Weekend Wrap-Up

I'll start back on Thursday night. I did a money gig for a buddy who needed a headliner at the Taster's Wok. As you have surmised, it's a Thai restaurant in Lynnwood that hosts a comedy night once a week to entertain people tired of yelling "GIT 'ER DONE!" at each other all night. Okay, you probably didn't guess what I'd writtend after "restaurant" but that's what it is. I did it solely for the money and to work on my crowd interaction chops. I followed local legend Heneghen who is able to riff off a crowd with razor-like intent and spoon-like precision. He gets going and can't stop, and he had the place ROARING with ha-has. Good thing, too, because he followed LD., who cramped my game from the get go. I sat at a table with LD and Didi M., another comic. I sat next to this woman who was way hot, and no ring in sight, so I'm thinking, "Well hello there," and "please let my zipper be up." I sit, LD launches into a barrage of stuff that neither concerns nor interests me. Her and I had our differences in the past, but fawk-a-duck if she doesn't know when to shut it. All I could do with the gal I WANTED to talk to was run my fingers on the inside of her elbow from time to time. She seemed cool with it, responding by pulling away and gagging a little.
LD goes up and does well for 3 of the 18 minutes she's up there. Heneghen kills for 20-25 ish. Next thing I know I'm 5 minutes in and riffing off the crowd, doing better than just my jokes, which seem to be falling out of my mouth. Blah blah blah: Summary: Heckled by fat divorced guy with white shoes and high-waters, bored dipschidt at bar shines a flashlight in my face, bar owner missing the sleeves off his favorite t-shirt, and I got out with my life, if not my dignity.

Yep, what a great F'ing weekend it was. I did time at Chuckle Bucket's on Friday and had a great set following an energetic, disjointed, and entertaining set by a Canadian Laugh Slut. The guy just would NOT get off stage. 7-10 minutes is not 7 & 10 minutes. BUT it allowed me to go up and address the time issue as well as launch into a new bit. I riffed through the new bit, nothing really prepared, but it went pretty darn well. I have to make sure that I keep my act tight, however, because eventually, when I'm really angling for TV spots, I can't be rambling as if I've never been behind a mic before. Small crowd, but really very into the show. Everyone had good sets, which was nice to see. There's funny to be consumed. LESSON LEARNED: Being yourself is always better than being what you think other people want to see, unless people did not want to see you.

Then I went over to The Comedy Book to catch Jim Gaffigan (gaff-again, NOT Ga-figgin, as I was repeatedly reminded by his manager, who happens to be an ASS). Accompanying me were my respiratory cold and Cistern O'Hanrahan. The place was packed, and good thing too as Jim was recording his Comedy Central CD. If you can't destroy a room like that as a comic, you quit, immediately, and hit your head on a hard-cover copy of "1,001 Tasteless Jokes" until you forget your act. But from what I heard everyone did really well. Jim did really well, too. He's got something good going there. So pale. So funny. So smelling of meringue.

The next day I sat at the Mermaid Coffee House, which has taken to hiring less attractive staff since their IPO, and got to the nitty of some client-specific jokes. I have a gig on Sept.1st for a large, local software design business, kind of a Mom&Pop thing, and I want to make sure I am giving my best. It's weird to "have to" write for a specific event, but I have had a couple of my best performances for such gigs. This will be a fun one at the Triple Door, performing with Kid Dynamite. It's gonna be fun. And YES, I will be wearing a suit. JEEZ. And besides, I've spawned a couple of really great bits, I think, that will carry over to my other comedy.

Yesterday I just bummed it with Chlorine O'Grady and Shoogs B, writing eating, and wallowing in the end stages of upper-respiratory congestion. These are two of my favorite people in the world. It's almost like we can read each other's minds, but choose not to out of respect. Killroy made rad Thai Peanut Chicken Satay, a.k.a. "Chicken Candy," as dubbed by G-Bro. Then we eventually ended up at open mic at The Comedy Track.

Performed well, going 2nd after Nate The Latest Great. He's 13 years old and doing really well on-stage. However, he's doing straight lifts of a well-respected national act, and therefore has started his comedy career on the wrong foot. I'd like to coach him a little by letting him know how vital it is that he learn to write and perform his own material, but at the same time, he's 13 and his dad's a lawyer. Maybe he picked this instead of Summer Camp. Regardless I don't need no boy crying "Wolf/MICHAEL JACKSON" when I'm just trying to expose him to... I mean show him the... trying to help. Regardless, I had a great set following him, including where some man-hater tried to heckle me and I addressed her comment by telling her that I heard it, I know why she said it and why she said it the way she did, and that I know the games, so save it. Afterwards she came up to me and said she thought I was the best performer of the night, then asked me if I ever give private shows. I wasn't sure what she meant, so I told her that I will tell jokes for free, but the sex will cost her.
Anyone know how to treat a leather burn?
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Got some stuff forthcoming. Until then, keep your pants off.



Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Vegas Baby

So I didn't get the Vegas spot, but I was told that the judges "liked me a lot" and that I could have "done better." Doy, so could everyone except the person they picked. I heard that they picked a kid from Utah who makes faces.
1 - Would you pay to see that?
2 - I am happy to not be considered in the same breath as that type of comedy.


Because You Can't Have Sex ALL The Time

I ran into an old girlfriend recently, a woman who is probably as textbook attractive as possible. Auburn hair, bright blue eyes, tan, fit, perfect teeth/makeup/breath. She seems as if she craves only fruit and excretes biodegradable potpourri. Drives a Porsche, purchased with the money she made from investing in then selling Amazon stock before the crash. Lives in a posh condo near the Seattle waterfront. She's almost too gorgeous to look at.
And outside of her looks, there is not one interesting thing about her.

She had a truckload of nothing interesting to say, other than updating me on the goings-on of a couple mutual friends who she still hangs out with. Like I give a crap which stationery salesman is vying for a move to Medford, or how she and this guy and girl got SOOO drunk last weekend. Oh my Guinness, it was a record for useless information.

I only chatted with her for a moment, but it sparked me back to the conversations we had a long time ago when we first met. Sitting at a Happy Hour table with other good-looking friends (thanks to my humor I was included at this Last Supper of Blather) I looked around at these successful people and realized that, were it not for their looks, they would have jack shit to offer society. We'd all talk about work, slag on each other for the previous week's intimate co-minglings, see who is tapping which ass, and that was about it. For 3 empty hours.

One night I start talking with the ex, prior to our coupleage, and she asks me what I think of some dude who's been hanging in the group. I said that I subscribe to the "Saying nothing if nothing nice is to be said" school of chat. Then she asks "Why, did he say something to you?" Again, I told her that I didn't know the guy from Jeff Renner, so I really shouldn't say anything. I mentioned that he referred to every woman he used to date as "this one bitch," which seemed like something for shock value, showing me that he's got a front up. She says "No, I mean do you think he really drives a Honda?" I told her "No. I think he says that to appear humble so you'll f*ck him." Her reply? "Aaw, that's so sweet." Just be pretty, darling. Just be pretty.

I dated this woman for about 2 months a few years back. She was truly sweet-natured, but so incredibly insecure about her looks and her interpretations of my compliments that I felt like I was tripping over her Gucci emotional baggage. I had to call BS on it, because it wasn't anything I had packed for the trip. In a way, I was encouraging her to pick the bags up and figure out why they were so heavy, but her own past made her feel like she was in trouble, as if I was her father and the toys needed to come up off the Twister mat that her step-m0m and I and the Klobusnick's were gonna need later that night. I was looking for something more inside of her... pardon the pun... and I came up empty... to repeat myself...

Do looks matter when you're looking for a mate? Yeah, they do, and anybody who says they don't is a gorgeous liar. Everything fades. You can't look at anything, perfect or otherwise, for long without wondering what else there is to it. Looks matter. My looks matter to me, most of all, so I'm responsible for how I feel about me. But what matters more? That I left a good picture behind, or a thousand memorable quotes that make people laugh and learn and make out?

She was a gorgeous woman, and a hideous person. Too bad, too. Oh well, at least we did it.

You know who you are.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Like I Care. WAIT, I Didn't Mean It Like That!!!

I had a showcase today for the Las Vegas Comedy Festival, which is the "Big K" brand of comedy festivals. There's Montreal, Aspen, Chicago, and Edinburgh, Scotland. Then it's a 100-story drop to the next tier of comedy festivals. Mostly local things like Bumbershoot and whatever else attracts aging hipsters with disposable income due to their inability to drop their "over it" facades long enough to let their f*cktools ease up and create a baby. DAMN I love them and their tortoise-shell spectacles.

So this festival is really for the newer guys on the mid-to-lower tiers of the comedy world. For the sake of pork, there were TWO prop/juggling duos in attendance. TWO. I wonder if they snipe the way most other comics do. Comedy is immediate justice: Joke, Laugh/No Laugh. But what of the juggling and prop comics? Do they see a team and think "Yeah, it WOULD take two of you to act like your pulling scarves out of your sleeve and the last one happens to look like your underwear and you act embarrassed, you hacks."? Who cares? I hate that crap.

I had a pretty good set. The comics were laughing, which is normally a bad sign, but they were the only crowd members, so I took it as a bene. Yay, doing comedy to a crowd of people who are thinking "F*CK YOU! LOSE. LOSE LOSE LOSE! FLUB IT. FLUB A LINE!" You could almost feel the apathy. I dug it.

So now I wait a few days to find out how things go. There are a couple more showcases for the judging group to attend, and then they'll post the results on their site. I have been to Las Vegas twice already this year. February sucked because I was setting a record for power-vomiting artichoke dip from the Harley Davidson Cafe. June was fun, then sucked, then was fun, then really sucked, and was nearly a waste of time. But hey, third time's a charm. I have to get new glasses.
Tortoise shell, natch.

Oh, and I learned this: Sometimes you make your best move by deciding you don't have to make a move at all. I decided last week that a move I may have to make will benefit me best if I do not move at all. In other words, never say more than you have to. And for crying out loud, tell your sister to quit calling me. You know who you are.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

1,000!?!?!?

Koko the Handsy Gorilla ("go-ree-ya" in Spanyish) recently notified her handlers that she was experiencing tooth pain. A dental team sprang into action, and gave her a full examination, extracted a tooth, and sent her on her banana-munching, language signing way.

Freak out here, because:
1) Koko knows over 1,000 "words," and it's been a LONG time since I had a vocabulary test.
2) Koko has more concern for her health than 60% of the people you know.
3) Koko has better dental coverage than you. Total cost: ZIP-POINT-SCHIDT


Not Sleepy, By Reason of Insomnia

I'm at work as I write this. It's 4:47 in the ay-em, and I'm not at all tired. DAMMIT. I came into work because I just cannot stay asleep. I've had insomnia bad this year. It started in April and still plagues me at least once a week, like a recurring nightmare, but one where I'm awake and at MOTHER-F'ING WORK. I'm sittin' here at my desk on a quick blog break, pausing from the work that has me staring at spreadsheets with millions of entries, making corrections to manager's minutia while they lie in repose and decadent silken pajamas. (waving clenched fist at spreadsheet) It's a combination of low-grade depression and hope, mixed with flouride and protein. Oh, and I drank a Diet Rockstar around 9:30 tonight. That's a lot of vitamin B to process, but hey, at least I'll know when it's out of my system.

The benefits are that I'm the only one here. I'm parked right by the door next to the handi-ramp (there are no wheelers in this building, but there's one guy who is a buffet trip away from knee-bucklage), and have the printers, bathrooms, microwave, and vending machines all to myself. I'm gonna take all the seat-covers from both bathrooms, put them in the printer and copier trays, then buy all the food I can afford out of the vending machine. Next, I'm labeling each item with my name on it and packing one rack of the community fridge with burritos, yogurt, and as much chocolate-flavored dairy beverage I can get my sheep-counting mitts on. And the other employees ("co-workers" sounds far too friendly) can't move it or throw it away, as that's destruction of personal property, AND AND AND… I'm gonna inventory all of it and make copies of it on the toilet seat covers and post the inventory on the fridge.

I'm feeling just fine, why do you ask? I can hear your thoughts. I can also hear the carpet whispering. HEE HEE HEE HEE HEE… WHY CAN'T I STOP CRYING?!?!?

ALL BETTER! Thank you Magic Hi-Liter. (psst, Magic Hi-Liter, show me where the leather desk chairs are and I'll hook you up with that red Sharpie one drawer down. She is NASTAY.)

The downside of this is that I will likely bottom out and crash like a Tom Arnold movie. Another downside is that sleep is all-important to me right now, as I am doing the best I can to handle stress without too much medication, be it professionally or self-prescribed. Sleep helps flush your body of cortisol and keep your fluids in check. Deprivation of anything for too long is systemically degrading, but sleep, oof, that's a big need for right now. I actually fell asleep about 1:30, dead-out, for an hour. Next thing I know it's 2:26 and my brain is crackling. I had a song, a joke, and 3 thoughts running through my head:
Song: "Every Thug Needs a Lady" by the Alkaline Trio
Joke: One of mine about not having regrets after a relationship. It's good, come see it.
Thoughts:
1) Am I going crazy?
2) I now release all stress and negativity.
3) Where are the dad-gum leather desk chairs at work?

So here I am, alone again while Magic Hi-Liter is retrieving my new, leather cube saddle, typing while I should be working on this spreadsheet. Even THAT is a ricockulous thing to put into words, that I should be working. I should be asleep, dern-blast it! I think I'm auditioning today for the Las Vegas Comedy Festival, but those f*cktards don't know how to post the proper information. Auditions are, according to their "information" (insert laughter) "Dates: August 9th-10th, Time: Aug.10th-12pm." The best I can gather is that the category I'm auditioning for is on the 10th, while the Comedy Club Pick (big show at Giggles, go if you can, 8:30pm) is today, the 9th. Check out their site, see if makes any sense to you: http://www.laughacrossamerica.com/htmls/laa_times.html#seattle

Okay, Magic Hi-Liter is back with my kick-ass new… DUDE, this is the passenger seat of my car! FAWK! I gotta go kick some Hi-Liter ass. He ripped the friggin' passenger seat out of my CAR! This is a bad-ass Hi-Liter. What was I thinking buying a Hi-Liter from the Talking Walnut??? I hope he gives me a concussion. I need SLEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Good morning to YOU.
I'll be up all week, try the Sominex.


The Day That One Thing Happened At Work

Fast forward now, 8:26 a.m., been awake for 22.5 of the last 24 hours. Retard next to me has her Office Assistant set to "kitty kitty kitten smitten OOOGY WOOGY!" and the thing meows when she does whatever to it. THERE'S A COMPUTER CAT NEXT TO ME, MEOWING. The only thing I hate more than real cats, are the loud asshole Ron who sits behind me, Sandie down the hall with the horrific cackling "laugh," and computer cats. I hate them because they are all short and just out of my kicking range. I want to kick all involved parties full-on face-side until bloodletting begins.

OH PLEASE LORD, I NEED TO SLEEP!!!
Bonus round: Being on salary means I only have to be here another 30 minutes. Then I can go home and black out in my hamper.
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Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Taking My Notebook and Going Home

I have this gig tomorrow night in Lake Stevens at Hawkeye's Pub, Grill, and Tire Shop, and I'm really excited for it. I'm headlining the show, and I've got this really good outlook on the show. I couldn't recite my setlist from memory, it changes each time, but I know that I'm going to kick the ass off this room. I haven't felt this excited for a show in a long time, as I have an opportunity to perform with two of my best friends, Shoogs B and Kilo G.

Why am I excited? Can't quite put the index to it, but lemme throw this at you: This is my first gig in 2 months. I've done shows, but nothing for pay on purpose. I have written so many new jokes in the past 3 weeks, mostly little one-liners and a few actual bits, that I'm ready to see how they fly. I am back to doing comedy regularly, and it's pretty gorilladad rad. I'm in the mindset that I wanna go in and destroy, riff off the audience, catch a vodka buzz and find a lickable local's sweet backside to shine the light of the Honeybaked upon. Yeah ladies, I'm not dating for a while, so if you'd like my attention, keep the necklines plunging and the hands properly moistened. I have ideas for ya.

For crying out loud, it's all just entertainment. People pay to see terrible bands, movies, food courts and a myriad of banality under the guise of "getting out of the house." Comedy is your answer, people. I kid you not. The movie you're watching today was the inspiration for a joke I wrote last year. The music you hear is being delineated from music and lineated to an intimate act involving a Viking woman and the handle bars from my Stu Thompson Huffy, circa 1984, which had the skill of kicking your ass! The food court you're noshing within is teeming with people you are mentally, and I am verbally, judging for their appearance. Laughter is good for you. Do it.


Rick James Dies. Drugs, Coke, Kidnapping NOT Involved... So Sad

Can't wait to see Dave Chappelle's take on this. That dickhole just got a 2-year, $50,000,000 contract with Comedy Central. They are aiming to grab Chris Rock-ish notoriety with this guy, who is likely the most poignant stand-up on TV today. Then again he's got writers. If you get a chance to see him live... GO DO IT.


More whenever...
Take Me Home

My Non-Funny Blog.

Blog #100!!!

To comiserate my 100th blogging, I would like to thank all of you for your reading and support, when you gave it. It's both cool and weird to think that people are even moderately interested in what are, by own admission, intermittently banal ramblings. But hey, why not share some of my knowledge for the big 100 spot?

Things I Have Learned

1. Never start blogging.
2. If you do, unhinge your mind enough to realize that everyone, even people you like, may read something about themselves. You don't have to say everything that is on your fingers, but it makes it more entertaining.
3. This is the most passive-aggressive, bullcrap way to resolve differences, other than ignoring the target of your anger after 3rd period French.
4. Whatever you Are will be made clear in time. Facades never last, your true nature will come through. Maybe shinier, duller, angrier, or happier than you're pretending. So be yourself from the get-go, or keep up with your prescriptions.
5. If you're wondering when to introduce fisting, it is NOT "3-Mississippi."
6. I've had people come and go from my life, and I learned quite a few lessons about people. Refer to my point #4 above.
7. If you love something, set it free. If it comes back, get a no-contact order.
8. It takes a hell of a lot of strength to walk away from something, and about 100-times more strength to advance on it. Sometimes, walking away IS advancing. Think about it. Then write me and tell me what the hell that means.
9. You can get a house with no money down! If you can, do that NOW before the rates go back up.
10. Sometimes when you do the right thing, afterwards, you don't feel so great. I suggest being at peace with yourself and your decision, or upping your fiber intake.
11. There's a good 25% of my comedy brain dedicated to high-brow dick&fart material. I pray that I never lose it.
12. If you don't have anything nice to say, blog it.
13. Having integrity, in the long run, is a great way to protect your reputation, and in some cases, your clean STD record.
14. Life really ain't nothing but bitches and money.
15. In a life where we all carry some baggage, beware of emotional pack-rats.

I suppose I could sit here all day and tell you about what I've learned this year, but that could go on for like 3-4 more points.

Dropping The Bomb
Perspective. Perception. Persimmon. Found of Def-Jam Records Russell Simmons. Richard Simmons. Richard Harris. Harrison Ford. Fart noise, and cue the laugh track.

Perspective and Perception, the Yin and Yang to my emotional Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker. Er... yeah, stick with me. Perspective, a point of view. Perception, your judgment of a point of view. Realism and Surrealism. I'm a realist to the core. I'd rather be told the straight dope from somebody, but f*ck if most people know the straight dope. They rarely give you a truly honest statement. It's going to be tainted by their own perception, and it skews both your and their perspectives.

For example, if you think that people are always looking out for you, you'll be appreciative of friends who pull you aside and say "Not to break up the ensemble, but your shirt doesn't match the booger hanging from your nose." Maybe they've tried to get your attention with a few mimed nose-clearing techniques from across the juice bar. Or maybe they just ran into you and they want to make sure you aren't going to be embarrassed meeting new people with a jumper on the ledge. You have the right to present your best self to the world, and your pal has helped you do just that. Blow your nose, then thank them.

Now flip the scenario, emotionally. Let's say your friend has a sensitive, if not properly calibrated, emotional Geiger counter. They think most things said to them are there to hurt their feelings, so they have a bit of a lead wall up between themselves and a world they see as radioactive. Telling them they may want to grab a tissue is seen as a personal attack, a flaw-finding mission, checking for boogers of mass embarrassment.
Trust issues, intimacy issues, growing a tail issues, the world is out to hurt them! First of all, you didn't do this to them. They were in a test range long before they flew onto your radar. Second, as much as you may like or even love them, it's going to be VERY hard for you to get through that wall of theirs. They may leave the door unlocked, but if you approach it they'll run to lean against it, thinking you are pulsing with radioactive nose-bats, and asking themselves over and over "Friend or Brain-loving Zombie?" It's best to let the half-life run its course and passively observe them through the viewing window. Especially with that thing in their nose.

SWEET
Mary Kay Letourneau is out of jail today! I'm way too old for her. She's a seriously messed up woman, there's something weird there. It's like some perverted "Highlander," traveling across the ages to carry the seed of a drug-using half-wit, Vili "Little Bunny" Fuulau, who's been fired from numerous Fast Food jobs. Who the F gets fired from fast food? You just don't show up, you don't hang in there and dare them to fire your visor-wearing retardedness. Even the kid with the extra chromosome can hold a job in fast food!

Experts worried that the encounter would cause a landslide of life problems for the young teacher-f*cker. He's also experimented with drugs & alcohol, fathered two daughters with Mary Kay, and spent time in a psychiatric treatment center. Remember, he's from Burien. They think you're gay if you don't have two kids by Senior Prom. He's normal, especially for a kid who's dad wasn't around and who's mom never disciplined him. Public education didn't fail him, birth control did.

I'm out. See you in Lake Stevens this Saturday
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Take Me Home

See My New Blog About My Dad (heads-up, it's not about comedy)

Why I Can't Stand Boston Ron and No-Makeup Sandie

1) He whistles:  Nothing in particular, just making noise to make noise.
2) He desk-drums with one hand and a writing implement:  Nothing you would recognize, like "You Say It's Your Birthday" or the opening solo from "Hero" by the Foo Fighters.  Noise for the sake of noise.
3) He speaks in hyperbolic analogies:  In the past 3 weeks, he has equated negotiating software agreements with:
     a)  Bringing down the Berlin Wall
     b)  Fighting in the streets of Iraq
     c)  Removing cancerous growths from your heart
     d)  Buying Happy Meals
There is no correlation to which analogy is delivered to which person, so a guy from India could hear the Happy Meal spiel even though they don't eat beef.  See, Boston Ron's a f*cking GENIUS, people. You are not on his wavelength.  He's an Analogy Savant!
4) That motherf*cking WHISTLING
5) Speakerphone Usage:  Leaving his door open, anywhere between 10 and 50 people could hear every word of his conversations.  I've taken to sitting in his office while he's on the phone.  Hell, I'm hearing it anyway, may as well get front row for the show.
6) His Open Door Policy:  It's always open, even if he's talking to an impotant client or lambasting someone for using a more poignant analogy than his.  People overcame the need for constantly open doorways by inventing the door.  Quickly following the door? KNOCKING.  Close it, leave it closed.  Stew in your own gas.  Shut up.
7) He is painfully short:  The guy's 5'3", tops.  He walks really fast because it makes his legs look longer.  To me it looks like he's saying to himself "Too short to live, too fast to die" or "Short man, short pants."  Over and over.  He's a bulldog of a human, and by that I mean he resembles the move where a guy tucks his party bits back between his legs, and we're looking at it from behind.  WHOA-HO HOOOOO Terrier Ron.  Imagine Fred Flintstone and Cousin Eddie from "National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation" going double-team on Roseanne.  The baby is in the office behind me.

Sandie:
1)  This chick looks like Ron, but with breastfeeding-deflated cans and a penchant for pastel capris and floral shirts, just this side of Hawaiian-femme.
2)  She has the most annoying laugh in the world.  It makes Fran Drescher's sound like angels humming "I Wanna Hold Your Hand," to your mouth and suffocate you.  And...
3)  She thinks EVERYTHING is funny, which means she has a sense of humor perfect for being dense to the feelings of others.  Oh she knows when to order a 6-foot sub and can really coordinate a potluck, which matters most to my checkbook, but gawd forbid she not quote Monty Python three times a day.

Sandie, Ron, we get it.  You're both short.  You're both not funny.  You're both too loud.  IN fact... I've never seen the two of you in the same room at the same time... 

Laters, masturb@tors,
Geoff

Take Me Home

In Case Anyone Asks...
 
I first began performing stand-up because I thought I could do it.  I saw the local scene, TV and the like, and figured I could make people laugh.  Turns out I was right.  I didn't get into it after seeing local shows and think "Yeah, that guy's funny.  I want to be his friend.  I bet he can get me gigs in Wenatchee for $75!!!"

I continue to perform because I like to do so, I like the challenge of writing something new and honing it to be a perfectly worded, totally unique statement of my idea of "funny."  I like hearing people laugh at something I wrote.  I like that there are people I know personally who are 100 times funnier than I am, yet they remain humble in their own existence.  I like that a couple of times I have resolved differences with my peers face-to-face, like adults.  That shows a respect for each other.  And if there's someone I can't stand to be around and they're a pain in my ass, I let them know, and if they don't move, I do. 

I'm not in this to rub shoulders with comedy-famous comedians.  I could really give a crap what any other monologist thinks of me, but it's nice that they respect me.  I'm not in this to be loved.  There's a lot of superfluous bull that I wade through every time I'm in a club, like second-hand smoke - waving frantically just makes it swirl about and I look stupid.  I can stay away from it, but if I want inside, it's gonna be there.  I'm in this because I fell in love with it, and I want to make an ASSLOAD of money for me efforts.  In the end, Funny Wins.

Punchline:  I am in this for me, because of something inside that drives me to it.  And there is not a club owner, a fire hazard, a headliner, a handicap, a hack, or a harlot that could keep me away from doing it.  I'll find a place to do it, always, as long as I'm making people laugh more than not. 

Take Me Home

Totally Grossed Out

Neighbor lady at work is eating yogurt.  I know she is because she's been scraping the sides of the cup for a good 10 minutes, and I swear I can hear every molecule of spittle in her mouth tear apart, strand from strand as she opens her mouth the glu-glu-glorp down another plastic spoonful of what is probably some really cheap, disgusting pool of acidophilus and live cultures.  Maybe her yeast is up.  Yogurt can help balance a woman's body, as woman's bodies are delicately balanced organisms designed for life-giving, nurturing, and not being funny.

I know we all gotta shove food into the old snack hole and I don't know many people who look really attractive doing it.  But sitting here listening to the feeding of a snackpack-focused, cardigan-loving, earth momma with a penchant for arm-waxing and talking to bark, damned, it's all I could do to not force myself upon a baby seal on her desk just to hear something other than the slap, smack, smap of the inside of her chomp bucket.  That's why horses wear feedbags, because they have long faces and can't use a spoon for snackpacking.
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Dude, Where's My Career?

I think it's a good thing that I'm single right now.  I have a lot of things going on, from my job to the new show to a diabolical plan at work to gas my cube neighbors out.  I've developed a keen knack for being able to do 4 hours of work in just under 1 week.  Do you understand what kind of commitment it takes to "playing the part" of a Go Team Go!'er while being emotionally detached from all around you?  Of course you do!  You watch TV.  It's like that.  I set the mental VCR and have therefore lost any and all intent to stay up with the current events of a floundering company.  Actually, here's what we're doing in the next month:
July 30: SHORTS DAY!  That's right, we can all wear shorts to work on the hot day, if we want to.  This totally underlies the fact that 50% of the people here wear shorts all of the time, and those shorts aren't up to dress code.  Yesterday some pile was wearing basketball shorts and a tank top at his desk, and no, he ain't no baller.  Last month "Wacky Hat" day took the place of shorts Day.  Next month it's "Favorite Team Jersey" day, then FINALLY we have Tolo. 
 
Aug 6:  Employee Appreciation Day!  There's going to be a giant BBQ over in Redmond to celebrate and thank all employees of Schmireless for all the hard work they've put in while the Officers of the company flew it into the side of a mountain.  That's okay, because the magical country of "Offshore" has supplied us with a rescue team to manage all systems that we "Onshore" people could manage , were it not for our childish needs of sleep, food, and regular bathing.  They don't sustain on things like that in Offshore, and they'll work for metaphorical chickpeas (which is what's been in my 401K the past 6 weeks) so the tradeoff seems good.  Offshore, by the way, is a nation full of people who observe a deep reverence for the Cow, seeing it as sacred, while our event planners see it as perfectly delicious to serve to them at the BBQ.  DO YOU. UNDERSTAND. WHAT IT MEANS. TO WORK HERE?   If they were to eat their god, can you imagine how powerful they may become?  You thought Curry had overwhelming power.  In the meantime: Surrounded by the blind leading the oblivious.
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I'm out.
Thanks for reading my schit.

Take Me Home

What a Week
 
Last week I lost my cell phone and my girlfriend and I broke up.  Work sucked.  But comedy RULED.  What do I have?
I have a job, comedy, and just got my cell phone replaced.  I sat down and recounted my last relationship and found a lot of things I could've/should've done differently.  But there were two people involved, so I think that even if I had done those things differently I would only have felt a wee bit better after our break-up.  This is not high school nor early 20's.  I'm a grown man with skills and a fair degree of self-enlightenment.

In other words, I'm beyond stalking or harrassing her.  For crying out loud, she lives 75 miles away.  I ain't burnin' no gas without a little some'in'-some'in' waitin' fo' me. 
And if you want some real honesty, keep readin' this blog.  Brutality awaits.

 
Take Me Home

If you haven't ever seen "This Is Spinal Tap," go get it.  BUY, do not rent, BUY the Platinum Edition.   
Christ, when you hear that their second drummer died from choking on vomit, but it wasn't his own, and you can't really dust for vomit... you have begun to live
Then see "Office Space" and "The Office," both seasons, and you'll know where the hell I'm coming from.

Take Me Home

Before I Get Outta Here

Hey, I lost my cell phone yesterday. It sucks. My cell phone is like a satellite-fed IV of security. To quote, and not STEAL FROM, Marc Maron, "Don't worry, I'll get Jewy in a second." No, wait, it was, "What am I going to do? The satellite won't find me, and someone I probably don't want to talk to can't call me!" At this time of day I usually get calls from one person who probably won't be calling me for a while for reasons I ain't gonna be discussing up on this blog, so y'all bettah just get out ma FACE widdat.
And PigTit Forbid that I actually remember phone numbers. 90% of the time over the past 5.5 years I've been dialing and receiving calls by name. Who changed their name to 1-206-255-5551? Weirdos.

I still have my home phone, but I pay like 10-cents a minute for long distance and since I live in Kenmore EVERYTHING, from my friends to my dreams, is long distance. Luckily I have a calling card with long distance minutes on it. Best present you can give a guy in jail... what? Nevermind. I have like 600 of those left. Better dig that out of the coupon envelope.

Outlaw store-specific discount cards. Drop your price. DROP IT. NOW. Refer to my earlier blog on Debit Card readers for why I think any more cards will just halt civilization.

If you wanna reach me, send me an email at GeoffLottRules@yahoo.com. If you know my home# call me there. Make sure I haven't gone crazy in all of the, you know... SILENCE. Take care, sweet little freedom turtles.

Oh, and damn near everyone I work with carries on conversations that seem to come right out of the pages of Eddie Bauer. Wow, Curt, you and your wife went to your brother's house and did What, you say? You had a... hmm, a Bar Be Cue? My my my, that IS exciting. Is this the brother with one testicle or the one who's girlfriend f*cked a tow-truck driver in your tent last Memorial Day? Sorry, I shouldn't pry, but you're f*cking boring, you boring f*cking bore. And nobody cares that you named your son Icarus, except your son for the next 14 years. YOUR HEAD REMINDS OF A PENIS. Which reminds me, your eyes are too close together.

And short Boston guy? SHUT YOUR F*CKING DOOR. I think I'm going to come sit in your office whenever you are on the phone. It's so loud anyway, I may as well have a front row seat for your "banalogies." WOW, you equated the negotiation of software contracts with the conflict in Iraq. You've offended not only whomever you're conversating with, but also the parents of every person, regardless of nation of origin, and the kind folks at "Learn To Complete A Sentence NOW!" instructional software. F*CK, dude, you shouldn't be on Xanax. You ain't fun when your chems are balanced. Get the stomach flu and shit yourself comatose.

YES, in fact, I DO need a nap.
Bye!
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Take Me Home

Check out my New Blog. Beware, it is NOT funny.

My friend Jimmy Leedo was supposed to blog for me today but his house-arrest got canceled for a repeat offense. I don't even know why he was on H-A in the first place, maybe he will share that with us when he can write.

Anyway, I'm going to be incommunicado for a week or so, and Jimmy, an old friend from my formative years, will be blogging in my place. E-mail me if he gets too weird or out of line.

Laters, taters.

Take Me Home

Must we have 5,936 different styles of Debit/Credit Card readers?

Customer Usage Negotiation Technician: "Push the button. The green one, that starts it. The red one will, no, see you pushed the green one twice, now you've killed a one-eyed kitten. Nice going Pushy.
"Okay, hit the green button ONCE, okay? Wait a second.
It usually takes a second."

Me: "Hmm.. I actually have the cash here, let's just ..." BEEP

CU: "Okay NOW hit the Debit button and slide your card through. The stripe has to face North or... nope, that was South. You're getting ass zits as we speak.
Try it again. There you go, it wasn't that hard was it???
Okay so now punch in your PIN number."

Me: "It's PIN, not PIN number. N in PIN stands for 'number.' "

CU: "Like you matter. Okay, here we go. Wow, you're buying a lot of different lotions. Dry skin?"

Me: "None of your business?"

CU: "Do you want cash back to buy stuff for your lotion party?"

Me: "Yes, I'll take $50."

CU: "Ooh, the warming kind of lotion. Spicy one, you are. Tell me in a second when I ask you again. I'm in a pattern of not listening to what people say to me."

Me: "That explains the neck brace."

CU: "Do you want lotion on your palms for $50?"

Me: "What?"

CU: "Cash back?"

Me: "Yes, $50 please."

CU: "Ooooh, still whoring about, are ya? Well push the button under the denomination of bills and country of origin you'd like the currency to come from."

Me: "What? $50 from THIS country, America. What's going on here?"

CU: "Here you go. Enjoy your day."

Me: "This is $50 worth of Chuck E. Cheese tickets. Get your manager over here."

CU: "I am the manager."

Me: "Of course you are. I should have guessed from the bright eye make-up and look of hopelessness in your eye. Nice brow, by the way. Stout."

CU: "What seems to be the problem?"

Me: "You just gave me $50 in pizza parlor raffle tickets..."

CU: "Are you asking me out?"

Me: "What? Uh... no, I just want my $50, American, in 20s and 10s. I'm in a hurry, this is giving me a massive stomach ache."

CU: "Well why didn't you say so?"

Me: "I did. Twice. And now I think I'm going to explode, let's do this."

CU: "Ahem..."

Me: "What?"

CU: "You need to push the blinking purple button twice, then hit 5 then 0, then... did you just move?"

Me: "Uh, yeah. I'm standing on a candy lump of some sort."

CU: "I thought so. The system's down now. Nice job."

Me: "Look, here's cash for my lotions and whetting stone. I gotta go."

CU: "Thanks for shopping here! Can you fill out this Customer Feedback card?"

Me: "Sure thing... Where's your men's room?"
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Take Me Home

What Do You Mean, You "forgot?"
You should read this post every day.

You mean, that guy was a real cop? I thought he just like mirrored sunglasses.

Think you got out of paying the city of Seattle for that 10-year-old parking ticket? Guess again.

Maybe I Deserved It

The past week has been lively. I've been all over the map with comedy stylings. I've been in a few heated scenarios in my personal life. My work life is, well Work. I had a few old habits pop up that put me into old, familiar positions and I'm not really happy with them. Nothing can hurt worse than making the same mistake again. I should know when it isn't "just gas." Forget that part...

Friday night at The Chuckle Lounge I went up to a relatively "off" room and had a good set. I didn't do much of the new material because it's not fully worked out yet. That's comic-speak for "I'm a lazy ass." More on that in a moment.

Saturday I was off to Cle Elum with M, to attend her friend's wedding. It was at a Ranch over there, and before you laugh at the fact that it was on a ranch, let me tell you this: It was gorgeous. Everyone had a good time. People were drinking not only before, but DURING the ceremony. The people were all very cool, nobody being unnecessarily bitchy or annoying. There's nothing quite like a wedding where the bride is whistled at while walking down the aisle, and the photographer gets heckled with "Hey, down in front." Then we went camping.

About 1 in the morning I was up and moving a bit to use the bathroom (a.k.a. sitka spruce nearest the tent), and hopped out of our tent. We were kind of no where you'd heard of, in a place I couldn't imagine even existing. Looking skyward I swear I saw every star ever created. No ambient light out there. No cities. No smog. No back-yard bonfires consuming the last of a philandering husband's $1500 Armani suits. Just M, me, a blanket, and a few minutes under the stars. You really need to get to the ocean or the middle of the state and camp out one night and see the stars. They are so bright, so clustered together, so perfectly positioned in the sky, like a billion Chinese people looking for asylum on our shores. A billion shiny Chinese people.

Sunday was fun, too. Taking our time back from Cle Elum, we swung by Snoqualmie Falls, and hiked down to the bottom to get a full view. The walk down: FUN. The walk up: BUN. As in BUN BURN. Good lord, my legs and Honeybaked are sore today. Feels pretty good. And that was about it for the weekend... oh wait... Instead of the original plan of getting home early to get on with the day, a quick phone call turned from a lunch invite to a boating invite. An hour later we're heading to Lake Stevens to head out on M's friend's Nate's boat. We cruised around in the sun for a few hours, and I went a couple of turns on the towing tube. My neck, shoulders, arms and legs are sore. I feel like I went three dates with Anna Nicole.

So anyway, that was my weekend. I know, it may seem boring, but I'll tell you this: The party has not started until the 27" chainsaw comes out.

YEE-FAWKING-HA HA HA


Take Me Home

Picture This

Dude, your dog's leaking tranny fluid on the new throw.

As a man, this explains why he was so good at thinking for others.

Nature Vs. Nurture

Interesting topic, I'd say. First of all, this debate goes on forever about whether or not a person's environment will overcome a genetic predisposition for addiction and/or gout. Some say "Save the environment" while some go Big Oil and drill until the black and icky oozes through.

Odd topic to think of this morning, but valid. I think if you see enough examples of love and appreciation and happiness and the right way to handle a drunk grandma, you'll know that you take her keys and get her a ride home. You do NOT steal her wallet and slap her on the Depends.

Some people have an innate sense of right. Some people have an innate sense of right and wrong. Some people only like dick & fart jokes, and that's wrong. But what is Right when everything is going wrong? A few years ago at the 30th Anniversary of Woodstock there was a massive riot over the cost of water and refreshments. Some "Hippies neuveaux" cried "HARSH, dudes!" over the melee, citing that Woodstock was NOT about destruction and chaos. But then again, this was the first time Woodstock had both Limp Bizkit and the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the bill. And it's the first time that concessionaire's were ripping kids off with $5 bottles of water in 100+ degree heat, and charging more for less. Kickin' much business ass ensued (they're insured, by the way, explaining why they got the Hot out of Dog in a flash). Survival of the thirstiest. Don't they see Mtn. Dew commercials? Extreme, dudes.

So now think of it this way. We're all born perfect and innocent, and then life, doctors, school, media, society, and most importantly, PARENTS, f*ck that up for us before we know where to find the guns and dark bibles. Our brains get wired with the messages we'll carry the rest of our lives as we paddle about in kiddie pools and high chairs, car pools and booster chairs, looking to the Adult's Table for validation over a little bit of white meat and the neighbor's brave yet baffling stuffing. (Who the f*ck puts cherries in STUFFING?)

And as the adults ignore our pleas to be excused because the neighbor's 2nd grader just shat himself for the third time today (more than once and it's just for attention, lucky bastard) we sit there and wonder if this is all we're worth. Dry meat, fruited bread lumps, and the lumpy Toughskins of an attention starved Muppet fanatic: This is my childhood?

Now we want to get away from a rough situation there, but maybe mom won't let us, says it's rude, impolite, etc. So we sit there and squirm in the rank of Lumpskins and Toughstuff, and then get in trouble for squirming. Next thing you know you are 25 years old and can't figure out why you can only date women who don't want you to get too close to them. Your nature is to be attracted to them, but you're nurtured to think you're not good enough for it.

Make any sense? If so, thanks for reading. If not, call your parents and figure out why.

Fed Up,
G
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Take Me Home

It's Like Christmas Where Santa Takes It All and Thumbs You In The Manger

Back from Las Vegas, or as many people call it, "FAWKIN' 20???" What a trip! I cruised down there by plane with M and her family, as M's aunt was getting married. I highly recommend a Vegas wedding if you'd rather have a good time that day instead of planning things way in advance and spending a ton of money. A 7 minute ceremony was followed by a 12-hour jaunt through Vegas. Got back to our room at 10 am... here's the haps.

First of all the booking for the trip was haywire. I was invited a couple weeks ago, and I felt pretty good about that because this was a very Family-Oriented thing as I was told, even though nobody in the family is Oriental. Hmm...
Almost every hotel in Vegas was sold out according to most websites. We got trapped with some lat booking issues, leaving us only a few options for lodging. We ended up in a hole which should have only schidt put in it. Ultimately we are all in control of our own destiny so anything we encounter may be of our own doing. However, the place we stayed in was see-ock. Gross. Freakin' HORRENDOUS. Imagine the WORST motel room you can think of... Got it?
Now, remove the dead hooker from under the bed.
Take the hypodermic needle out of the pillow.
No, no, that horrendous ass/Febreeze smell stays.
Same with the bedspread, that's the flag of welfare lodging, that stays put.
Yeah, so it was a "2 star" hotel? It was a "2 star" hotel. I wanted to move, we all did, but instead we stayed out all night both nights, walked and drank and gambled. Here's a lesson for you Vegas go-ers...

BOOK EARLY AND STAY ON THE STRIP.

It may cost a little more, but you will save in cab rides and be able to sleep at night without waking up screaming 'TAKE THE MONEY! FOR THE LOVE OF GOD STOP HITTING ME WITH A CHEESE GRATER!' You will have a nice pool and enough towels to outfit a hindu swim team. (That was a good one) You'll have a restaurant and gaming tables and you won't be taking pictures of yourself flipping the bird to the building, nor pointing disgustedly at the mold... THE MOLD... around the tub.

Oh, and eat at Le Café in the Paris.
One more thing. It's 81 in Seattle today. It was 103 in Vegas.
No com-friggin'-plaining, ya whiny schidts.

More later.
Viva Lost Wages.

Take Me Home

You Can't Always Want What You Get

I realize, fully, that if I want something in life I need to focus like a frat-boy on a blacked-out sorority pledge, and go for Life's bra-strap with ferretous abandon. I have goals, real goals, goals that make people reassess their own, and that make women say "That sounds soooo sexy. What planet will THAT happen on?" Yeah, I dream big. I dream frigging huge.

Ya know why?

Because if I don't, I will be stuck in corporate whirlpools and carpools and basketball office pools the rest of my working life. And I'll be DAMNED if that's gonna happen on my watch. The only corporate involvement I want in my life is their sponsorship of my national tour someday. I think it would be perfec to have Schmireless sponsor it. Then whenever I didn't feel like performing I'd just walk to a dark part of the stage and drop the mic. Sorry, my punchlines are weaker here. And God knows that I'm pretty much fed up with corporate life, he said, filling out an on-line application for GreenBoobs Coffee.

You have to have a goal, and that goal must be backed by a DESIRE to achieve. And that's where a lot of people get lost. Whoa, Achieve? You mean, goal-reached achievement? Yes, a desire, unwavering and fanatic, to see your goal through to fruition. To do that I will have to work my ass to the bone... oy... in order to get what I want. The key is to stay positive. See, a lot of negative feelings come through when a dude comes across a setback. But I'll look that setback over, think to myself what I will do differently next time, learn what I can from it, then call the folks for bail money.

Oh man, and if I find that I end up blocking my own myostatin like that freaky muscle kid, I'm-a FREAK. Myostatin is a hormone that blocks muscle production in the body, and this baby was born with out it. He's already got only 50% of the bodyfat of a normal baby, and last night was found outside eating midgets. Turn about is fair play. Okay, so $500,000 a year from comedy and no myostatin. Bring it.

Off to Las Vegas. See you in 10 days with a couple of 2 day follow-ups.

Take Me Home

Comedian Up

I can't say "Cowboy Up" because I don't like snoose.
I'm finally getting close to feeling funny again. I think there are a number of changes coming my way, good ones. First of all, Shoogs B in the house Whaddup? got a jay oh bee. That doesn't affect me directly unless I don't get my tie and jacket back. TAKE OFF MY TIE AND JACKET. Right On Shoogs.

Second, I'm in a relationship with a kick-ass woman, and as it nears the 6-month mark I'm seeing some of my old habits die. Die hard, but they are making their way to the great Bad Habit bin at St. Scott Weiland de Structo's 2nd-Hand Habit Hut. I'm done with so much of the crap that happens in some emotional crossings-over. It sucks that we live a 150-mile rounder from each other, but that all goes away with a few minutes eye-to-eye. Key to making it work? At this point, for me, not f*cking it up. Swing that bat, Dr. Phil.

Third, well, I don't know here. I'm just ready to get the heck away from my job for a while. I need a week, at least. Pivot Tables suck, people. OK? They suck ass. There's no reason, really, that this company needs a pivot table of any sort. IT IS GOING TO DIE! Please get the rouge and the good jacket, let's give it a proper burial, then we can drink at the wake and lament how long it was around. Mangerially driven into the ground, and I'm paying for it everytime I roll in here at the bright hour of 9:47-ish.

Fourth, get outta there. Go have some fun.

Going to Vegas on Friday. Gonna gamble and drink drinks and not set a record for Salmonella-induced rocket vomiting.

Taters


Take Me Home

Until The Message Gets Through

Everybody, men and Women, especially not men, needs to read this article from MSN.
I did NOT write this, I am NOT taking credit for it. Dr. Brenda Shoshanna wrote it. Read and heed.

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FIVE QUESTIONS EVERY MAN DREADS

When it comes to relationships, most women want to know everything that a man is thinking. His secrets are often considered little enemies, capable of tearing the relationship apart. But nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, it's absolutely necessary for each partner to have his or her own personal world -- thoughts, feelings and boundaries that belong to him or her and no one else. So what's a well-intentioned woman to do? Read on to find out which topics are better left untouched -- and why. If the following five questions never leave your lips, it just might be music to your man's ears. Take a look:

1) Are you attracted to other women?

Don't pry into this. Some women keep asking their man whether or not he is attracted to other women. A man who doesn't look at anyone or feel anything for other women is either very old, very tired or just plain lying. There is nothing wrong with a man who looks at and admires other women, as long as he does it discretely, doesn't make a show of it in front of other people and doesn't use it to make you insecure or competitive with the other women. Looking at and responding to others doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't find you desirable or is comparing you. Most men fuel their sexuality and fantasies by admiring women. If you ask him to talk about it, not only will it make you nervous, but he might feel embarrassed and exposed as well. He will feel unable to do what he does naturally, without being censured. Enjoy his love for you and leave this one alone.

2) What happened in your past relationships?

Some women become obsessed with finding out everything about their man's past. They need to know if they measure up to ex-girlfriends or wives, if he's as happy with them as he was before and if he's really over a past heartbreak. There's no need to probe any of these issues.
You might be especially concerned about what went wrong with your guy's previous relationships. Remember, though, he might have been a very different man then, and he probably learned from his mistakes. Try not to hold his past wrongs against him because chances are he doesn't want to be reminded of them. He doesn't want you to see him in a bad light. Let him be the person he is now. Let him feel good about how he is with you, and not dragged through memories of what he did (or didn't do) with other partners. When you let the past be the past, that is where it will stay.

3) Where (or how) do you think our relationship is going?

Many women just can't wait to get around to the "relationship discussion." They want to know how their guy is feeling about the relationship in general, so they sit him down to get the details. The problem is that this discussion makes many men feel pressured -- and restless. This question is pretty vague, and a guy may not understand what you're actually asking him. For example, is this the precursor to discussing marriage, or do you simply want to know whether he's content with the relationship between you?
Of course a man will have opinions of where the relationship is going, just like women do. The problem is that after being prompted to address a heavily weighted issue like this, some men fear that, depending on how they answer this question, they might be in for an intense, uncomfortable discussion. They could feel judged and criticized, and if this happens too often, it can easily make them drift away. Instead of pinning all of your expectations on a forced discussion, try to keep communication open in the relationship -- all the time. That way, you can both express your feelings as they arise, and have them heard and attended to naturally.

4) What are you thinking? (Usually asked in bed...)

Some women want to make sure that a man is thinking only of them in bed, but this is a very complicated question for a guy. Although he loves you -- and may be very happy with you -- it is normal for your guy to occasionally fantasize about others during sex. And it's not because he isn't there with you. This only means that he's making the experience exciting for himself in many ways.
Don't probe his secret fantasies unless he wishes to discuss them with you. If he doesn't bring it up, chances are that asking him about it will make him feel criticized, guilty and perhaps restricted. On the other hand, if he does wish to share his fantasies, this can be tricky too. Make sure you can tolerate hearing about what's going on in your man's mind, and remember not to assume he doesn't care about you. It's perfectly acceptable to decide you don't want to hear about these fantasies. Just let him know about your wishes gently, if and when he tries to fill you in.

5) Do you enjoy being with your friends more than being with me?

Many women become possessive of their man's attention and resentful of time spent away from them. This is particularly true for nights out with the guys. Women want to be included in every activity as proof of their partner's love for them. And if a guy is out with his buddies, they ask if he enjoyed the time more -- or less -- than time spent at home because they secretly want to hear that he did not. Some women even feel threatened when a man is with his family.
The fact is, your man needs time for male bonding, no matter how much he cares for you. Truly loving him means allowing him to be all of who he is, fulfilling all his needs and realizing that no matter how much he loves you, he also needs others in his life. The more fulfilled he is, the more he can give to you. So let the time he has with buddies belong to him. Don't question him about details. The beautiful part of having a healthy relationship is that you are both secure enough in your feelings that you want to see each other happy, no matter who you're with or what you're doing.


Take Me Home

Tightly Wound

This is totally a F**k It Friday. There is no reason for me to be here. Nobody under the age of 32, except myself, is here today. Ya know why? Because I'm supposed to be, I'm f*cking responsible. The shit I've been given to work with has begun to stink to high holy Heaven, and they want me to spray the Glade until it dies down.
Hey folks, come on in! It smells like someone crapped a raspberry bush!

And ya know what? I should not be here. I should be on a boat with a drink, tunes cranked, my hot girlfriend lounging atop, and getting a weird tan-line on my chest as I lay back with a middle finger being displayed to the world.

So anyway, yeah, that's Friday. Thanks for reading, like you even did.
What, you want some?

Take Me Home

Like, It Matters

Comedy is whatever it is. It's entertainment, basement level. Parroting the foibles of humans and animals and now technology in all of its break-neck boobs & such broadcasting. That's what we do with it… question mark. Comedy, a way to connect to people through pain or surprise, using humor. Laughter is the best medicine, for some people. Comedian Robert Schimmel had cancer a few years ago, locked his death-hurtling personage into a room with Larry, Moe, Curly, Frasier, and a number of other comedic talents, and emerged victorious. His mind was off It. His soul was free. His body healed.

Which is why I want so much to do comedy the justice it de-frigging-serves. There's so much I see people doing on stage that is actually just recycled technique and watercolored-over verbiage. Sooner or later we all go there, but you must, must come through the standards, and set your own bar high. It takes time and practice, learning and losing, and most of all it will take you an arena-full of courage, if not ego and machismo. But I have a desire to make people laugh so hard they expunge physical, emotional, and mental pain. And the only way to do that is to find the darkest parts of life, drag them into the light, and watch them writhe in the heat of happiness.

Take my dick jokes, please.


Take Me Home

Just Keeping It Real

So today I've had a few recruiters contact me in hopes of setting up interviews. The pay for the positions is pretty close, all the way across the board. Also, the one that is a little below is probably the most fun out of any of them. So what to do?

First of all, I'm sick of the ridiculous Telecom industry, I'm out of this idiocy. Here's the problem with it: Cheap MoFo's. Here's why: Research shows that most people (greater than 60%) who use cell phones are concerned with the phone's 1)Price, 2)Look, and 3)Features, in that order of importance. Even if it cost $300, people would make calls on a Peanut M&M if it took pictures. A phone that takes pictures... finally! And if one company decides "Hey, enough of this 'going for customers with actual money' bullschidt, let's give our $400 cell phones to EVERYONE who wants one, and make up the cost on a schiddy plan!," then all the other companies have to follow suit as a matter of selling down to the Joneses. When you're baking cookies as fast as you can, and the owner's giving a dozen away, as long as the cookie-taker promises (calling plan) to buy another dozen tomorrow, that next day better yield some results. We can't get paid in gold fronts, burned DVDs of "The Rundown," or animal pelts. We need KIZZASH. DIG? Our marketing people didn't. Goodbye $2,120,000 in Revenue.

Second, I am sick of IT. IT is like working with every geek from 11th Grade Physics: Too many inside jokes about contiuums and cookies, loadbearing and wormhole security. I shouldn't even be in IT, I'm not a virgin and I friggin HATE "Farscape." I need to get out of IT before I hear any more acronyms. SCTI, ASCI, MSN, DEV, PRISERV, .COM, hey, how about F U?

Third, I am on the wave of change, about to turn this board down the face of a cresting tube. It's not a huge wave, I'm not trying to go extreme and ride a thunder sine over a reef. Even if I fall, I'm not going to be driven through the reef like a steamroller hitting warm cheese. Nope, Just gotta keep my balance, point down the wave, and turn back up it when I'm ready for more. Hang Loose. Mahalo. Beer me.

Fourth, I want to do comedy more, make more money at it. I'm not going to be road-dogging it, but I sure can't do a lot of comedy when I'm stuck at this desk. I can't write, I can't focus to write jokes, all I can muster some days is sitting here wondering when all that work's gonna get done, while I write 'ponst my blog. And feeling not one smidge sorry 'bout it.

F*ck AT&T Wireless. It's So Much Worse Than You Know.

Take Me Home

Kill? No. That Would Be Unfair to People In Hell.

Stouty McNoisyknickers, the human pile who sits behind me, is fully on my nerves this morning. He's a person who is afraid of silence, afraid of his own thoughts. Here's how I know. I've seen him walk an entire hallway and flick a hand out on every third stride, to bank off a cubicle wall or a doorway. He will walk from one end of the building to another without a peep (yes, this floor is that devoid of life that I can see/hear him coming) and once he approaches an area where he knows there are people, he begins to whistle. No actual tunes, just random notes to fill what was once occupied by thoughts. He is an almost constant factory of sniffling and throat-clearing. Not the full-on lung/throat/nasal catharsis, more like the "sniff-sniff-KHM, ah", as if he popped his clutch too early, and that's 10 times/hour/hour. I'm not on anti-depressants, unless you count staring into his window and making a slashing motion across my heart a drug.

It's a character study in overly-ebullient personalities. Okay, we get it dude, you are FUN to work with! The kind of fun you get by letting a Springer spaniel loose in the building, lots of face licking and stumpy tail-wagging. He's a high-five from peeing in the Aspenwood Conference Room. He's a go-getter, a bulldog, a roper, a fireplug, a head-butter, a buttplug, a butthead, a firecracker, and most importantly of all, a selfish shankre. He's in charge of a bunch of contracts and vendors and really just another person in an office who cannot save this company from full assimilation. So why would he get to me?

Because I feel like I am pinned down behind enemy lines here. As if I have nothing but a lock-knife, 3 shots in a service revolver, a stick of wintergreen, and 2 cigarettes. I have to make every one of these items count before I make it to daylight. As I round the corner of the work garage, I see his stout form pacing back forth, breath breaking the calm of the night as he double-sniff-hacks his way to giving away his position. He's the only thing between me and that fence. On the other side of that fence lies a place I haven't seen in 3 months… Silence. Glorious, empty, idea & progress-filled SILENCE.

He's my albatross in an otter suit. He's an otter wrapped in a Snausage. It's almost as if everything he does is to say "LOOK AT ME. I AM CONTRIBUTING TO THE FUTURE OF… I MEAN, I AM HELPING BUILD THIS COMP… I WORK HERE! I AM SHORT!" The reality of the situation is that soon I will be working for another company, he'll still be here, and I'll be calling him randomly to whistle, clear my throat, and speak in analogies while he slowly descends into madness. By "madness" I mean "reality of the hopelessness that is The Death Star."

And he likes baseball. That alone should be grounds for torture.
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I Want To Know What Love Is. I Want You To Show Me. But Don't Be a Perv.

Hey, here are some parallels I've drawn between Love and stuff. I think this could be fun. If you have any, please e-mail them to me and I'll post them here.

Love is a many splintered thing.
Love is a rose. Somewhere, somebody just got 12 red nodules because of it.
Love is a tree. It's fully alive, yet totally flammable once it dries up.
Love is a frog. It's call in the middle of the night is both hilarious and frustrating. Oooh, Warts!
Love is a storm. You get wet and blown about, and need soup afterwards.
Love is a hug. When you give, you can receive. Too much or too little can hurt.
Love is a beer. It can cool you off, ease your spirits, and should be crushed when empty.
Love is a shoe. Many types for many occasions, and the more you wear, the more likely you will get a fungus or funny bumps.
Love is a drug. You may not be addicted to it, but then again, maybe you haven't had the good schidt.
Love is a knee. It can bend and stiffen to move you forward, or trick you and make you fall.
Love is a martini. Strong and pure, and it helps to knock one down at lunch.
Love is a knee to the balls. 'nuff said.
Love is a cocktail. I only want the top-shelf to feed my addiction.
Love is a kitten. Soft and innocent, falling off the couch, and scratching up your hands.

Your turn, FleaCollars. I gotta get back to work. Whistley Time!
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I vote "Milkshake" as the WORST song of the past 6 months. Close to whatever shyte N.E.R.D. put out.

Take Me Home

Nick DiPaolo, Alley Doorway, Levitation: Discuss...

June 4th, 2004. Giggles Comedy Club, Seattle, WA. Second Show, approximately 2315 hours. Headliner, Nick DiPaolo, recently of Comedy Central's "Tough Crowd With Colin Quinn," and a pants-pee funny comedian, not to mention good Italian boy from Queens.

Sitting front & center, at least for that stage, is a really drunk guy... Second Show Friday, whaaaa?... and his lippy date, who is probably really nice, but on that evening was not so, although I would NEVER call anybody a retarded whore. (great, now every Googler pricing mentally challenged escorts is going to be hitting this page) So drinky show guy says to Nick, "Say something funny." That's not a good heckler line, folks, that's really as dumba as it gets. If you want to heckle, say something weird. That will loosen it up.

Nick starts going back and forth with the guy, and the not retarded not a whore date says "He's trying to make YOU laugh." Well the shine's off the turd at this point and the guy says he paid for the show and he's not laughing (the crowd was really tight that night anyway, but they were in it for Nick's funnies). Standard banter follows, then it's time to move on and keep the show going, but the guy says something else to Nick and gives him the finger, so Nick leans down and says something along the lines of "That's all you can do is give me a little finger and think..." then the schidt came down.

That's about when I heard a few glasses fly, saw a few nachos fly, and then saw a headliner fly. The guy threw a drink in Nick's face (that dick! Microphones are pricey!), and Nick wasn't having it. I set my drink down and hoofed it down front, where Nick had already pulled the dumbass's shirt over his head a la "Slapshot." Everything was cooling off until a ninja dropped in. I knew it wasn't a real ninja, though, because a real ninja wouldn't have been seen by anybody. There would have been only a puff of smoke and perhaps a fortune cookie left behind. The fortune would read "Look not at what you see. See more than you look at. Eat at Wong's. Say 'Hi' for me, I am ninja Doo Me Po." So yeah, it wasn't a real ninja and I saw him go for Nick so I'm like "HEELL NAW" and KEE-AYE, I uncoil a front snap-kick to his undercarriage. He disappeared in a cloud of smoke... it may have been a real ninja afterall, or just a Marlboro Red-loving burqa fanatic. Either way, sorry about punishing your junk.

So the fight breaks up, ninja's gone, and the drinky dude's out the club. The side door of the showroom is open because it's hotter than a birthday gift from Winona Ryder, and that door opens to an alley of sorts that runs the side of the club. So drinky dude's heading down the alley and figures "Why not?" He ducks back into the showroom, grabs a glass off a table and tosses at the stage in Nick's direction. Something like 8 guys, a woman, and that poor excuse of a ninja dive outside to grab the guy, which they succeed at doing. It was entirely outside of the club. Then I hear a pretty loud, slapping/thudding sound, kind of like when a bad career, a heroin-laced comedian, or a watermelon hits the face of a drunken show-goer.

Later on the authorities showed up to take care of things. I'll tell you what, when Optimus Prime speaks, you listen. He's pretty cool. I thought Cobra Commander was kind of snooty, but hey, he used to run a majorly evil, underground evil network of evil. He's got some control issues.

The Moral Of The Story Is:
You don't sit in the front and bring a not-lippy whore to a show, then yack at a New York stud of comedy and expect to not have schidt on your shoes afterward. In other words, he got what he deserved, a bear-hug from Terry Taylor.
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Oh really?

The rock band Creed announced the other day that they were breaking up after 3 albums.

Choose from below:
1) It's about time.
2) The president of the band's fan club replied to the news with, "Oh schidt, now I'm gonna be 33, living at home with NOTHING to do on Friday nights."
3) The president of the band's fan club, and the rest of the world, shrugged.
4) A ninja would never have done that.
5) Who?


Take Me Home

How Do You Feel?

My blog here is about my feelings and thoughts. Sometimes my feelings and thoughts have harsh words in them. I've worked on gripping my feelings with both hands and massaging them to full release, but sometimes it's better if I just let 'em hang loose. I hope not to offend anyone. If you get offended by my ideas and feelings, I'm real f*cking sorry. Feel free to picket my website, which you don't pay for.

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Just Jokin'

George Tenet resigned this week. We all have the same question:
Who?

Chrysler recalled over 400,000 PT Cruisers this week, after finding a major design flaw: They look f*cking stupid.

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How Far It Has Gone

The normally reserved and anti-depressant-laced self-styled "Funny Gal" next to me seems to have introduced a new word into her vocabulary. She's used it at least ten times today. It's a major step forward for her, because this is someone who uses words like "oh futzy futz" when her stapler runs dry. It's pretty intense, actually, her use of the new word. She's throwing heavy emphasis on the first syllable and a little vitriol into the tone of it. Dig it:

"DumbAss."

That's it, that's the "new" word. I was thinking that before I could speak. Then again, that was only 5 years ago, but still... That's just wild. WILD. I need rum.

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I Am Perfectly Unperfect

Not that I've ever figured it all out, but I've come close a few times. I've figured a few things out, but never all of it all at once. If you ever do figure it all out, you probably get killed by a friend playing with a gun to celebrate his girlfriend losing the baby. I saw it on "The O.C.", lighten up.

I recently read an article about "The Search For A Soulmate," and it's been resounding in my head for a while now. After reading about characters and people and ideas and demi-gods and Demi and Ashton and all of these other participants, the article talked of how the search for a "Soulmate," that "perfect someone for each of us," is killing the modern relationship. Firstly, when I hear "soulmate," I want to punch Alanis Morrissette in the cock. Secondly, the divorce rate in this nation for five or fewer years of marriage is disgustingly huge, because kids raised with TV remotes and CD players with skip-to-the-next buttons think it's a great idea to get married. There's no perfect TV show, although "Scrubs" is pretty close. If ever I have a child who, at an age of less than 28, wants to get married, I'll throw them a party where they can get dressed up and kissy-face their half-wit pokin' partner, but I will forbid them from getting married. I'll abort a child up until the 24th tri-mester. Damn, that's two dead baby lines in the first two paragraphs. No more, it's not my style.

It was Charo or my 4th Grade teacher after a dismal spelling test who once said "Nobody's perfect." What the hell is "perfect" when it comes to a person, anyway? Donny and Marie Osmond, that's pretty close to perfect, but they are also made entirely of seafoam candy and LipSmackers lip balms, now in low-carb Chipotle! I accept myself as Perfectly Imperfect. That is, I'm okay with all of me, but always want the best of myself to come forth. I accept the bad with the good. That was hard enough to do, and it's even harder for others to accept. That's a good time to grab a spoonful of Splenda to help the benzodiazapines go down. If you don't like me, odds are I forgot about liking you a long time ago. Unless you sign my paycheck or decide the fate of my soul, I don't give two Pabst Tall Boys about what you really think of me. It's hard enough to deal with my own imperfections, let alone your misinterpretations of Life. If y'ain't For me, you's agains' me. And you better put your back into it, son, I ain't budgin'.

I am in no way perfect, nor do I ever intend to be. There are some things I strive for perfection in, like writing and sleeping more than 4 hours in a stretch each night. The rest, I'm just doing the best I can. I read this weird theory in that Soulmate… damn you Alanis… article about how the intimate/romantic relationship is intensely imperfect in so many ways, that the less a person tries to mold it, the more it will take it's natural shape. And once you see something for what it is, not what you wish it would be, the more clearly you can see the schidtpile in your path. You can then accurately assess and decide where you go. Walk around it, walk into it, you just gotta keep walking.

No, I don't know what Perfect is, so I will never be the Perfect Soulmate. The only perfect things in my life are the imperfections. The chip in my guitar. The double-twisty heart drawn in the card given to me by M, who is like a bomb baby come on get it on. The scuffs on my shoes. They all mean something, they have character and history. To be perfect is to never have been scuffed, to never have learned, to never have gained character. And that is perfectly f*cking boring.

I am the F out of Here. Thanks for coming, get home safe, don't forget to tip your arresting officer.


Take Me Home

It Got Broughten

Yesterday afternoon I got a call from ChiliDog, asking me if I could headline at the illustrious Pegasus Pizza and Comedy Palace. I said I couldn't, as I was taking my dad and his friend to watch the Seattle Mariners get reamed by the Toronto BlueJays. Comedy isn't going anywhere, but there are only so many chances to watch live sports with a man you idolize.

So we go to the game and by the top of the 7th, we realize that a 3-run deficit is too much to overcome for the M's, and we bounce. Turns out, we were right. That team sucks. Oh well. More on why I hate baseball in another blog. So we leave the game and I drop elder statesmen Lott and Masterson off at their car, and decide, "Hey, why not, I'll head to Pegasus and catch a little comedy laugh." As I arrive, one of the all-time greats, Tracy Tuffs, is in the box doing his hilarious thing. The headliner for the night, who shall remain nameless out of respect, was in the house as well. I go up after Tracy and do about 10 minutes, then bring up the header.

After about 7 minutes of hating his own act, hating comedy, and general defeat, the header says "Sorry gang, I'm not into it tonight. The show's over. Sorry. Bye." Drops the mic, and walks off. WALKS OFF STAGE, live mic, moderately live crowd, and leaves. I felt bad for the guy. I've been there. I've wanted to bail so many times. But never on a paying gig. There's money involved, go for it. But he walked, and the mic was hot. So I ask T-Bone Tuffs "Hey, wanna save the show?"

I get on stage, and proceed to do 40 minutes of old stuff, new stuff, just rambling here and there, doing the refined stuff here and there, getting laughs and groans and ad-libbing to keep the crowd happy. I walked off, got paid, and after all was said and done, headlined the Winged Horse Pizzeria and Fun Jungle. Why am I telling anybody any of this? Because of this... Never once did it feel like work. I did what I love to do, got paid, and walked away feeling pretty darn good. I got to hang with my dad, I got to work on some new jokes, and I got some extra scratch for it.

What'd you do? I hope you did at least one thing that was good for your Being today. You deserve it. Unless you are the manager I call PigTit. More on that when I'm not falling asleep on myself.

Hey everyone, thanks for coming out, drive safe, and don't forget to tip your cow.
Take Me Home

Tuesday or Monday or Whatever

So much to write here, but I'll begin later. Let's put it this way: This weekend I did a public show, a private show, I saw love, I saw acceptance, and already this morning, 8 minutes into my workday, I'm seeing an overwhelming anymosity towards the overly cheerful and ignorantly ebullient.
Sometimes I wish the antidepressants weren't prescribed so freely, when the flip side is laughing at EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR OWN MOUTH.

Welcome to my Tuesday. I'm not even awake yet.

Rosie O'Donnell's a woman?

Take Me Home

It's Not Even Midnight

Memorial Day Weekend, are you set up? What are you doing? E-mail me, don't just say it outloud, weirdo. Nah, say it, weird out the people around you need a little reality check.

So what are you going to do? Hike? Drink? Sleep in? Shop? Head to Emerald Downs... oooh! The ponies! Yes, the ponies are back! If this rain would stop we'd see some real running, but dammit, global warming or El Nino or Terry Taylor seem to be causing some kind of climate trauma. It's raining, two days straight now. But here's another thing on my mind.

My friend seems to be seriously depressed, it's in his act, in his blog, it's live. I know he's not going to suicide, yes, it's a verb, but there's a point when you care enough about someone that you should let them know that they matter. I'm going to call my friends and family this weekend and talk for a bit, let them know I think of them, and tell them straight up that a part of them is inside me. Call it love. Call it too much Merlot (I suggest L'Ecole 2000, it's worth the $35). Call it sentimentalism. But call. It's 30 minutes out of your weekend. Then, back to gathering beads.

Y'all take care.
Geoffers

Take Me Home

How's That Working Out For Ya?

I just read The Mastermind's blog about Monday night, and I'll tell ya... I love that guy. So real, so brutal, so depressed. Go read his, and then read the other blogs there, too. See, blogging is this weird, self-gratifying act of writing your thoughts as if anyone would read them... as if anyone truly cares. It's just entertainment. Hell, I'm sharing cyberwads with Recipes, True Mind Masters, and deviance so deviant it would be deviant to link them here. Get one on your own time, it's America, you have options. Just imagine words like "soaked," "drenched," and "spandex." I'm sure you'll find something.

Anyway, Mastermind's blog talked of how he spent some time correcting the actions of a performer, and I was totally with him on the moment to do so. See, Art's been on stage enough to know that, when you're done, you holster the mic, you SET THE STAGE for the next act. It's courtesy, it's professionalism, it's WHAT YOU FRIGGIN' DO. I told Mastermind I thought it was good opener, just jokin', ya know, seein' as how, golly, it's WHAT I FRIGGIN' DO. I don't know if that rubbed him the wrong way, but if it did, see, that's not on me. It wasn't meant to, but if he took it to heart that's on him. It's called Frame Of Reference.

Some people are easily offended. They don't like loud music, loud clothes, fast cars, slow children at play, or dogs too ugly to live. If you tell them they are wearing blue shoes, and they hate blue shoes and insist, dammit, that those slides are PERIWINKLE, thank you, then you offended them... but that ain't your stressball to squeeze. Let 'em lose it. It's their coronary. If you toss someone a ball and they let it hit them, they either A) have no hands, B) have no coordination, or C) don't like balls coming at them. That reminds me of a Youth Group story, but we'll get into that after I perform the miracle of turning rum into water.

So let's imagine scenario A, they have no hands. You can clearly see they have no hands, what with their reluctance to shake hands, high-five, or offer a reach-around. You KNOW they are at a disadvantage, yet you throw it anyway, they take a restricted-flight to the collar bone, and BINGO, you're the a-hole at the office picnic. First of all, stop drinking at office picnics, even if your boss is pounding PBR, even if she's doing said pounding in your back seat where she's been since just after Happy Hour on Friday. Have some class, get a flask. Okay, so you bopped ol' Hooky, and frankly, it's your fault. It's pretty clear that you shouldn't have thrown a ball at a person with no hands. Apologize, then switch to soccer. Hope that Hooky didn't try and kick those fireworks way back when. Good on you.

Option B, they have no coordination. Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't. It's not totally your fault. You meant nothing by the toss, just to get them into the game because they were, after all, complaining that nobody ever tells them when Happy Hour's going down, especially after their conversation with the Boss lady. That lippy schidt's always a hen with a few pops in the bucket. So Wobbles the Intern has a welt (the uncoordinated always bruise easy, thanks to only eating hand foods, nothing with a fork and some iron, it's for their own safety), and the best you can do is apologize for your part in it, and maybe go 'em one better and offer your skills of retrieving balls, which reminds me of a story involving a corsage, a cumberbund (that's gay, in the non-gay-bashing way) and a can of Aquanet, but we'll save that for when you're sober. Gawd, you drink like a Kennedy.

Finally, C), they don't like to have balls thrown at them. Did you know? If so, then you're a prizzick for forcing a ball into their world, which reminds me of a spandex, but I digress. If You did not know that they detest ball-throwing activities and they get upset, hey, you didn't know and it's either their fault for being in the field of play, or it's their duty to get off the friggin' field, BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE FRIGGIN' BALLS GET TOSSED. It's called Empowerment, taking care of one's own feelings, needs, or withdrawals with conscious decision-making. If they are upset that a ball came at them, cripes, think of how people feel when bombs, motorcycles, or ugly cookie-saleskids come at them. You probably didn't know they were anti-catch, and they probably resent you for being the kind of person who goes around tossing balls. Which reminds me of almost every middle manager I've ever met, but this is going on forever.

In summary, if you ever get offended, you have to come to a conclusion: Did they intend to offend you, or are you easily offended? Only you know for sure. The world is full of offensive images, words, and bosses. It's up to each of us to pick our battles, thicken our skin, and fill our flasks. And for crying out loud, watch your balls.


Take Me Home

My Previous Week

I saw "Cabaret" for the first time. The actual live performance, caught it at a little community theater in Olympia. It was surely a community version of the musical, but it came off without a hitch, and these people were literally in the audience performing, which takes WAY more mangoes than plodding around above the orchestra pit. Face your fears. Then have wine.

I had a show in Puyallup at the Liberty Theater. I MC'ed for a couple of old dogs, Gabriel Rutledge and Brad Upton. I realized how close and yet how far I am from where I want to be as a comedian. I think the real issue is dedication, which I've let slide a bit in the past few months. So it's up to me. That's not funny, that's about as New Aged Cheese as I'll go for the day.

Last night at the Comedy Ubergrind it was "nickname" night. If we didn't choose a nickname - I chose "The Asshole" - then we were tagged with one. Most people chose their own. Including Mickey "The Soldier" what's his who-cares. This dimwit had a bravado that perfectly juxtaposed (I said it) his lack of humor. He ate more crap than a dog on a camping trip. Diatribes about sports highlights nobody saw, using "he/she was on crack" as a punchline, imitating "pigeons" (female crack heads) to show off a silly face and physical mannerisms, then after going over-time and starting a bit about how cell phones are big, which shows he doesn't have one. And not a single segue or linear thought. It was totally scattered, and that's speaking ill of people with ADD. And he EARNED every second of silence he got.

The laughs were more about how bad he was, but he got a taste of the entertainment cocktail, and he just couldn't wait until next week. In fact, he was leaving the club and GOT BACK ON STAGE BECAUSE HE HAD TO SAY SOMETHING. He said it was "good bye," but he was trying to work a bit. So here he is, taking time from the other comics who are funny, taking the mic away from the MC, and being a prick, basically. So we all start booing him from the back, with one guy yelling "beat it" and someone, probably me, yelling "SCRAM" or maybe "YOU SUCK." His demeanor showed that he's got no class, no couth, and no courtesy for the rest of the performers, AND he's not funny, so he's really got zero clout. Comedy didn't start when Mickey walked through the door of the comedy club. He actually called one of us "boobirds" a "bigot." He played that card, as if the color of his skin had anything to do with his jokes being unfunny, and him acting like a dick. I know plenty of very unfunny white people, too, so save that schidt for the bus stop.

I'm out for now. I need to do stuff. I'm looking for a new job. Email me at "GeoffLottRules@yahoo.com" if you hear of anyone hiring, mmkay? Muchas gracias.

Take Me Home