I Do Not Give A Shit, And That's Not Good

Rebecca Black, 13 years old, untalented, was rumored to be pregnant. All she did was become a public figure with her hit song "FRIDAY," about getting high with Chris Tucker in the front seat or the back seat. Video at the end of this blog. Amazing. CNN spread a fake report about her pregnancy. Is this NOT bullying? If CNN were a freshman in High School it would be prosecuted for that action. We need to stop talking about celebrities unless they die filming their movies, because I don't care about them. And by "I" I mean "smart people." Rebecca Black had a dream of getting famous and making music and eventually perhaps getting Bieber-pregged, but that'll never happen. And even if it did, I wouldn't give a shit. However, 141, 360,000 people HAVE given enough of a shit to watch her video. Wow.

Arnold "The Austrian Oak With A Root In Guatemala" Schwarzenegger made a deposit in the family account of a non-family member. He fathered a child with a woman he was not married to, but paid to take care of stuff around his mansion/house prior to being voted in as The Man Who Would Finally Destroy California. Apparently this revelation was brought to Maria "Inward Shrinking" Shriver and she decided to get what's left of her dignity and ass outta the house. Arnold's a known philanderer (Austrian for "serial dong depositor"). And even if he wasn't, I wouldn't give a shit.

There's an old saying that goes "If you don't have anything nice to say, start a blog." Well here it is. I have to find whatever that line is between "Not Judging Others" and "Disinterest In Whether Or Not Most Of Everyone Else is Alive." Maybe it's the pending Rapture (did you buy tickets? REPENT!) or age or the desire to see the lead BA of this project I was put on get publicly embarrassed, but something's amiss. Unless I'm freaking out and angry, I'm not happy. Anger motivates me, inspires me, impregnates me with a syrupy-hot goo that builds a sac of embryonic disgust, birthing-forth in an ass-tearing avalanche of comedic preciousness.

So unless I start caring again about people I don't give a shit about, I'm going to be happy, and that makes me miserable.

Rebecca Black - "Friday"

Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad


MC, HOST, CORPORATE, COMEDY, SEATTLE, GEOFF, LOTT

Driving, Me Crazy

We have one car at the moment. It's not a new thing for us. We're not being self-righteous in our single car'edness. In Los Angeles we had one car that we scooted around in. It was convenient for both our budget and parking. This was before our son was born. This was before the demands of life as parents could really use both of us being auto-mobile. Times have changed. We got the one car, and it's a good car, and it's not a commuter, for the most part. Instead, I ride the bus to and from work on an almost daily basis. That's a travelogue for 5 other blogs, mostly centered around how being driven around is as liberating as it is lockdown. Being at the mercy of public transit's +/- 3minute "on time" plan isn't as fun as living with a bi-polar pitbull. Not that I'm calling out any of my ex-girlfriends. They probably all have their licenses by now.

I have the car today... Driving to work this morning was incredibly freeing for me. I've driven since I was 15 years old, most of the time, very well compared to those around me. I took the California written test without studying and got 34 of 36 CORRECT. I can drive. But it's amazing how the timing and judgment of the traffic flow can keep you on your toes, literally. The individual yet combined neuroses of a thousand drivers converging on a time-point preceding a dayjob really ought to result in far more violence. It's amazing that we're as calm as we are. The cars protect us from ourselves, I suppose. I imagine we'd all be road-tackling each other were it not for the amount of insurance paperwork and hassle required after a car accident.

And in driving to work I found myself riffing jokes from news stories, finding the humor in the relabeling of prostitution and how it objectifies both parties, and ripping farts like I was in the World Fart Championship Finals again. All things the bus frowns upon. Self-talk, prostitution, intelligent conversations. Farting, from what I can tell, gets a full GREENLIGHT on the bus. Welcome to the world's cultures in 9 miles, who likes curried broccoli and chickpeas?

In that 30minute commute I feel the drive defogged windows of my brain. Some wiper fluid and a few swipes opened a view of my mind I have been mostly unable to access during my 78minutes of commuting to and from work, listening to some guided meditation (Stop Caring Now!) or a Marc Maron WTF podcast. Accepting the responsibilities of car ownership at 37, yes, I will do it. I have perspective as my license to drive. And I'd like to smell only my own gas being burned. The American Dream; single-occupancy, single farter, single-minded.

Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad


MC, HOST, CORPORATE, COMEDY, SEATTLE, GEOFF, LOTT