out the difference between "helpful" and "pointless yammering."

I swear, I woke up in a nearly good mood today, too.


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Coming Soon...

The new website!

A new blog on the pleasures of detoxifying your large intestine!

Until then, go read Killorn's blog. Awesome read for those in Seattle who have ever dealt with the attitudes of coffee shop patrons.

!!!

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George W. Bush Is One Crazy President!

This is an editorial from the New York Times.

It is harrowing, unsettling, and overall a giant beacon of hope on the snowball rolling down the hill. That ball is heading straight for a little thing called "Right."

Published: July 25, 2006

Over 212 years, 42 presidents issued signing statements objecting to a grand total of 600 provisions of new laws. George W. Bush has done that more than 800 times in just over five and a half years in office.

Most presidents used signing statements to get legal objections on the record for judges to consider in any court challenge. For Mr. Bush, they are far more: part of a strategy to expand presidential powers at the expense of Congress and the courts. His signing statements have become notices to Congress that he simply does not intend to follow the law, especially any attempt to hold him accountable for his actions.

Some of Mr. Bushs signing statements have become notorious, like the one in which he said he didnt feel bound by the new law against torturing prisoners. Others were more obscure, like the one in which he said he would not follow a law forbidding the White House to censor or withhold scientific data requested by Congress.

But all serve the unitary executive theory cherished by some of Mr. Bushs most extreme advisers, including Vice President Dick Cheney and his legal staff. This theory says that the president and not Congress nor the courts has the sole power to decide how to carry out his duties. According to a study by a bipartisan panel of the American Bar Association, Mr. Bush objected to 500 provisions of new laws just in his first term the majority of them because they conflicted with the unitary executive theory. The A.B.A. said that theory was specifically mentioned 82 times.

The Bush administration often says the president is just trying to stop Congress from interfering with his ability to keep the nation safe, and that other presidents also included constitutional objections in their signing statements. Thats just smoke.

For one thing, under this president, all laws are screened by Mr. Cheneys staff for violations of the unitary executive theory. Presidents Ronald Reagan, George H. W. Bush and Bill Clinton had the Justice Department report constitutional concerns about new laws to the White House. Mr. Bush often does cite national security as an excuse for ignoring an act of Congress but that is almost always because lawmakers are trying to rein him in on issues like the treatment of prisoners, and the withholding of information from Congress.

The A.B.A. called Mr. Bushs use of presidential signing statements contrary to the rule of law and our constitutional system of separation of powers and recommended that Congress enact legislation clarifying the issue.

We agree on both points, even though we fear that if Congress passes a bill, Mr. Bush will simply issue a new signing statement saying he also does not intend to follow it.

=+=+=+
This all means one of a few things:
1) If taken for his word, W is saying that he needs to have full powers in order to keep America safe from terrorism and/or telemarketing to recruit said scary people. To protect his ability to lead the small group in his cabinet, he's got to have as much power as possible to go where he needs to go and do what he needs to do without hesitation in a moment of crisis. He learned his lesson that day in the kid's classroom in Florida.

2) Congress cannot be trusted to do what's right to keep America safe, making the rest of us either the most blind citizens in the world, or W the most paranoid President since Richard "THEY'RE IN THE CARPET!" Nixon.

3) He and his administrative staff know something we don't, and they want to keep it that way, so that they can look back at these signings and say "Hey, aren't you glad now that I/He/We signed those things?"
=+=+=+=
While it's good that the audacity and ferocious bumbling of an administration has got us all talking about politics again, the downside is that it is so frustrating to most of us. To think that we need a Patriot Act, or that we witnessed the horrors of September 11, and that right now another soldier has died in Iraq or Afghanistan or anywhere else, is to know that something set this ball in motion, and nothing has been done to keep it from stopping.

America has been at war pretty much since it began. In one way or another, we've been ejecting shell casings and going after enemies, or defending against the enemies, since the 1700s. My only suggestion is to focus our materials and mental powers on diplomacy, building and creating alternative energy resources (wind, solar, and rain, what with our Global Warming, are in high supply), and staying out of everyone's business for at least one year.

What do I know? I'm just a voter.


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The Good News

The good news is...
if you eat healthy, get a lot of sleep, don't drink too much, stay off drugs, and stay out of the sun, you can live a very long life!

The bad news is...
it's going to be on Earth, where you will be facing a set of TV cameras on your 112th birthday and end up boring everyone at your party into submission.

If you love what you do, you're living enough for two lifetimes.
Still give me 85 moderately good years over 62 over-indulgent ones. Those last 23 will be spent teaching by example, mostly through annoying the face rings out of the youngsters.

Damn meddlin' kids.


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This is all I have to say about Friday.




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Some Stuff to Share

The new website will be up this week, since I do not want to just throw out something that doesn't have worthy content to it. I'm adding the fun stuff as you read this. Okay, maybe later on, I'm not always able to just dive in and start adding stuff. But you know what I'm saying. Good stuff is on the way!

I have a show at the Capitol Hill Arts Center on 8/1/06. Check out www.PRoKomedy.com for more information.

GO TOWARDS THE LIGHTs! I have a show THIS SATURDAY NIGHT at the Northern Lights Casino in Anacortes, 9pm. Last time I was there I showed up and rocked it with Gabriel Rutledge. That was just four short weeks ago. Guess what? I HAVE NEW MATERIAL TO ROCK. Email me for more info on this show. Then hang out and watch my Wife From The Future clean up a roulette table.

And finally, a lot of cancerous and pre-cancerous moles are getting attention lately. I would like to offer my services on these moles, both in extraction and disposal fees, very low. I can even suture what I need to, when I need to, though I am much, much better at full removal.
After having quit smoking, I thought I wouldn't ever get to use my cigar punch again. Pssh!

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MySpace Is My Anti-MySpace, and p.s. IT'S ASS HOT

In a show of unmitigated arrogance, power, and assholery, MySpace has been inaccessible for the better part of the last 24 hours.

Good. Wean me off it. I go there like it's a drug, which is probably why people say "Are you on MySpace?" I need away from it. It's a decent way to network, but that depends solely on the other people you are "Friends" with deciding to care enough to stop by your profile, read your bulletin, or come looking for their $61.33... AMERICAN.

GOOD RIDDANCE. MySpace, now a holding of the Rupert Murdoch Media Empire (and who knows the "NOW" of contemporary technology better'n a fella name of "Rupert?"), is consistenly giving us every reason to get off the junk. Errors. Slow page loads. Allowing ANYBODY to load up on it. The fun is gone when the 17 year old cheerleader can take her shirt off for attention, but commenting on it is considered "Inappropriate," even if the comment is proportionate to the picture's skank factor.

So yeah, there ya go. I'm sure I'll still put stuff on there because I'm a writing junkie and it's another blog I can fill out (sorry, I meant to tell you...), but overall, eh, I'll leave it to the hornies, homies, and people who have nothing to say.

Btw... My NEW website will be up and running THIS WEEK! Check back to GLRules.com when you can.

BTW:
This weekend was the appropriate weekend for Killorn O'Neill's Hot-Talent Of The Season:
Projectile Boob Sweating.

Seriously... when did Tabasco start making air?

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Tri, Tri Again

The Maple Valley Triathlon, suspiciously lacking any kind of "chugging" or "mudding" leg, was cancelled. The website said that the city cancelled it.

Previously, the same organizers had their Chelan Triathlon, suspiciously lacking any kind of "tenting" or "fire dousing" leg, had noted that the city of Chelan cancelled THAT triathlon.

When a city cancels an event sure to bring it hundreds of thousands of dollars of revenue via visitors and quality reports, it's usually because some permits were not filed.

And those permits not being filed do not, I repeat, do NOT, quench the burning of my nipples. I shall run on, I shall bike hard, and I shall swim sleekly.

I bought SPANDEX, for the sake of nipples!

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The Golden Years

Once and for all, I'm asking you to tell me if I am being a flaming a-hole.
Seriously.

Yes, You, oh literate and fantastic in those pants Reader. Am I purporting myself in the style of a butt's hole lately? I ask because I've had some really odd interactions with others in the recent days, and I wonder if I'm putting off a stink of some sort.

My first one was with an elderly lady who cut in line at the drug store. (again, I give no props here unless, sponsored, but figurative Cleveland Steamers come free) She shuffled ahead of me, as I was 4th in line, and she wanted to be 4th, apparently. She seemed to be moving much more slowly than previously when I saw her in the store, but I figured it was just the passing of a kidney or past the time she usually stares out the window and reminisces. But for whatever reason, she was at the druggist at 6pm on a Tuesday.

At the same time, I cleared my throat, but only because I had to clear it, not because I wanted to draw attention to the fact that she, being elderly, was not allowed to just CUT in line. Instead, I figured if she'd asked nicely I would have considered giving her the spot before telling her to beat it. But she took, and I was probably just choking on the words to right the situation.

A small blip in my head went off, and I thought "What's the harm? Honestly? None. Zero. Nothing. Let it go." And in that moment, I breathed deeply, exhaled slowly, and I Let It Go. I felt peace. I felt At Peace. I found Zen. There was no harm. No resistance. I made my purchase, paid with cash, and walked out with my Crosswords and my Riesen Chocolate Chews, and felt good about it.

As I stepped outside, I heard "Hey prick. Yeah YOU."

I turn around to see the old lady glaring at me, finger pointing.

"What's with all the huffing and puffing? Whaddya gonna do? Tell on me?"

I replied with "No, I just took a deep breath and let go of the fact that you cut in line."

"Oh did you? Must make you feel pretty big, huh?"

"No, I just... you're crazy."

"Yeah, I'm crazy like a fox, jerk!"

Next time you see an old person at the front of line acting confused, remember that it's hard getting older, but you don't have to suffer alone.

=====
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A Bit Nippy

I'm training for a triathlon, okay? A sprint-tri, wherein I will swim 1/4-mile, bike 12 miles, and run 3 miles. In a row. Without dying. Or worse, public pants-loading.

The other night I did a Double, wherein I did a training session in one event, then went to the next. That night it was a 6.5-mile bike ride, then a 3.5 mile run. I wore a Nike Dri-Fit shirt, one of those wickers of moisture, and I was sweating like Star Jones walking up a flight of stair.

Long story short, I will be looking for some other shirt to wear during my race, or at least an undershirt with my Dri-Fit. Hopefully THAT will keep my nipples from bleeding again.



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A Niche In The Wall

I am not now, nor have I ever been, a fan of the Pink Floyd band. I think I "get" them, but I don't get them. I get their lyrics, but their music goes to a certain level of masturbatory unseen before or since they arrived. One of the founding members of the band just died, too. I think it was Syd Viscuous.

I think I could name about 3 of their songs, including "the Education chanting song," "the money sound song," and "echoing Hello song." I once dated a girl who had a very annoying habit of sleeping with other people. Less annoying, but still annoying, was that she loved Pink Floyd, only slightly less than she loved another of my less-liked bands, The Grateful Dead.

I'm not here to bash either of these bands or that rotten whore. The bands put out music that was the soundtrack to many a good time to many a good person over the decades. For that they should be applauded. But as for my opinion, I wouldn't walk across the street for a free show of theirs, and not just because the parking lot of the Morningwood Highlands would make for a sparse venue. First off, parking would suck.

That annoying habit I spoke of earlier, the one where I dated a rotten whore, she did this thing that a lot of people do when at topic comes around to something they LOOOOOOOVE. Usually it's a niche item, like, say... Vegemite.

Vegemite, a pasty concoction that is a marvelous source of gross and vitamin B, is a product of leftover beer-brewing yeast. It's wildly popular in countries that have words like "flavour" and "footie match." I've tried it. Didn't throw up. Don't care to try it again. Done.

But should my dislike of Vegemite bubble over in the presence of somebody who is unnaturally fond of Vegemite, an annoying habit comes forth in the following manner:

"Whaddayoo mean you don't like Vegemite? Have you ever tried it? It's like the BEST. It's soo good for a hangover, not to mention when you drank too much the night before!" and it goes on until I throw up, or until ad nauseum.

So YES, I tried it, that's how I know I don't like it. I have a long list of things I have tried. Not all of them roll on to hallowed ground. Some of them have to lose. And my not buying Vegemite, yet giving it shit-tons of free advertising here, isn't going to matter one devalued American dollar to the Vegemite fortune. So sit there and be gross and quiet about it.

My point is that not everyone has to get along, nor like the same things, nor agree on what to do with Carson Daly's dead body, nor Ryan Seacrest's soul. That's OKAY. That is FINE. Those things that are DIFFERENT are what make THE world gO arOUnd. That's aNnOyInG, huh? Let people be who they are, like what they like, dislike what they dislike, and if they happen to dislike things you like, you can simply ignore them.

Or sleep around on them like a rotten whore. All in all, it's just another brick in the wall.

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Comics Who Look Like Movie Stuff, and My Dumb Tattoo

Joey Gay, a New York comic best known for his appearance on Last Comic Standing 4 as "The Yelling Comedian," has the biggest smile of anybody I ever done seen...

'cept one person thing.


I'm just saying.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Tattoo story to follow...

=========

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Complaining White People

This morning I was standing in line to pay for a banana, because I like potassium, but only when it comes in a peel-able skin. And can be peanut buttered. Which it would be. Hold a moment, let me rewind a bit.

The cafeteria at work is really as nice as you can get in a work eatery. Carpeted floors, comfy booths, and tons upon tons of options for food. Healthy snacks which can be deep fried. Buffalo burgers. Tamarind chutney! Also, it is run with a certain amount of care, run by a few people who have mixed degrees of Hospitality and Customer Serviceness. For most of my tenure here it has been run by one of two men, one of them so fiercely dedicated to proper customer service and PC'ism that he came to my office to apologize to my co-worker. His apology was due to the fact that, during what I think was Korean Heritage Week, my co-worker (who is Korean by way of Ottowa), asked a cook why they were serving Pho (fuh), a Vietnamese soup. The guy came to the office, with a chef in tow, to apologize. They genuinely cared about not appearing to be a-pipes, and for that I have a certain amount of respect.

It appears that new people are runnning the show over there. The two guys who appeared to manage the cafeteria were always around, helping out, saying "Hey Kortek! Nice digitial watch!" and the like. Not any more. I haven't seen them in a few weeks. In their stead is a woman whose demeanor is perfect for the restaurant industry, because she reminds me of steam burns and cheese-grater-nipped fingertips in a salt bath. Just a peach of a gal, she breathes as though put-upon by the world. When ringing up your total, she stares off into space as though, were it not for a few bad years there after her second marriage to her third husband, she would probably be managing that truck stop by now. She's a solidly-built woman of about 5'9", sturdy in the hips and fluid of movement. Probably has a little self-defense and/or women's rights march-training under her SansABelt.
Her bouquet is melange of old coffee, Newports, and sweaty nylons. This is work. There's no time for fun.
And everyone...
Has to...
Deal with it.

The rest of the staff is fun. The gal at the grill would make me dance when I ordered a buffalo burger, and I always hesitated before dipping into a soft-shoe or maybe a little jig. I don't worry about looking silly; I work at THE Software Company, surrounded by grown men who tuck their silk-screened Wolf motif T's into their denim shorts.

Most of the counter staff are Latina, very friendly, upbeat women that make it feel less like a coffee purchase and more like a cultural experience. I don't even care if they're talking about me in Spanish, they do it with a smile. To that I say ARRIBA!

Back to this morning. While walking to get in line, the New Boss Lady, or "White Heat," is barking orders to one of the Counterstaff bonitas, "Then when you pick that bag up, put it in here and wheel it out. I'll be back in ten minutes." The woman she was talking to has worked there longer than White Heat. But White Heat doesn't get paid to let people work, she gets paid to MANAGE. (print that to a T-shirt, NOW)

I'm in line at the coffee counter behind a guy holding a breakfast burrito, while I stand and listen to the next exchange between Rosa (her real name), and a woman who appears to be the younger sister of White Heat, or possibly a jackal. Lil Sis says "Well I can't get the milk, we have to wait until, uh… the other one… when she gets back," then returns to pursing her lips and longing for a new Air Supply record. I will not even attempt to fathom what "the other one" meant. Rosa, rolling her eyes, turns to help Burrito man, who complains that his burrito doesn't have anything in it, and that he waited a really long time for it.

That's about all he said. When offered a refund, he said "Yes, it has nothing in it, and I should be refunded." He paid $2.45 for it. Nothing in it? Seems like you'd notice that. He got his refund, then muttered something about "bad service" and went back to being anti-social.

I was next, and motioning to my banana, which was in my hand, and was actually a banana, I said "There is something wrong with this orange." We had a laugh and away I went. I also watched Rosa pull the aforementioned milk out of the low-boy cooler and place it on the counter for Lil Sis, who was still wondering how much longer she would have to deal with this crap until rescued by a young Russell Mitchell... Or Graham Russell, didn't matter, just come 'n' get it. And by "it" I mean "sweaty nylons."

Then it dawned on me. The white people in that scenario were all complaining. The rest of the players were just working. White Heat, Angry Management. How do you get a burrito with nothing in it, watching them make it in front of you, AND YOU DIDN'T KNOW? And Lil Sis, wow, what a joy to have to deal with in the morning. You don't HAVE TO work here, ya know? And then there's me, complaining about the complaining.

My only suggestion is to just smile and make the best of the sitch, and when you can, make a joke about your banana.

-Addendum-
I was told last weekend that I was carrying a negative attitude. Perhaps I was. There's been some stress regarding the wedding plans. I'm sure it can all be solved easily with some proper planning or my body in a shallow grave. And comedy plans. And work plans. Etc. Just getting the steam out so the gears mesh and roll the machine forward. I decided then and there to be Positive.

About an hour later we ran to get the propane tank filled for some grilling. We were greeted by a woman who, judging from her disposition, was surely on the last two chemical components that would allow us to create worm-holes for interstellar travel, when interrupted by PAYING CUSTOMERS?!?!

I asked how she was doing, she sighed a "Well if it weren't so busy I'd be better." I replied with "Oh come on. I can go somewhere else if you like?" She said "Well my boss wouldn't like that."

Soon after, I was paid a very high compliment, when told "Her attitude really puts your negativity into perspective."

AND THAT… is why I love Alicia. She can almost admit when I'm not as big of a poopyhead as she thinks I am.


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What A Rush

In topical humor...

Rush Limbaugh was stopped in a Florida airport after his bag was searched and turned up a bottle of Viagra. He's already on a plea deal to not be runnin' round with too many Rx bottles, because he was hustling doctors for his pill addiction. Well the Viagra wasn't in his name, showing some fraud was at work, and potentially landing him in the slammer.

He may go to jail. Not for fraud, but because it's a crime for Rush Limbaugh to have a boner.

Gross.

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Follow-up

I keep a notebook of ideas in my nightstand, and one in the car... and 20 or so in my office, so that my ideas and thoughts may someday see the light of stage, or a blog. Or be a burden to someone else.

I usually can cultivate 20% of my jottings. Like taking it from "one idea" to three or four paragraphs, or a couple minutes of comedy. Some of them have that root base, and need a little sun and wine and a mention of some naughty bits to grow.

The following line, however, was written two months ago. I think it stands on its own.

The only way to keep the rebuilding of the World Trade Center towers on-budget is through the use of immigrant labor.

arriba

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Lazy Without Borders

I have really only this thought about the immigration debate:

Kicking out the illegal immigrants will free up a LOT of jobs in our nation. Jobs that many out-of-work Americans could be working TOMORROW, if the INS sweep were to happen today.

Those jobs were open prior to those amigos heading North for work. And if the out-of-work Americans put half as much effort into looking for work as they do into faking L&I claims and drunk-falling in WalMart parking lots, our unemployment rate would drop another couple points.

Some people won't work a job that is "beneath them." I, being someone with a Bachelor's Degree in History, won't work landscaping.
After all that time in libraries and classes, I am underqualified for landscaping.


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Who Wanna Know?

Well, we've made our minds up!


We're going to get married on July 4th, a Tuesday. We decided it was a day neither of us could forget. Sorry sis, your birthday will have to wait until next year!

Also, we're going to have the Old Country Buffet cater it for us, as we get a 10% per-trough discount if we bottom-out the poached prime-rib within an hour of the sitting.

We have commissioned Baskin-Robbins to do our cake. Actually, going with a single-serve theme fad, we'll be doing a variation of their clown cones, wherein Alicia's face or my face will be icing-piped onto the ice cream we choose. Alicia's will be Black Cherry & Walnut, mine is Spumoni.

Now if we can just find the right VFW to host the event at...


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Of Things Purple and Throbbing

Spam is hitting blog Comments, an even cheaper way of invading the public domain with stuff we don't need. I think spammers should all be stripped of their finger meat.

We Get It.
Enlargements, re-financing, OTC, OEM, etc.
If someone has a blog, or knows what a blog is, they are probably savvy enough to search out the remedies for their own situations. We've had this type of marketing for many years, and I don't think many folks thought they needed it when there was a Bible or vacuum involved.

It is the nature of the beast, truly, in a Free Society. Anybody can say anything they want. They should also have to deal with the consequences, which should fall within certain boundaries of the law, and whatever is most easily concealed in an old area rug. It's the nature of the beast, it's annoying, but, eh, it beats not being able to see what's happening on MySpace for GASP... up to 7 minutes.

And if you are getting overly angry about spam it's probably because you have a small cock.

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Communicating And Other Provocations, How NOT To Steal A Sidekick

I am currently paying less for my cellular communication plan than I was in the first few months after I had quit working at Cingular. They set me up... oh, NOW I get it... on some "basic" plan. It didn't include any of the kind of stuff you may need, like the phone actually working. It was my bad, I should have turned it over earlier.

But when I look back at that place, it was like eons ago. And by "eons" I mean "Tabasco-filled hemorrhoids."

I don't have hemorrhoids.

Speaking of searing ass-pain, have you been following THIS STORY? It's what happens when dishonest people do the wrong thing meet up with technology in the hands of the tech-savvy.

To summarize it, Person A lost their CellPhone/Sidekick. Person B found it and claimed it as their own instead of saying "Hey, someone lost this and should get it back." Person B then used it to upload her social life, including a frighteningly grotesque gordo who may be the father of her child (she's 16, he's 20-something), and her brother who is in the military. What unfolds is a step-by-step account of using the antagonist's information and low-class nature against them.
For real entertainment, peek at their MySpace profiles, and look at their "associates."

The police are involved. TV is involved. MySpace is involved. It's captivating, it's voyeuristic, and some dunderheads are going to get some neck-slaps for it!
WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?

Ooh! Me, too!
GARÇON! MORE PINOT!


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RETORT!

There are many false claims made against people on a regular basis. Those people, in this case, are me, Geoffrey Brandon Amazing Shaquille Shouldermeat Lott.

I have been called a hack, a loser, a fat-ass, a jerk, and a dork. I have had my sexual orientation questioned... in fack I think all of those came in one post on a message board earlier this year. As a side-note, I have found that when one makes a critical remark about someone else, you must be prepared to deal with any sort of consequences.

And thus I move to the most recent remark made about me... at least that I know of.

In Killorn's recent-ish blog about her new car, she included some pictures of what happens when people speed down side-streets after three-too-many double-martinis. In the background of the picture is Killorn's new ride, a Turbo VW Beetle, 2004 or some-such. Very slick ride, very quick off the line. However, the feature of the article is not the feature of the pictures. Instead, a ferociously unusable 1988 Accord Hatchback, minus the hatch and back, takes center-frame. According to Killorn, the reason her car is unfeatured is as follows...

See? GORGEOUS. Even with Geoff and the Giant Melon Noggin effin it up for the people out in the streets.

Interesting... Now, I'm not POSITIVE that Killorn is blaming me for taking the "tortured trust-fundle-turned-art-student" perspective photo, Juxtaposing the Old and Dead with the New and Vibrant, but if you know Killorn the way most of the guys in Kirkland who drive lowered trucks know Killorn, then she settled her sights on me and fired a shot.

To which I retort as such...
Geoff and the Giant Melon Noggin are seen in the background of the photo leaning into the passenger door of the Turbo VW Beetle. While fleet of foot and thick of loin, not even I had the energy to set the timer and then sprint back to the Beetle to rifle through Killorn's purse, which I was not doing for very long.

So eat a crap taco.

And if I'm way off base here, then that's for Killorn and I to work out. Let this, instead, be a lesson to all readers that when I catch wind of injustice, I'm gonna pounce and go for the throat. And you shall wear the hickey of righteousness.

I am a lot of things, but a bad-picture-snapping-Clone, I am not.
How dare you.


p.s.
Note the last photo in Killorn's post...
Self-taken, with her favorite items:
Laptop, digital camera, hairspray, and wine. All of these eventually end up in her hair.
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Loose Ends

The title of this post is NOT, but could be, the name of a stag film.

When's the last time you heard the term "stag film?"

Oh, Tuesday? Okay. Gotcha.

A lot of things are moving along right now for me. I'm usually a pretty private person, when it comes to my life that is the Daily items. That bothers some people, because when it comes to these blogs, reading up on "the dirt" is always sexier than "oh wow, another opinion." Like I have said...
Opinions are like buttholes.
EVERYBODY has one,
and they're saving it for marriage.

I know, I should write greeting cards.

So I'll indulge you a bit with some dirt. Why not? I'm paying for this, one way or another.

First off, the new season of Last Comic Standing!
This is the season I tried out for in Arizona. I wouldn't trade the experience for anything short of a shot at the showcase night and being on the TV show and winning it all. So far, everyone who has been on it is repped. They have an agent, or are dating someone who is involved with the show, or has been bubbling under. We have yet to get enough of Ty Barnett on that show, but mark my words: Ty will rock this thing.

I am not real close with Ty, but I have worked with him in Seattle on a number of occasions. A very good guy, a really strong and smart comic, and frankly the guy's got what it takes to win this thing. He is likely to get even bigger in the next year, so if you get a chance, GO SEE HIM. He is as original as anybody I have ever seen; what you get on stage is Ty's attitude and perception, not a character that is a mish-mash of other voices. Ty gives you what is inside his head when the premise struck him, it is his voice. It will be really fun to watch Ty go further.

Comedians, bands, movies, etc, attract audiences that they appeal to. That's why a "certain kind of person" likes Nickelback, movies with lots of explosions, and anything with Johnny Knoxville. Same thing with the "Sex & The City" crew. Possibly the worst-acted, most popular TV show of all time. Yet, the characters in the show, The Mom, The Debutante, The Worker, The Goody-Good, all appealed to a certain part of each audience member. Living vicariously through the character, that's what Entertainment is about. I, too, have tied terry-cloth "capes" to my neck and run the length of the block, feeling I was about to fly. Yes, that was last Sunday.

Does anybody want to help me get a job writing greeting cards?

In the meantime, the United States military took out the #2 guy of al-Qaida the other day. I can always tell the pulse of America by checking the Yahoo Photos section under "Popular News" on their home page. Usually it's one of 2 things: Something cute, or a nipple. With all of the macabre pictures in circulation, the top-two pics this morning were three tiger cubs, and two kissing parakeets. Aaaaaww... cute beats dead guy again.

Thank you very much, boo the hacks!

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Check Engine. And... A Note To A Friend.

I know.
I KNOW!
Sad, huh?

Yeah, your life. Sad.
Huh? I know it is. You have no drive, nor direction, which is what traffic reporters call "a stalled vehicle." The rest of us have to go around you. The least you could do is catch on fire so we have something to look at while you try and hold everything up.

Don't worry, somebody will be along to get you started again soon. You probably just need an oil change or some new plugs. Check the interior, too. You are likely leaking again. This time of the year does that to some.

You need to lay off the horn, though. That is old news. One note, that's all you got under the hood. One. Note. And it's off-key.

The best part, though, is that you never seem to pay attention to your own warning lights. Gas, oil, temp, battery.

For someone that concerned about paint jobs, it's odd that you can't see your own dings. Maybe best to stay out of the brighter lights, then. That will keep you from ever hearing about them. Or about how much better you could be running, if you would just have that maintenance handled.
===============

Hey, I know you don't always do this, but could you blog something? You're a writer, and a great one at that, so USE IT.
Some folks may see Blogs as superfluous, useless, pointless.

I see mine, and yours, as an outlet, a creation, the End Result of Talent. Why the hell would we read and retain and work on it, if not to share it?
So you can shit on everyone else's work? that would be easier, huh? produce nothing, complain about everything, but then you'd be an asshole like the asshole in that previous thing up theres.

Hurry up widdit. Asshole.
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The Hitchin' Post, Part 2: Eloping Begins To Look Better

Alicia and I have begun to look at venues that think they could adequately host our "to-be-legendary-if-not-causing-new-statutes-to-be-passed" Wedding Reception. I think a better way to say it is that we have begun to look at places that we will not be having the reception. When I was 23 and looking for apartments, anything that had parking close to the door and on-site laundry was worth my pro-rating a security deposit I would never see again. Sometimes, you just have to see how well the seal on the bathroom door would hold, you know, in case a monster made of Grape Jell-O and Old Crow whiskey were to come up out the tub drain. And as a health tip, do NOT drink wine you left in your car trunk for all of August.

Digression, sorry. I beg your pardon.

Yesterday we looked in-depth at one venue. I got to do two of my favorite things: Find new material, and make other people nervous as I glanced around the room before furiously scribbling on a notepad. We attended an Open House, and this is where the good stuff starts happening. Substitute the word "Free" for "Good," and I think you will see why it was smart of me to not where sweatpants to the event. Besides the fact that I do not own a pair, they would have revealed my "excitement" at the amount of gratis items. FREE SHIT, is what I'm talkin'! Gore-met chocolates, the finest cheeses (including goat), a hosted bar, and breads with herbs INSIDE THE BREAD. Also, a gorgonzola/pear-stuffed flank steak roll, served by a man with one hand.

Yes, he had one hand. He, being the guy in charge of the cutting duties of said meat, well, he would have to do SOMETHING to handle those duties, right? It may sound cruel, but if you were a chef and had one hand, wouldn't you think it a wise move to have an Inspector Gadget-like kitchen utensil prosthetic?
BECAUSE THAT GUY DID! Where his hand once was, there was a replaceable chef's knife! He made the best of his situation. He goes on the Hero board.

With my focus on issues such as the number of hands on the service staff, or what kind of free stuff I was NOT getting (skimpy goat cheese balls!), Alicia had the duties of perusing the various weddingly accoutrements. When a couple does this, usually it is by flipping through a picture book of the vendor's work at other weddings, and therefore, we got to see other people's wedding photos. And that's when the REAL judging begins.

But let's not get there just yet. The place we looked at, while lovely, isn't right for what we are planning. One venue's "rustic" is another couple's "chipped paint and easily-clogging toilets." It is now that I must remind each of us, including you, and you, not you, you , the two of you, you're not included, and ... YOU, yes, right there in the silver hot-pants... Know What You Want. That makes the rest of it easier. Decisions can be made much more quickly, and your options magnify themselves when you are fully aware of what you desire.

So, this weekend, we are off to look at more places to not have a reception at. Before I am too hasty, however, I should refer to my list, have my questions ready, and not act until I feel I am leaving with a properly-kissed ass. These people are going to be working hard and I should give each of them a fair shot of impressing me with their assortment of free stuff and knife-handed kitchen commanders.

VIVE LE CHEVRE!

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Were We Taken

I am not one much for conspiracy theories. I have never, however, believed that the lives lost on September 11, 2001, were taken solely by the actions of terrorists.

Every move.
Every thought.
Every plan.
Every flight lesson.
Every pass through metal detectors.

All of it done in America, under the noses of our governmental bodies. And they never knew of it. We had no warnings. They were just too smart, too sophisticated. They killed thousands.

Over 3,000 people died.
If you want to wonder how the terrorists did it, WATCH THIS VIDEO.
It runs over one hour. You will be amazed, if not sickened, when you aren't outraged.

At some point, you will probably say...
"There is just no way."

If you have seen the M. Night Shyamamaammalalana film "The Village," you know about paranoia, fear, closing ranks, and how leaders can create it all under the guise of "security." The best defense is a good offense. Go to them before they come to us. That will get pricey. Well, War is good for business. Everyone comes out a hero.

I am pro-America, in spirit, at all times.

When you have time, watch the video. Or don't. Watch something else.
I often wish I had, because I will never be the same after watching it.

God?
Bless America?
Please?
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The Hitchin' Post , Part 1: Love Comes To Town

If you have been following the pages here you know that I am now engaged to be married. If you’ve been following the archives you know that you are more surprised than a bartender serving a Kennedy a Diet Coke. I have never been anti-Love, I just have not really grasped how it correlates with Marriage. Until a couple years ago.

Alicia and I met through our mutual friend, vodka. Killorn was also there. Killorn and Alicia have known each other through a number of Presidencies, some of them even ASB-style. I had been unattached for a few months when I met Alicia, and Alicia had also been single. It would not have mattered, really, the timing. I would have likely charmed, bribed, led, and/or groped her away from anybody she had been dating. Something clicked. I had to be with her. To allow Killorn her chance to record some of this story as well, I will refrain from too many details of the early days. Look for that entry some time near our 4^th Wedding Anniversary. Encapsulated, Killorn introduced me to Alicia. I could not be cool. I was in Her presence.

A lot of people, since the announcement of the engagement, have asked me “To a woman?” They’ve also asked me how it all went down, because I hang out with guys who run these streets, see? And because I look around this world and see so much that can be cast in a negative light, I want to bring, instead, levity to my space of the InterWeb. The mere appearance of the words “my” and “space” probably just cost me a copyright royalty.

In MySpace… No on can hear you perv.

So here is how this all culminated. Alicia and I have been dating since late September of 2004. We went to Mexico together, if you wanna flash back to those blogs. Last year we went through the moves, her to Fremont, me to Juanita. Late in 2005 I asked her to move in with me. We tend to get along pretty well when we are awake, and I figured since she would be closer to work, I should try and collect a little help for the mortgage. And I love her. So she moved in, officially, around Decemberish. I knew that would buy me a little time.

Then things started getting really serious…
WE BOUGHT FURNITURE.

Pick your chin up, I’m serious. I wasn't kidding around. She found the style of couch she wanted, and Lord knows I needed a new one… literally, it was an old Youth Group rec-room couch. I am sure it was infused with the Lord's blessings, not to mention the echos of fumbling zippers. Anytoots, we got us a great, off-white couch and chair/ottoman set. I AM NOT AFRAID OF COMMITMENT, as long as it comes with a Warranty.

Prior to this, I had made a very key decision: To be Happy. It’s a very simple decision. Instead of waiting until I had X, Y, or Z (they are Icelandic triplets who live across the way when they aren’t modeling the latest in seamless unmentionables), I decided that I Am Happy. Instead of seeing Happiness as Contentment, and therefore, as Resignation To Mediocrity, I saw Happiness as Consistency. It is how I am, and it is to anybody’s credit if they are Happy and go toward their Best Self. Happy is the oil in your crankcase. Desire is the gas. The seats are genuine pleather.

Here I am, happy and focused, and moving forward. Alicia had been really encouraging of my comedy and writing, and not just in a way that is shouted lazily from the other room when I am off to a gig. I shared my goals with her, and we sat and devised a plan for it. I don’t understand why it involves watching her get a hot oil massage by the Florida State linebackers, but a goal is a goal. God Bless.

I wanted to marry Alicia because I love her, and because relationships take the kind of work we cooperate on. The energy I can put into my relationship with Alicia doubles when I am not dodging phone calls from wom..
When I’m focused on just US, that will go a long way. We have not compromised our independence; I still do whatever I want to when she’s not looking. She still gets her breakfast made by a smoking-hot stud in workout pants. (thank you Tyler. Next time, less tumeric in my eggs)

I wanted to do things right, so I knew I was going to have to ask Alicia’s parents for their permission, not to mention the dowry, to marry their daughter. And that’s when things started getting so good, somebody humped a camel.


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Kenneth Lay SHould Not Go To Prison

Kenneth Lay, former Enron Top-Turd and current "Legion Of Complete AssTools" Chapter President, was found guilty of wire fraud, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, and homeliness this morning. He will be sentenced at a later date.

I say "No" to the sentencing. Shouldn't have to do jail time. Nope. None.

Enron already stripped pensions of its employees. And a few million, if not hundred million, if not billions, from the Government in something that I cannot find on the internet. (ed.note, there are no returns when searching for the phrase "How much did Enron totally ream the average taxpayer's face, if not their ass, via Government bailouts?" Smells fishy.)

Now Lay is maybe going to a Federal prison, where he will get a place to sleep, a job of some sort, clean clothes, limited opportunities to meet in a conjugal manner (shudder), food, and health care. Odds are he'll write a book about his experiences as the local Chapter President of the"Greed Is My Viagra Brotherhood." Proceeds will pay for his crimes.

OR... and this is just a wild suggestion...

Ken has to get two day jobs working in the food service industry. He can't quit either of them. He uses that money to get a place to live. He has to get a roommate. He cannot drive a car, vote, or get health coverage. He starts from scratch.

OR...

He has to do the jobs the Mexican immigrants are doing in our country. Prison is supposed to be a perspective and a punishment. He should have to face the public every single day for the rest of his life. Among the everyman, the hoi polloi, those he took from with his greed.

Then again, I could be cold here as I declare some people's every day lives as a punishment.

Okay, they get to rape him. Happy now?

BANG, case closed.

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May 24th, 8:17a.m., Juanita Village

Hey... Hey lady, seriously... what are you...
Yeah, you, riding solo in the Lexus 450 MonstroLuxe. The one you're lollygagging down the middle of the parking rows while staring at the chic phone you don't know how to work.

>HONK<

Oh Hi! Now you see me. Can you move to your right a little? The Right. It's the side with the hand that you drink from all night. It's opposite the side that four men have mistakenly put rings on.

You look exasperated at my motioning to you, but I'm not really sure why you're driving down the middle of the aisle here. I understand this is a busy parking area near the Starbucks, it's packed this morning, but I'm on my way out... What are you pointing at?

>HONK<

Move your car. Now. Move it. I swear I will get out of this car and knock your window and ruin the majestic feathery wings flying from your head, you idiot. Move. Now.
What are you pointing at?

Lady, that parking spot is one of 3 that you passed, and you gotta get beyond me, first. Which, if you MOVE THE CORN TO YOUR RIGHT YOU WILL BE ABLE TO DO. If you want a staring contest, you got one. I'm not moving. I'm on my way somewhere, and you're where you need to be. You won't get in until I get out. Same thing with elevators.

You look really exasperated. This is NOTHING. Seriously, I'm trying to get to work, you're working on another divorce. The world will continue turning, and I'm sure we both are cursing each other's existence. I cannot move over any further unless I learn to manipulate solid matter with my mind, but that Whole Foods class is not until NEXT week. This one's up to you.

The guy behind you is honking now.
Now HE is motioning for you to move to your right. The spot you want is now open.
The lady behind me is honking, too. This is awesome.

Oh great, here comes a cop out of Starbucks.
Yes, PLEASE roll down your window and... you're doing it!
Are you going to talk to him?
You ARE talking to him!
He's looking at me... now back to you. Now back at me... he's nodding...

AND NOW THE COP IS TELLING YOU TO MOVE TO THE RIGHT TO PASS MY CAR.

Why isn't he reaching for the pepper spray? What the hell do I pay these guys for? GO FOR THE SPRAY, THROW DOWN WITH THE SPRAY! DROP THE HOT SAUCE ON THIS WALKING REASON FOR A PRE-NUP!

There ya go, now you're doing it. The officer is waving me through, shaking his head. I shrug, he shrugs.
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This was my first outside human interaction today.

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Blessings On The Well-Heeled Hoof

Some day, when you are engaged to be married, perhaps for the 4th time, you should be praying that you have a friend like Killorn O'Neill.

Let's all get it on the dancefloor that Killorn can sometimes bring the kind of grace to a party that can only be described as "Full Contact," both in word and into-the-curio-cabinet-cross-check. Well that was on hold last night, as the dearest Kilo-G put on an engagement party for my fiancee Alicia and me. It was as moving as it was loving as it was bubbly. In attendance were some of my closest friends and their significant others.

Mike & Lucia. Tara & Cody (Cody can cook, wow, seriously, y'all missed out). Desi & Perryn. Kim. Ali. Geoff & Tasha.

Some of the smartest, funniest, most creative, most life-loving people I've ever met. And they are my friends.

And as glasses were raised to toast the next step of the relationship Alicia and I are always building, I sat in awe of the amount of care that had gone into the table setting, the lighting, the champagne purchase. (side note, we gotta lay off the champers for a while.) Our food was perfect. The conversations were lively. The wine flowed. We poured the "beer of champagnes," and eventually got to the High Life. I thank my lucky stars for them folks.

When pressed for a date, I can drum up when I met these people. But honestly, it feels like I've known them all along. I had the spaces in my life for them and they appeared. I am very blessed.

As Alicia has been welcomed into my family, and I into hers, I have begun to see how great marriage can be. It's a cornerstone, not an anchor. It is a pillar, not an obstruction. And I know it will take a lot of work at times, like when you spend your entire gorgeous Saturday making two trips to the rockery because somebody mis-measured for the walkway.

I am surrounded by some of the best people put on this earth, and I have the dulcet brain warmth of a champagne hangover to prove it.


ADDENDUM!
Monday night's "Girl's Night, Heeeeey!" party at the HQ here had the following items to share:
Almond Flavored Sparkling Wine
M&Ms
Salad Deluxe
Roasted Veggies
Skirt Steak, post 36-hour marinade
and the phrase...
"You mean the doctors like, go UP IN YOUR HOLE?!?!"
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To Come This Week!
The Engagement Story, a.k.a. Lord Of The Rings, With Cheese!
Comic's Trip: My Travelog
Recipes For Disaster: Something to Try Out At Work
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Fuelling My Anger

The reports are that oil prices could soon top $100 per barrell. That is 1,000% growth in about ten years. The oil, mind you, has not changed in quality. It's all about supply and demand. And I am outraged at the sins of our fathers!

...for not investing more in oil, what were they thinking?

Hindsight is always 10w-40.
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Headlong Into The Fan

Comedy Blog!

Last night I performed a gig out in a somewhat rural town in East King County. The joint wanted to host a comedy show. Apparently they did NOT want to advertise it. Zero pub, zero media on it. It was a microcosm of bar comedy, but the crowd... well, the 8 people in the room who weren't comedians... they were very nice.

On the way to the gig there were a few wrong turns and nearly-missed streets. We got there about 15min before show time. Did the show, it was what it was, like trying to do comedy in the lunchroom at a plant that makes boxes to hold other boxes. One lady stood at the bar the whole time. Eye-level comedy can be discomforting. I also felt as though I were auditioning for somebody booking a comic for their brother's probation party.

On the way home I nailed every turn, every road, and every green momo-fofo light. And I learned a lesson. I'd like to share it with you now.

When MapQuest is your guide, you may go a bit slower to make sure you find your way to your destination.
When The Knowledge That Your Destination Is A ShitPile is your guide, and said Pile is in your rearview, you can drive perfectly away with your eyes closed before the last cocktail glass hits the pavement, post-window toss.

Sloshing back and forth in the shit-bucket, sorry World, I'm all full up.
Save your lessons and nestle up to my man-flower. Not that you owe me, but for crying out loud, could you not cause ONE F*CKING TRUCK ROLL-OVER in that town after a guy's been out pounding beer in a Kroger parking lot? And not a high schooler this time. One of those burned out guys who tucks his t-shirt into his pleated cargo shorts, tube socks slunched around his ankles, just like his outlook on life after his SECOND mail-order bride left him. Because if that could happen right in the parking lot of that gig next time around, I would really, really think everything is in order and stop winging backhanded compliments at co-workers.
"Shane is a multi-tasker. He can both confuse and bore you in the same sentence."

Thanks for indulging me there. You know how you feel after a 20-min nap? Take an Old Testament-styled shit after that nap, and THAT is how I be feeling.

Thank you, I'll be here all night.
In your liquor cabinet.
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Oh, one more thing, hun.
I'll be posting more "Jokes That Barely Work," as well as a Cruise Journal, and the story of my engagement, from Ring Shopping to Proposal. Gonna be good times.

Thanks for reading. Love ya.
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Joke That Never Worked # 1: Gay Friends

The following material never does well on stage.

Is Gay The New Black?

For a while, people would say things like "I have a friend who's black," or "I work with a lot of
black people," like we were supposed to spread the word to the streets, or it would up their coolness.
Hey guys, guys? I heard that Matt over in Finance knows a black guy. Holler.
Right? Holler?

It's the Political Correctness movement, that's what did it to us. I have friends, some of whom were born with darker pigment. But they're all good guys, even the Mexicans.
It's not MexiCAN'T… it's MexiWON'T, that's what I've learned. MUY MACHO!

We have to include EVERYONE in EVERYTHING, or else we appear to be insensitive. And some of us aren't insensitive, we just usually spend our inner-city time buying drugs, not hugs.
But now, it's all changing. Everyone had the black friend, and now, everyone's getting a gay friend. They want the fashion tips, the grooming, the off-beat androgyny that stirs up emotions inside, so much that you just lay in bed stairing at the ceiling, confused, throbbing, listening to ABBA, wearing hotpants that were a gift from… well, none of your business MISTER MAN!

The women's gay male companion has been around for centuries, thank you Liza Minelli's husbands. But now straight guys, or "Heteros" as I call me, are getting street cred with the old fashionable "I have a black friend," but replace "black" with "gay," and "Friend" with "We were at the river in a canoe, and there was some gin, and well, nevermind! Until after this Cosmo." I don't drink Cosmos, but I have had a cosmo to drink. It did little more than kidney-punch me, when it wasn't busy making me look "open for business."

And I understand the grooming and the fashionable dress and the presenting one's self to society in a way that is classy and proper. But guys are shaving their arms now, and the eyebrow waxing... It's not manly. They look like the third henchman in that one Bruce Willis movie. And the arm shave, come on. No straight man should shave his arms, unless he was in a bad fondue accident, and if you're a guy who does the fondue, you're probably gay, so shave away. Wow, I came full circle on that one, which for $50 I will do at your party on Saturday.

People aren't novelties to be collected. Unless we're talking about Angelina Jolie's so called "adoptions." Why is Paris Hilton carrying around an ape born to a lab-chimp that was injected with crack... oh, that's Nicole Ritchie, sorry. She's not gay, I don't think.

People love to say they have a gay friend, though. It's all the rave. In fact, Gay is The New Black. As in Fashion, so in Friends. Ya work with 'em, ya love 'em.
(if you're offended by any of this material, please understand that there's a reason I don't do this on stage. It's not funny, as much as it is an observation of how people be talkin' and conductin' themselves. Don't call Jesse Jackson or Rosie O'Donnell, not yet.)
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The Beginning Of The Empire

The past weekend was a culmination of not only a few weeks of planning, but a few years of my life.
My girlfriend Alicia and I headed to Northern California's Wine Country, heretofore referred-to as "Napa" because it's shorter. The trip was Alicia's birthday gift from an adoring boyfriend, and I'm really happy he sprung for it. Napa is known for it's wineries, Mona Lisa-beautiful scenery, and white people. Any time we were not admiring scenery, it was for a very good reason: The winery did not have outdoor tastings.

While the wine, scenery, and grapey buzz of the weekend were all very nice, this blog isn't a travelblog (to follow). It's for a much more important reason. See, I did something to Alicia that I have never done to a woman before.

And I wouldn't suggest any man do what I did if that man is still "just kind of dating around," or is "not over that rogue 3rd-grade boner," or sees Casual Friday as "the other day of the week to wear sweatpants to work."

I asked Alicia to Marry Me.
AND SHE SAID YES!!!

I am engaged!
She is My Fianceé!

I am excited, happy, blessed, and fearless.
She is beautiful, wonderful, perfect for me, and amazing.

For now, this is all I can share.
Stay tuned for "How It Happened!"
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Imitation Immigrants

A friend of mine...
Well, "friend" to the extent that he doesn't drive me to start my five-day waiting period...

We were talking about the immigration hub-bub that's been clogging our streets and leaving our Mexican restaurants slower than usual as of late. We talked about the jobs they immigrants worked, where they lived, the money they made, and the Pros y Cons of the whole situation.

He said "well, we're all immigrants, except for the Native Americans."
To which I replied, "No, we're not all... okay, we're gonna have to move because I had some dairy product last night, sorry about that, wow, go go go..."

Then I re-started with, "No, we're not all immigrants. I'm not. I was born in America. I'm a Native American. I have single citizenship. I speak one language. I try to remember to vote but I just can't bear the thought that they don't have some bribes to get me to go in there. The Northern Europeans were here prior to Columbus, like 500 years earlier, and turned around because they thought the place blew. There were people here already, sure, but all of those first, say... 20 generations, assuming 25 years per generation... they're all dead. It's all new people now. Native American, Chinese, Japanese, African-American, Hispanic, Latin, Caucasian, Other, those are just check-boxes for you to fill-in so marketers know what kind of porn you dig, or what kind of person signs their name with a Winky Face ;^]
So NO, I don't buy that we're all immigrants. I didn't come from anywhere. And with the grace of God, I'm not going anywhere."

To which he replied, "Huh? I was MySpacing a sec there. Something something, Chinese porn?"

This is, of course, just how I see things. The Truth on this matter is subjectivo. Immigrants are working a lot of jobs that most Americans, i.e. White People, would say "don't pay me no f*ckin' money, not enough to finish this barbed wire arm-band tattoo, so I ain't gon' work it!" Then a racial epithet and PITOO with the tobacco spit.

You wanna work? Work. You don't? Fine. They're not all gems. Somedays all I want to do is mow lawns, rake bark, and actually see something get done. Fewer meetings, fewer mission statements, fewer re-orgs. But, after all, I have a degree in History. I'm underqualified for landscaping.


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Searing Gas Pain.

8 miles. 40 minutes.

That's the distance from my home to my work, and the time it took me to cover that in a car this morning. I left the house at 8:13. I swung into a parking spot at 8:53.

My clock clicked off 20 minutes in just the first 2.4 miles. I could have jogged it faster. I went through I was only at one stop-light prior the majority of the wait. I traveled 1.3 miles, then hit the slog. .5miles later I was at the back of a 1.1mile-long line to a stoplight near the on-ramp of Southbound I-405. 90% of the traffic at that light gets onto I-405. The rest of us who travel through, and don't work in Bellevue or, (gross) Factoria get to sit and wait, when we're not sitting.

Every now and then a few lead-footed commuters would fly by in the left-hand turn lane, using it for travel. This is dangerous because some folks use it for travel to the left-turn light, some are on-coming to turn left across the exodus line and into a business, and some use it to get past the exodus so they can drop their kids off a daycare.

So here's the dilemma. There's no carpool lane, so making friends isn't going to help at this point. The trip to the main release point of the exodus is as long as the rest of the trip, yet only 25% of the total travel distance. All roads out of the Juanita Beach area are clogged like this on a daily basis from 7:30 to 9:30... yeah, I'm sometimes late to work, even when I'm not hungover.

With gas prices what they are, my question is this:

Who is responsible for the career of Nickelback, and why aren't they being attacked with a sleeping bag-full of terribly upset pit vipers as we speak?

America is all about Having Options, and Waiting in Lines for Them. Then again, in other countries, I could have been stacked in with 90 other people on a flat-bed rail car hoping to get work 80miles away. Carpool lanes, only in America.

Please, Dolphin Army, attack! ATTACK NOW WHILE WE SLUMBER AT WORK! Because I needs me a day off.


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Jokes That Are Stage-Death: Pro-Logue

In my comedy act I have worked out quite a few bits that never seem to do as well as I believe they should. I speak not of the jokes that are guaranteed groaners, by which I mean "gross out material/potty humor,"and anything derivative of those genres. I'm talking about bits that, when I wrote them I knew they they had shed their cocoons and were ready to start beating their wings. Maybe they needed a little more time as a pupa.

I once took such a huge pupa I changed colors!
That was easier than your mom on a three-day weekend.

Psssh, it's CAKE, my friends... CAKE.

I can't say I believe whole-heartedly in everything I bring to the stage. But I work from the 80-20 rule when it comes to matieral. 80% of the audience will get it, while the other 20% will be broken up into 10% who REALLY get the joke, and 10% are only laughing because I stopped talking. That majority percentile, the 80%, which on an average night in Seattle is about 8 people... which is for another blog on why comedy isn't as hip as music in this city... that big group has to "go with me" from the get-go on a bit. And if you don't have attention early, you may as well be trying to get your money back from the hooker who could only muster a golden shower when you paid for a Rusty Trombone AND the... FOCUS, Lott...

Forthcoming will be a number of blogs that are the bits I wrote, best I can remember them. They will include, but not be limited to:
Gay Friends
Rubber Band Bracelets
Drugs Should Be Illegal
Sometimes, Death Means God Cares
Self-Deprecation

And Many More!
They appear, at first glance, hacky. But hey, these bits have developed over years of re-writing and untreated psychological abuse. You can expect the best.

More to cheese, please... Take care.

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Humor Strike Show TONIGHT!

About a month ago I got the idea to throw together a fundraiser in the guise of a Comedy Show to benefit BoomTown Cafe. After some hand-wringing and street-peeing (totally involuntary, officers), the show is upon us! It is called Humor Strike! I think that's because Killorn, the designer of the ads for it, likes the word STRIKE! She's very much a puncher.

BoomTown Cafe provides low-income citizens and families a place to eat that is like a diner, not a soup kitchen. In exchange for a hot meal in a clean and dignified setting, the diner themself must pay a small fee, or work 15-30min for their meal. Working for your keep can add a lot to a person's self-worth.

BoomTown is trying to re-open its doors, after losing most of their government funding in the past year the way that most non-profits have. Tax breaks, budget cuts, war chest, whatever it is, the need to help people never gets a break. We create our own. A lot of small waves create a large ocean. The same holds true for when I eat popcorn and then sleep in a tent with other people. Sorry guys.

Please check out their website at the address below. If you can, please give, and spread the word?

www.BoomTownCafe.org

Was it me, or was Azteca like EXTRA slow on Monday?

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Mario Williams ... Huh...

If you needed 4 different tools, and could get one tool that would do all the jobs, you'd buy that tool, right?

Now let's say you had one job, and one tool could probably do that job really well. But the job is going to be tougher than any other jobs it's been asked to accomplish. Tool 1 and Tool 2 do NOT perform the same functions, mind you. You can have one or the other.

I would go for Tool 1. In this case, it's Reggie Bush, Heisman Trophy Winner, stellar college running back out of the University of Southern California. He can run, catch, return, and fly with the best of them. He's a 4 Tool Machine. At 6-feet, and 200lbs of wrought-iron wrapped around mercury heated to a sizzling 1,000 degrees. 1,000 Degrees of Awesome, that is. Check out someof his highlights on-line. You'll see. He's been compared to Gale Sayers. If you're not sure who that is, go Here, Now.

Tool 2 on the board is Mario Williams, a Defensive End out of South Carolina. Monster-sized. 6'7", 290. And yoked. The guy's huge. And fast. Huge and Fast. And Muscular. Even if he went to college to be an All-America French Horn polisher, he'd still be Scary. The guy's got freakish talent, speed, strength, and attitude. This guy worked as a Subway Sandwich artist throughout college. Tell me that's not cool.

Now, the Houston Texans have already decided that they're going to suck for a long time. They chose Mario Williams with the first pick of the NFL Draft, which, as I write this, is about 5 Grey Goose away. This is the day that hundreds of college football players dream of: Being drafted, making millions, and seeing their lifelong dream of making their ex-girlfriends jealous come to fruition.

When you're the worst team in the NFL, record-wise, and by "record" I mean "Ability to do anything other than find the field," you get the first pick in the NFL draft. Everyone knew it was the Texans choice to pick Reggie Bush. Then they wanted to "keep it interesting" by talking up Mario Williams this past week. Well, when you need to fix a lot of things, you need a lot of tools.

Long story short, take a multi-talented, 1-in-100,000 team player whenever you can. And never, ever objectify people.

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Fossil Fuels

More later, of course, but let me say this.

The more I see the way the world is going, the more I wish I would have invested in oil a long time ago. Not only does it continuously rake in huge profits off of the everyday workin' person in America, but it makes the every-day person SO ANGRY! GRRRR!!!

The other day I saw a woman washing her car at a gas station with the squeege near the pump. This was after her tirade about how high gas prices had gone (up 4-cents a gallon just on Thursday), and how we should "blow up the whole 3rd World!"

Either she didn't get it that 3rd World countries really have f*ck-all to do with gas prices, or she wasn't fully aware of the implications on further generations by this era's fat, rich, old white guys, much like those who had divorced her numerous times, slowly finding a way to make gas unloveable... all while trying to drive the price of biodiesel through the roof.

OR she did understand the implications and was just a giant bigot when she wasn't busy being a ghoulish gasbag. For the sake of Monoxide, SHE WAS WASHING HER CAR WITH A SQUEEGE.
The topper was hearing her say "Well I am NOT using their car wash!"
Right on. Way to stick it to the man, and make the water dirtier for anybody else who wanted to wash their windows after waiting for you to finish detailing your Ford Five-Hundred for 8minutes... while their engine idled behind you in line.

Nothing would have made me happier than to have been able to say, with all honesty and truth, "Thanks for shopping."

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Smoke Out

As a recovering smoker (ten years), I'd have to say that Seattle's smoking ban has helped me immensely. I wanted to quit for quite some time. I rarely smoked at home, and went through MAYBE 2 packs a week, including sharing among friends. Smoking and Me went together like Booze and Me. Or so I thought. Not smoking is one of the best decisions I was ever forced into by the Dark Lizard Gentry of... okay... sorry guys...

I've said too much.

I still drink. But not as much. Maybe I'm mellowing out a bit. I'm 32 with a mortgage, which makes me better than your average renter. I have more to lose, financially, so I don’t spend all night sitting in a bar talking it up with people. It helps that so many people are catastrophically, not to mention anatomically, BORING, which births me back into the evening and right on home to catch my TiVo. I don't have TiVo. No smoking. Not as much (frequent) drinking. But plenty of opinion on the smoking ban.

A lot of people use that "I only smoke when I drink" line to throw you off the scent that they are smokers. If you smoke on a regular basis, even if it's just the weekends, you're a smoker. Also, I'd like to suggest you look into your binge-drinking. Anything, not "Everything," in moderation, you lushy whore drunken lip-locking lush. You don't have to do Heroin "In moderation" to know why it's called "Heaven's Handjob." Pick your poison and take it easy on your bod. Before you know it the holidays will be here and you'll need a little extra stash around. This is what they mean when they say "the addiction starts in the family."

When I smoked I didn't want to be judged by my habit, but I'm sure I was, and that is WRONG to do. People are so uneducated on how to properly judge others. Judging others on their behavior is a terrible thing to do. When I judge, I judge on the by-products of a person's behavior! You can run around and call me dirty names, go for it! But if the by-product of your behavior is that you do it audibly, and the words offend me, I'm going to mount your face with my just-finished-5 Rounds-of-KaBong Fuy Knee Strikes-ManAss. If your kid wants to walk around all night and try to break into my yard, hey, Kids Will Kids! But I am NOT paying to have your carpets cleaned when they come home with 1.5 feet, and I have .5 foot in one of my spring-traps. For every action there is an Equal but Opposite and Annoying Whiner taking it Personally.

Do as you will. There are consequences. Your consequences should really only affect you, but they don’t always do that, huh? That's where Road Rage comes from. That's where Rage comes from, now that you mention it while rubbing my exposed thigh. Smokers want to smoke. It's what smokers do. It's not illegal. They take the brunt of the physical damage. HOWEVER, when I smoked I knew I wasn't warming a ReNuzit; I was throwing some stink to the wind and that byproduct may offend people. If people get offended by smoking, for any reason, then they have as much right to react to it as the smoker has to put on their big-boy underwear and ACCEPT THE REACTION. Nobody is forcing you to smoke... except your need for nicotine fueled by a lifetime of commercial imagery being force-fed into your frontal cortex, your rebellious nature, and not knowing what else to do with $6. And Frank. When he says smoke, you f*ckin' burn one, pronto.

What I'm saying is that Opinions are Like Assholes: Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for marriage. BOOOOOOO!


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