Montreal Showcase Update Thing

I literally just got back from Los Angeles where I was performing in a callback showcase for the "Fresh Faces" selections for the Montreal Comedy Festival. Last time I did a showcase was a miserable showing in 2004 at the Underground where I went after a heckler instead of doing my act, and felt just fine for it. You can never tell hhhWHAT these people want! GOLLY! Comedy is a fickle sister of merciful death.

My trip started Wednesday morning with a rain-soaked, 90minute trip to SeaTac airport, a trip that took about 60minutes longer than usual. I parked AT THE AIRPORT as if I could afford to. It saved me time, but not money. So no, time is not money, this time, Dollah Dollah billz, y'all. Traffic was horribly backed up, because traffic is made up of people, and well, people aren't very good at things they do every day, like drive a car.

I then speed-walked into the terminal like a freakpie, weaving and dodging old old people, and one family that from 50 feet away was hysterically funny as they tripped all over themselves. Being right behind them was the efficiency equivalent of being on in-line skates (NO ENDORSEMENTS), downhill, underwater. Idiots. When their son wouldn't pick up his bag and began a tantrum instead of getting in line, I just said "Excuse me" and moved right around them. I had no time for that.

People in positions of power usually are either under control and helpful, or they work at the airport. One guy was so gosh-golly jocular, dare I say... "Jovial!"... that he was ready to make me, a traveler, even MORE late to the gate. Everybody he spoke to got a blah blah blah blah he was a NiceHole, okay?
PICK UP THE PACE...

ShitHead Red-headed kid working for TSA who X-Rayed my wallet... you didn't give it back to me and left it unattended. I will speak directly to you and your supervisor in a private screening room the next time I fly, if you're still there. I had to climb over 2 women staring at, asking outloud "Did they just leave somebody's wallet here?" Yes... Yes they did.

I then had to run at 75% speed to my gate, feeling like OJ Simpson, especially for killing two people and getting away with it. Full flight with attitude, probably the last time I fly Alaska. Oh, and the return trip resulted in another 90minute wait while the pilots were sidetracked in Customs. Good thing they boarded everybody 20min early.


OKAY, Comedy...
Got to LA, met by buddy Todd for coffee and a peek at his new townhome. Then chilled out and went to my showcase at the Comedy Store in W. Sunset. The stage looks like this...

The room was pretty full in the main area, good crowd.
Again, I was reminded of two things after the first couple of comics:

1. Originality and Definability as a comic is tough to come by, but when it's come-by, it's stellar. Michael Kosta and Patrick Keane destroyed, and both always kill me.
2. Commitment to Content is not the same as AutoPilot. While I am pretty happy with my set, I am judging it based on the decibel volume of laughter instead of the laughter volume. I would only do one thing differently, and that is be thinner.

So there ya go...
Another trip to LA for 6 minutes of comedy, followed by 2-3 weeks of shrugging and having pretty much zero clue as to what will happen.

I do want to thank the producers and scouts from the Montreal gang for their input and professionalism. They truly give a crap about comedy, and are each just cool people in general. I am really grateful to have gotten the first shot, and the callback, after a year+ of not having anybody even stay in the room for my stuff while living in Los Angeles.

All you can do is the best you can do, and then power-mope when shit goes poorly.

=============

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MC, HOST, CONTRACT, WORK, WORKER, JOB HUNT, COMEDY, NPO, CORPORATE, COMEDY, SEATTLE

Bookin'

Los Angeles is still the hub of entertainmental living. You can't not do something once you leave the 1-Bedroom you pay too much to sleep and shower in thrice a week. After last night's foray to 3Clubs for the Montreal showcase (went First, great set, Seattle hang-out), I spent today back in Culver City working on The Book and talking with a few people who I respect greatly, and not just for their fantastic hairlines.

So as I ponder re-writing The Book to encompass a few other lessons about corporate management and survival, I came across the "Self Hurt" series at a kitsch store in Westwood. Their titles include "How To Get Fat," "How to Procrastinate," and a great tome titled "How To Traumatize Your Children." (I'm thinking "clown posters," but I'm old-fashioned). So that may be the way to go. From there I had to get to a show that did not go well... let me explain...

I was "supposed to" go up at this show, but didn't. The guy "running the room" was basically bumping me, allowing his friends to go long while he waited for people he already knew to show up. In other words, he was working on the idea that what MAY happen was better than what WOULD happen for sure. I think this is what THE SECRET was based upon. I have very little Ego. But I do have Pride. And a career of making people laugh of which I am rather proud. So, meh, I shrugged and left. I'm not waiting until 11:45. There's a difference between Passion and The Need for Validation. My bit about Assisted Suicide will have to wait, though it would have been very fitting in that situation.

It reminded me of every reason that LA is a terrible environment, at times, to do comedy in. At least at that show, which I have only ever seen go well ONCE. Another reason to love and appreciate the Seattle comedy scene.

I'm out. Good night.

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Los Angeles Redux

You wanna know about LA?
You wanna get in the cage with the Beautiful Beast and throw elbows with love?
Do you have what it takes to hone your craft and watch some bimbo get a golden ticket and leapfrog over you because she's more marketable, and then she goes on the road for a year and all she can come up with is 8 new minutes on drinking?

EVERYTHING you need to know about Los Angeles in 2.5 minutes.





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Freakuency

I've taken to calling-out people doing rude and dumb things in public. Recently, at Swapper Jack's, a man's left arm crossed my face to reach for a chutney. It wasn't preceded with any sort of "Excuse me," nor a "pardon, I'm sorry, but there's one guy here who needs some mango chutney on the regular, and it ain't YOU, mang." THAT I'd-a be down fo'.

So I said, about 6 inches from his untrimmed ear:
"Do you need to get in here, sir?"

He said nothing, paused, then beat a retreat with what I can only assume is a life-changing mincemeat of mango, bell pepper, honey, and exotic spices.

Today at the Post Office - which I openly mock because I'm comfortable knowing I will NEVER work there - I was 6th in line when a chick in pig tails, yoga pants, flip-flaps, and a hoodie cut the line to ask a cage worker "Um, like, hiii, can I ask a question?"
(Cage worker was helping somebody who was rather stunned)
The cage worker said "mmmhmmm" or some sort of affirmation.

Dipshit asked "My friend left her diary here a while ago, like, do you have a Lost & Found? It was like 2 weeks ago I think?"

Okay, nobody said anything.
The problem is now everybody's issue. Because this isn't a transaction that will benefit the USPS, and will only hold everything else up, and I'll be Catholic Priest-tickled if that shit's happening when I'm in the building.

And I start to think, "Will Cage Worker take a break from the line and go look for the journal of this dipshit's dipshit friend? NOOOOO, she wouldn't. That would be like Customer Service, and the Post Office ain't that."

Well, she DID go look. For about 5minutes, which is 30minutes in Post Office time. I moved to 4th in line. Journal not found.
Dipshit in PigTails starts asking questions about "Could you look again? Are there ANY books?" and this is WAAAAAAY over the limit...
SO I SAY...

"Excuse me, excuse me? Miss, in the sweatshirt?" Now everyone's looking at me. And I will admit, I FELT VERY MUCH ALIVE.

"Um, yeeeah?"

"We're all waiting in line to do business here, your friend's journal's gone. We need to get going here, okay? Sorry."

Everyone's acting like it wasn't said, except me, Dipshirt, and Cage Worker. Dipshirt takes a second, glances around, acts all butt-hurt, sighs, and says "Thanks" to the Cage Worker and flaps-off out the branch.


YOU'RE WELCOME, WEST HOLLYWOOD POST OFFICE.

Say something. Especially when somebody's doing something wrong and it's hurting the community and if needed, you could kick their ass.

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Feels Like I'm Losing It Sometimes

Lately, without a dayjob and getting every other thing in order in life...

such as registering a car in a new state, getting smog-checked, taking a driver's test, handling insurance, handling renter's insurance, calling after jobs, handling investments, etc...

I have to spend a lot of time on the phone. Supposedly that is to make life more convenient. But I have a network or a phone or a connection or a bunch of people on the other end that are seriously malfunctioning. And that lack of ability to communicate with one's mouth and brain in full connection is incredibly widespread, and causing me to understand how our economy could very well be undermined by people who finance their clothing.

When I think of having to call an institution about an account change or anything that will cause me to change anything at all... which means i have to talk to a person!!!!!!!... I cringe. I don't want to hunch up, but I do. It's a gut reaction, as my gut churns while I think of the menu I have to negotiate (these will soon be a thing of the past, BTW, if we really want to stimulate the economy), leading me to a complete stranger. So every call is another communication style to learn and adapt to. And if the person on the other end of the phone is pissed off or underpaid or self-righteous, I'm in for an overly long call. Just read my previous entry on Lingo.com. That company can suck it with their eyes open.

I am who I am, a good guy who is doing the best he can to get in and get moving in his career, meet people, and be the kind of guy I would want to hang out with. There's no horn-tooting there, I have had to TRY very hard to make that happen every friggin' time I leave the house. It gets easier and easier each time because I have a clean slate of interaction where ever I go now. Nobody knows me. So I can joke around and chat it up and be as cordial as I want to be. Maybe I'm the only person in that person's day who didn't tell them they should go back to furrier school. I am who I am. And if you hung out with me for a while and had some beer, I think you, too, would like me. If you replenished the beer, that, too, would be nice of you, but no pressure.

LA is bigger than Seattle. It sprawls. It's got more of everybody, every color, every background. So by sheer numbers of people, there are more people doing dumb things and rude things and dipshit things, and those always stand out. Example... Stopping at a red light doesn't make nearly the impact as running a red light and T-boning a car ALSO running that red and making a left in front of the hitter. It's rampant here. I don't even chance that water. And these people aren't ever going anywhere. If it were that important, they'd have left their shit-tents much earlier.

So today, I'll chalk it up to heat and frustration and get it out of my system. Writing and a good hard workout later. I am going to a church service tonight, also, overdue for us. I knew it was bad a few weeks ago when we attended a church service and all I could think was "this pastor can't preach for shit. This guy's awful. I've heard more passion in a Little League dugout." Then his pushy wife went up and had the full-pew press about getting people to attend, you BETTER attend, DON'T THINK ABOUT NOT ATTENDING, YOU SINNERS, for some Halloween thing she wanted to do. And I sat there and judged them like they were dancing their way across the floor for my amusement. So I need something bigger than Me right now to focus on.

Today I walked by 17 people. I counted them, because I wanted to do an experiment on how people react to strangers on the street. Of the 17, 14 were wearing sunglasses. Of those 17, 2 were on bikes. Of the 17, 4 of them and I traded "Hello"s or "good morning"s. All 4 of them were white. The other 13 were all non-white. No eye contact, no recognition. Just a fact, that's how it went for me this morning. But, hey, I'm not shutting off or down. Next time, however, maybe I shouldn't dress as a cop.

On the bright side, it's nearly 80 degrees already, no clouds in the sky. I got calls to make.

Hello, Xanax?

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Open Letter to the Los Angeles Metro Idiots

I'm smart.
Not just book-smart or college-smart or know-my-way-'round-a-new-Trader-Joe's-smart.

Low-140's IQ smart as of last year.

And I cannot, for the life of my neighbor's parakeet, figure out the LA Bus System. Their website has a tool, probably named Davin and Devid or something dumb for a white guy, that uses an application to reference a route database. It should... SHOULD... show you what bus to take from point A to point B.

Likely designed by a white guy because an East Indian or Asian Citizen would not have left the flaws and bugs in the web-app that this one has. Because they, unlike crackaz, are working OVERTIME to get things right and done. Sportscenter doesn't carry cricket highlights, is most likely why.

I can't tell what goes where. The maps, yeah, for-get!-it. So not only are the buses here a "Who's Who" in Illegals, Lurkers, Pervs, and Gangsta-wanna-be's... NOW I HAVE TO FEEL THAT THESE F*CKS ARE SMARTER THAN I!

That, I will not ride for. I'm buying a bike, a lock, bear spray, and a komodo dragon.
The next sound you hear will be me, bus-farting.
I'll get my space.

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Lotts Angeles II

Absolute craziness.

We quit jobs, rented our condo out, and moved. 2 states and 1400 miles away. The only thing that’s the same is the time zone. It’s safe to say that cultures are clashing outside our door in Culver City.

Moving to Los Angeles is about energy, opportunity, and adventure. I had this feeling hit me when we really thought about this move, a feeling while sitting at my desk at my job that felt like a comfortable jacket. A jacket I could wear daily. Even when it went out of style. And that feeling of comfort drove our decisions. That Seattle is a place of finite opportunity for a writer/comic/actor to make a living as any of those is an understatement. I know only a couple of comics in Seattle who only do stand-up, but they are well-known, well-respected, and could close any room in the country. But it will be years before I’m there, and I don’t have years to make things come true. I have what feels like a few months.

And that’s what I need. Drive. Deadline. Accleration. I had coffee with a friend yesterday who has been here 5 years. He’s connected. He’s knowledgeable. He’s funny. He’s sincere, and sincerely a great guy. Two hours with him put me probably 18 months ahead of schedule in LA. Irons are just going into the fire, but I cannot wait to start pounding for the craft, whatever it is.

But why do it? Why shake up my comfort level, and that of my wife, especially? I have never felt more selfish, more unhinged, nor less in-control than through all of this. But what I think I’ve lost control of is “Life.” I know that Life, to progress on a larger level, a more evolved level, is about taking care of others. But this, this seems like it's squirming in my grasp.

CHECK OUT MY BIG THROBBING EGO.

Like I have any control over that? Ten years ago I was, on this day, getting released from Harborview, a week after getting admitted, a few hours after getting slammed into by a drug addict on a financed Harley-Davidson. My left leg in bandages and stitches, wrapped around bruises and shattered bones, encasing a titanium rod, 9 screws, and a small plate. That’s what I get for crossing the street at 10 in the morning on a clear, gorgeous September day.

What I feel I’ve lost control of I haven’t ever had in my grasp. Life is that fishbowl we don’t know we’re in. Life is just part of the gig. But what I DO have control over, I’m figuring out and really trying to apply, are the following things:

• My reactions to situations in Life
• How I treat people, all people, in any situation
• What I do with my free time
• What I do with my Gifts
• What I say to people, and how I say it
• How I treat myself in the wake of disappointment, or achievements
• When and where and how loudly I break wind (I don’t “pass gas,” I blow heartily)
• How I give thanks and praise and worship the God that put me here with these Gifts

That’s all mine. I can only control that. I can’t control the guy with the attitude at the Culver City Target. Hell, if I were 38 and working there, I wouldn’t want to see ANYBODY, let alone some white boy returning an unused camping mattress.

I can’t control the people whistling at my wife as we walk down the street. I deplore their decorum, though I appreciate their taste in women. Still, they should be sat down and given a stern talking to with a ball-peen hammer and a socket wrench.

And those things all constitute My Piece of Life. A dear friend and Mentor told me that in LA, “It’s not that they think you’re not a fish in the pond; they don’t even want you to think you’re a fish!” Funny thing is…

I didn’t move to LA to “make it” in LA.
I moved to LA to “make it” everywhere else. And I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing with my life.

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Lotts Angeles - Getting There Is 90% Of the Battle

When I figured out that YES, if I really wanted to make anything out of my wiring for comedy and entertainment, I needed to get to Los Angeles, I talked seriously with my wife about it. It's often weird to think that people make a lot of money while making other people laugh. But at the same time, a lot of money is made by people who make other people cry, or make their food, or make their favorite pets into eternal doorstops. I'm wired for comedy. Thank God. My taxidermy did NOT turn out well. Then again, if you bring me pieces of a cat, I'm not giving you back a whole Seal Point. And NO, you cannot have a refund. YES, I'm talking to you.
Lesson 1: What is for you, will find you.
Be it Love, Luck, Money, Mansions, Heartache, Honky Tonk, or a mis-guided drunken dope-addict on a Harley-Davidson... if it's yours, you'll get it.

So my wife did the right thing with all this LA mess:
SHE CALLED MY BLUFF. Next thing we know, we're renting out our condo and packing boxes and looking at the opportunities that await us in LA, and laughing. Because that's what you do when you've lost your friggin' mind.

Lesson 2: What you don't know, you don't know; embrace that void.
I knew that what was waiting for me was better than what I'd been doing. But I don't know how it's all going to fall into place, though I know that it WILL. Dear Killorn, she said it best when she said "Dude, you can't keep doing that in an elevator full of people. Not funny." She also said, "You two, no, I don't worry about you. I know you'll land on your feet."

I didn't know I was that guy. I haven't ever taken stock of myself as that kind of guy who lands on his feet. But you know what? I'm not ready to expound on the emotional and personal growth I've experienced. I'm still too much in love with the Life and Wife I have been blessed with.

We are in so far over our heads with love of good people, we may never surface.
And if you wish me ill, that's okay, too. I've already forgotten your face.

Let me give you the story of the TRIP. Because it's worth it.

We made it to LA in 3 days. Got in on Thursday night, crashed at the Best Western in Sherman Oaks, the only one around with Room Service supplied by the Denny's in the parking lot. Let's backtrack...

Leg 1, lots of Leg.
The best part of the first leg was seeing my one-legged (temporarily) best friend Russ, his fab wife Katie, and their kids in Vancouver, WA for a bit. The kids got tired, the boogers ran dry, and they succumbed to nap time. Us? We had Grant's Pass to get to.

We drove down I-5 to Grant's Pass on Tuesday, stayed at the Motel Del Rogue. There's little else to mention. I'm convinced that Oregon exists only because, without it, Washington would have been too large. But the Motel Del Rogue, yes. Go there, when you're in the area, and get room #8. It overlooks the slowly-moving Rogue River, and the people are nice as all get-out. Also, mangy cats abound, fertile, all of them I'm sure. Bring your leg snares. The night was highlighted by splitting mini-bottles of Cabernet, eating Cheez-Its, and trying to get the sound of the road out of our heads.

Day 2 found us stopping for the equivalent of a slow roll in Redding, CA, where you don't live... you just "end up" there. It was 95 with no breeze nor outlook. High-tailed it to San Fran from there.
Prior to arriving, we made a swing-over to Santa Rosa to a place called Zazu, which is where Alicia and I had dinner the night we got engaged. It's a roadside 15-table res-toe-rawnt that'll kiss your knees weak with grub if you take a moment and let it happen to you. Go. The exec chef, Duskie Estes, learned under Tom Douglas, and we talked Seattle and fusion cuisine a moment when I went to check on the cat in the car. Great place. Get the Carmody Grilled Cheese and Spicy Tomato Soup for an appetizer. You will be sorry, and not my friend, if you don't. We made it to Redwood City that night, late, and crashed hard. I cannot thank Sally enough for again letting my weary bones drop in her guest room. The world needs more people like her!

Day 3 was The Big Drive, from Redwood City to LA or BUST. We swung over 92 to Half Moon Bay for a very overrated breakfast. It's a town with secrets. It's a place where you live a nice little quiet life after getting teenage pregnant by an aggressive jock, and end up a cop's wife... or switch those roles. Weird little town. Too, too quiet. Nice people though. Weak breakfast.

Took the 1 down the coast, adding 90min to the overall trip, but saving stress and desolation found on the 101 or the 5. Carmel-by-the-Sea was great. We stopped to check it out, and were stared at like MENSA members at the VMAs. Shorts? On a WEEKDAY? I could hear their whispas.
Deals on handbags were found. I got a coffee. Gorgeous, pricey little shopping berg. Back on the ro-ad.

At one point, having seen all the outcroppings and water we could bear, and needing to fill on gas with no stations noted on the GPS for another 40mi, we took a left onto Nacimiento-Fergusson Road. Remember it. Google it. Find videos of it. Because it will haunt you. I just found out it's where this year's Red Bull Motorcycle rally is held. 17 miles of straight-up switchbacks, then downward switchbacks, blind corners, and talking animals/hallucinations. This is a satellite image of the road. It's not as kind as it looks.

The great part is that your butt cheeks? MASSIVE WORK-OUT.
The drive is terrifying, and yet life-affirming. Honking around blind corners, chewing gum being worked to keep from screaming. Topped off by getting crapped out into the ass-end of... YOU GUESSED IT... a military base! Live maneuvers were postponed while the 1997 Civic went all-4-cylinders wide-open across the range. We saw NOTHING. Truly. And officially. This tank is in the middle of nothing on the base.
OH RIGHT, getting gas...

Here's where it got weird. About 8 miles on, we find a "town" that has one gas pump, one grade of gas, and two buildings. One's the mini-mart/gas-station. The other one is for sale. It's hot, still, and nearly silent. We got 2 gallons of gas and peeled out. Lola showed her discontent by sleeping.

From there we decided it would be better to see Santa Barbara on our own terms, so we coasted in for a bite. It put us out of our intended destination another hour or so, but after that much time in the car, what's another hour or three? Sometimes, the best thing before driving all that way is a cold beer. It was lovely, confusing, and heavily Hispanic before you get to the water. Just saying, it was. And is. So don't act surprised with your windows down.

So, there you go. We made it. Flying would have robbed us of all those moments, nay, HOURS of wondering what the hell we were doing.
We are LIVING. That's what. And we're here. Step 1, complete.
Safe. Sound. And the cat has had NO accidents.
It's no accident, that in-shoe-pooping.

I'll tell you more about our new home from where we can see the HOLLYWOOD sign in the next blog.
I miss my family. I miss my friends. But I wouldn't trade this for the world.

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On Our Way To Greatness

Wishing dearly that I could pour out a wide swath of dramatic text to encapsulate all that I wish to leave behind in Seattle as we move to Los Angeles... I just cannot do so.

Only because we've been so incredibly blessed with the love and support of so many great people, from family to friends to the local baristas who know us better than some friends know us. Regrets come from what you don't do, usually. At least those that haunt you as you awake, and rise to meet the afternoon.

I have so much more to do and learn about comedy, but perhaps it's really more about the evolution of myself as a person that I'm excited about. Growth and progress make me very, very happy, even if it's not my own. The creativity I express and see in others motivates me. It's that part of being Human, I think, that is the true missing link between us and those couple of cousins we each have... yes, THOSE cousins... wherein our minds realize something New is Good, especially because we can all share in the growth of the Mind.

In other words, Dear Readers, after asking my wife to uproot her life and move to Los Angeles-adjacent - and her calling my bluff - we're going with Intent and Drive. Can't wait to see where we'll be a year from now!

I AM SO FRIGGING TIRED.
We leave in the morning. Grant's Pass, then San Fran, then LA.

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