Clean Up Your Box

Lots of changes, lots of transition going on in the world.

First Lady Laura Bush is apparently "the funny one" in the relationship. Seeing as how she's married to a glorified gas station manager, who's best friend (Cheney) is a minion of the Dark UnderLord (Carson Daly), it's not too tough. She's got good material/writers, but her presence needs work. She has clout to carry the opener; sheesh, the woman had sex with the President! Then again, Clinton nailed more tail than a taxidermist (ba-dum-bum).
Note to Laura: Although the President is a comedy bullseye (here come the black suits and earpieces), you have more insight than anybody. Sit with Judy Gold for a spell, get a few more open mic sets under your belt, and you'll kill every time. Cripes, you even got the Red states laughing!

Iraq is trying to figure out who does what and when and for how much of our money. Oddly enough they're splitting it between religious sects, their Whigs and Tories dividing the rebuilding efforts. The Red States say "You're Welcome." The Blue States say "Please take Richard Gere." So do the Red States, actually. A long time ago a man older than I wrote something to the effect of:
"A democracy can last only as long as the voting public is unaware of their share of the public coffers. When voters realize they can vote themselves a dip into the public treasury, democracy tumbles, and soon thereafter a Dictatorship comes forth to harshly restore order."
He was writing about an ancient Greek society, btw. Realizing that Greed is the scale-tipping emotional impetus behind many people's actions, he saw that eventually, sharing will bother those who share the most (upper tax brackets). Greed can be wanting more than your fair share, an unrealistic gauge of your fair share, or even miser-ing every little cent so that not even YOU are enjoying your fair share. You can't take it with you, so you may as well load it into an RPG launcher and fire it through a crowd of protestors.

Creatively, another transition period. This entire first 1/3rd of the year has felt like a gathering wave, and people are paddling out to it. Some local comics are finalizing plans to get the F out of Seattle. I wish them all of the luck and opportunity in the world. The plans for each of us are different, so I don't really wind my clock too much about what other people are doing. I have some great opportunities in front of me, creatively, that require my efforts. There is no "lucky break" for me right now, just a matter of walking through open doors. Sometimes, however, open doors lead Out. Hey Dr. Phil, suck the juice out of that one! So the wave is gathering, and some may ride a smaller crest back in. That's cool. I'm challenging myself to ride a bigger one, however. I can't enjoy the little breaks forever.

Last night I made some turkey chili that is clawing out of me in every way possible. My

"Thinking outside the box" assumes that one could think inside of it to begin with. And that's not something I've seen in a while. In the high-stakes world of IT metrics analysis, where my only weapons are cunning, instinct, and spreadsheets, I find myself playing their game. Keep your friends close, but your co-workers closer, especially if they have access to cool pens or good candy. And none of that hard-butterscotch puck BS, I can get that on my own. You get some Hershey's Minis in here, set me aside some Special Dark. I'll be cleaning my box in the meantime.


===

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

I've Had Less Stress, And Less Fun

In the past week, I've had a ton of great things come way. A lot of doors to knock on, many RSVPs to-which I must R, etc. And yes, it is ETC, short for Et Cetera, which is Latin for "And the nasal singer of Chicago." But you already expected that, dincha?

I put an offer on a 2-bed, 1.5-bath condo, a really great value buy. The offer was accepted. Shortly thereafter the ass-tightening began. Not so much about becoming a homeowner, as Real Estate is a feat and an achievement in many circles, unless it is filled with jerks. Or Native Americans who weren't doing anything with it anywho. (eat a humor dog) My housing payment may increase as much as 40%, but I'll be ownin' a great place. I'll be there for a good year, until I actually build my savings up again and have some disposable income.

Though I am a poor Crazy-8's player, I did clean-house at open poker over the weekend. Caught some good hands, got lucky, knew how to play 'em. Even BETTER:
FILMA-A-LICIOUS
There was much filming done for some parody commericals in Semi-Ah-Moo this weekend.

Oh crap, I better get it together and get on with my day. Gotta go sell some sperm, if I can remember where I put it.






Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Retrospectator Sport

Last year was almost a null year for me. The first 9 months of it felt like a total wash.

My dad's diagnosis was the first time I'd really cried in years. I spread my time amongst pointless endeavors. I didn't do as much comedy as I could have. I sat back when I should have sprung forward. And I have some regrets.

People who say they live with "no regrets" are usually giant a-pipes, or very boring. I have a conscience, especially when it comes to doing things that primarily screw ME over. I feel like a pretty young 31 year-old at times. But this is where I am. I'm working on this whole "progress" concept at times, realizing that, in order to do it, I can't get caught up in staring at the passing window shoppers and coffee huts. In that sense, when I feel a slow-down in the mix, I find that I get more than a little chafed.

It's the same with road rage, long lines, and being the 4th of 5 dogs leading the sled. The view never changes, I didn't ask for this, but what can I do to make it better? Well, for one, I can make it better for one other dog, at least, by keeping my business to myself, even if they have a decent view of my undercarriage. I hate to stagnate. It feels like death to me. That's one reason my job is almost unbearable. (the other reason is commonly known as "co-workers") There's no opportunity for advancement here at the big OJ Splatterberg's, my raise wouldn't cover the cost of the network space that the e-mail announcing it was sent through, and yet the dog in front of me finds it necessary to slow down the whole sled by wanting to talk about where we're going.

Turns out, it's Nowhere. I'm gnawing at my harness as we speak.

And I have found that the more I shake things up, the settling of those things is usually to my benefit. Unless it's pool, I suck at pool.

The last 3 months of last year were much better for me. I felt progression, I felt growth, I felt Mexico in my veins. Or was it dysentery? I have much more to accomplish before I'll be satisfied, and anything standing in the way of that pursuit, whatever category of Noun it may be, will meet the same fate as most of my toilet paper: It will thrown into the trees of my high school prinicipal's retirement cottage.

This place has more inside jokes than a Gyno's office. I'm leaving.
=================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Another Reason To Hate The Media

It's not even our media, but here's a great example of how the media can really F over a great lot of us.

It's called "Happy Slapping" and it's likely not very popular here in America. Kids/Teens attacking other people and filming it with their mobile phones. Evidence of an assault, brilliant.

So do what I do. When you see a teen or three, get pre-emptive and drive a boot heel into their kneecap. When they drop, and they will, start raining blows to their head and yell "Back to school, Tommy! BACK TO SCHOOL!!!" And then blame the media.

They have to be held accountable for something, right?


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Conference Cold-Call

I have been applying for jobs recently, doing the best I can to network in my own weird avenues. My networking skills are nearly null because I have a problem of asking for help. It's a man thing, it's a wiring deal in my head where asking for help equates to admitting weakness and defeat. Like saying "Hey, I can find a job where I don't know anyone on my own! I don't need you! (crying) I don't need this hat, or this nametag! (really crying, some snot) I don't even like being a Parking Enforcement Officer!" I guess I don't want to think that I can't do it all on my own. It's much easier with some help, but I don't always ask because I wonder if my asking will be seen as giving up and just hoping on the charity of others.

But I've been doing it more lately. I've been asking people "Hey, I hate to bother you, but I did lend you $50. Can you correlate the formulas on this spreadsheet? Wake up. Can you... wake up." By asking people to help, you may find a fresh perspective, a compatriot, or at the very least and perhaps most valuable, and accomplice. And a few great people have stepped forward to lend a hand, a website, a phone number, and at one point, this advice: "You got something right here, go like this" (flicking nose)

Another recent favorite activity of mine? Telling people "No." As in "I reviewed and studied your request. No. It can't be done. Let me rephrase. It CAN be done. It will cost another $8,000 a year, plus a new laptop, three weeks of DBA training, and... wake up..." Telling people "no" as a means of righteous defense has been exhilirating. When I really need to, I tell someone "no." Why drag out the pain for everyone involved when you can shut it down early? The dragging out is only fun when you're not that into the person you're dating and they're being a putz.

And thusly, I've been slowly building a reputation amongst my new team. The reputation, however, varies. To my co-workers I am "assertive and staunch." To the people who got promoted above me without my input, I am "capable, but sometimes difficult." Being difficult with corporate management means that you're not wagging your tail and saying "Okay, I'll do it!" Bureaucracy has its place. It is a byproduct of one person favors going unpaid for too long. Next thing you know, your request for a report about a team that dropped the ball takes 5 days instead of 30 minutes, because your previous request included the words "And NOW, got it?"

For a long time, the "bosses" around here have had meetings to talk about meetings they should be talking about. When the meeting is over, they call us into meetings to discuss what meetings they've had, and what they discussed. Next, a discussion of what type of meetings would be most helpful to people. My usual response is "fewer, and if that's not possible, none." Oh my, the classics are classic for a reason!

The world has never been conquered in meetings, except for one between Dan 'Larry The Cable Guy' Whitney and some sort of Minion or possibly Underlord. Meetings disrupt the flow. I go with that flow, but the more meetings I have, the more I need in order to figure out what in the hell that last e-mail was referring to. With a subject line of "Meeting Tuesday: For Words The California Blue," I'm bright, but I can't see through "illiterate." Is this a Mars Volta EP? I guess we'll talk it over.

I applied for a position today with a company I've always admired, and they asked for my website address. I included it with my info, knowing full well that a fair amount of my input has referred to a great dislike of my "co-workers," as they are referred to in my handbook of diversities in which to respect. I respect race, creed, color, national origin, and personality. Your sexuality is your own business. Walking around the office while jokingly and loudly singing, I wish were kidding, "The Macarena," well that is MY business. That same person just blurted "No soup for you" and set to laughin', oh just a'LAFFIN'!

So as I network my way into a career where I can grow and flourish and be far away from Sandie and her lack of tact, make-up, and an "indoor voice," I ask that I, too, be respected. I cannot and will not hide from my writing here. I won't censor it or retract it, because it's how I'm feeling when I write it that shows through like Rhandira's software vendor t-shirt under his off-white Oxford button-down, and those kick-ass white socks with almost ankle-reaching slacks. This outlet, there are far fewer people who need to ask me "what I'm thinking" via "meeting." And my writing is a reflection of my mood while working for a company that doesn't need me.

My neighbor just sneezed... with a mouthful of yogurt.

On a more personal note, yesterday felt like a day of clarity. I have been funked for a while, like 2 months, undermotivated, underenthused, under there. Under where? Gotcha!
Calm down, seriously... Something turned on or off yesterday. I feel like a good thing is a-brewin' here. More to come as news and financial windfall warrant.

=================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Something To Feel This Way Or That About

The Seattle School District was holding hearings on the possible closings of 10... again, TEN... Seattle Schools due to lack of funding. This is the first year that students are required to pass a standardized test in order to graduate. College admission standards are rising.

And there will be outcries of prejudice, racism, and hypoglycemia as people will be held accountable for their work on all fronts. Who is to blame for a student's poor grades? Bad teaching or bad pupils? Environment or societal messages? Funding?

Cripes, I don't know. I come from a time when we didn't worry about that because we were drunk.

The State Senate worked all weekend to pass an $8.5 billion tax package which includes a 9.5... again, NINE-AND-A-HALF-CENT... gas tax. But that's not the whole story.

The money raised is being spread out over the state in order to fix a number of really high, free, by, and skyways. Potholes, cracks, stoplights, and oh yeah, teetering, shifting Viaducts running above the ferry terminals along the watery grave-edge of downtown.
It will get done... at some point. Either people will stop driving their kids to schools that won't be open, or home school them.

"Meanwhile, the marquee projects — the Alaskan Way Viaduct and Highway 520 floating bridge — receive only partial funding. They won't get started unless urban voters pass a regional transportation package to cover the rest."

The senate also passed a Child Neglect Bill, ironically. It was the result of the disturbing, tragic case of the two little boys who starved to death last year because the state workers didn't do their job and sterilize their mother. She was a raging alcoholic who was reaping state benefits, returning food to stores in exchange for cash, which was then spent on beer. Can you imagine that? Your money going for someone else's beer? Angry yet?
And a lot of people will say "The government should not be getting involved with how we raise children!" To which I say "first off, don't have kids. Second, eat a pile if you think parents shouldn't be held responsible for the welfare of children, and if they can't, that somebody should make sure the kid's basic needs are met. Finally, that transportation bill's pretty huge, so we'll need some good ol' child laboring to get it all done."

So anyway, Politics is all about the Big Announcement. It has very little to do with people. But people can't govern themselves (See: sporting events, girls going wild, prom) so somebody has to do it. It can either be a faceless group of people representing your "Best interests" when it starts but faltering to their own avenues... or you can bypass your parents and hope the government helps out.

We.
Are.
Screwed.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Let's Kick It Off Right

I've been working from home for the better part of past 4 weeks. Stress is much lower, although dealing with whom and what I deal with carries it's own causes for a ten-count. Sunday night, and I'm getting ready to start downshifting so I can, sigh, work tomorrow. I have a lot to do. And I have zero interest in doing any of it. I am my own leader, so I can get plenty of work done on my own. OH WAIT, no I can't, becuase I have too much horsecrap through which to sift. Leadership is wearing a LOT of cologne and makeup, which is pointless when they are THAT far in the dark. Yeah, I can smell 'em coming, but it doesn't mean they brought a flashlight.

fffrrrrrrrrrrrp
'scuse me

Shitchya not, one day I received 9 e-mails prior to 10am regarding a subject I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH, other than knowing of it. Imagine you ate cheese once. It agreed with you. Somebody had cheese out at a party, and you were seen eating from it. That was, say, 4 years ago. Now imagine getting 9 voicemails within 2 hours where somebody in another state that an Org Chart has deemed your "manager." The subject of those voicemails? Your manager is interested in making cheese. You were seen eating cheese four years ago. Therefore you must know about the process that resulted in your bringing lip-side a few cubes of smokey cheddar, and a bloop of gorgonzola-cranberry-walnut log to your crostini. Right?

So now, do you say that you could find out enough about cheese making to start your own business in your kitchen, risking further involvement in glorifying some other cheeseball... OR, do you just chuck a summer sausage (Summer: THE Sausage Season. paid for by Weird Sausage Lovers of Multnomah County) in their direction, pack your boxes, and start to separatin' curds & whey?

I'd rather be helping others, moving forward, giving back, like Ty Pennington sans Type-A personality and those "tendencies." But, shit yes, I'm bringing a toolbelt, because toolbelts are hot. Other things hot include good grout work, re-wiring your kitchen, and the inner surfaces of Maya Angelou's thighs. Sssssssssssssssssssssssssizzlin'!

I feel like I'm being taken-from. I am not stolen-from, as I am complicit in this transaction of effort and, sigh, money. I'm gathering the strength to throw double birds and say "NO SEVERANCE, NO PEACE." E-mailing the floor about donuts in the breakroom, then leaving two empty boxes from a local bakery and one-half a maple bar... whoa, it moved a little there. I would then sit there and edit old essays of mine, while waiting for someone's inner Carnie Wilson to send them gaping maw-long into that last fraction of a pastry. Then I'd take a picture, send it around with the caption "This person ate the last donut on [insert date of fun here]. Forever Piggy." Then I'd start packing my boxes, and go. The only thing it would do is cause a large, 4-week inconvenience to greater than 10 people, each making more than $100K. Then I may go for a long walk, and hope my erection would subside before I get to the next crosswalk. Think of it... I could leave behind those I non-like, and meet all new people to judge! What a fabulous time in which we live.

Sounds worth it to me. Fist me sleeping, how many times can I write about wanting to quit? It's getting as bad as telling everyone what's wrong with them.
If anybody needs a moderately well-read, enthusiastic, analytical mind to work for them, drop me a Message. It's a staring contest, and I'm pretty sure my adversary doesn't have the proper reptilian brain functions to remember to blink, or they've simply fallen asleep at the keyboard with their finger on the "Annoy" key. It's right but the FU2 key.
==========================

My dear Aunt Judy, sister of my dad Gerry, is in town from Georgia. She told me that she has quite a few of her friends reading this, and for the promotion and new readership, I am very grateful.
If anything here offends you, or is rather "blue," feel free to e-mail me about it. If you need MORE blue material or MORE offensive stuff, oh wow, wait until Wednesday for my story with "Everything!" Paranoia, technology, physical tics, and everyone's favorite... costume SWASTIKAS!

===========================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Maxed, Stacked, and Packed

Hey slummer, check my nizzles.

Here's the deal. It's like 2008 and I'm not in the best of states while giving the blog update while feeling saturated with differing kinds of alcolates. Last night I was humbled by the simplified brilliance that is David Sedaris at the Spokane "Get Lit" festival, as he read new works such as fables, home stories, and a few diary entries. Crash McNally nutted up and acksed a que'tion in my stead regarding blogs, that'll be for another time. Let's just say when a technophobe/technoadversary such as Mr. Sedaris makes known such a stance, it can make for a fun conversation from Row F of the Orchestra Pit. Right on, Keelo.

She's sneezing like it's her 'tard power right NOW, and NOW.... and NOW, btw.
Grodes.

Satellite café, eat me.

Anywho, I am feenin' for tha A-Bomb like crazy right now, can't wait to get back to Seattle. Spokane should change their slogan to "Hey, there's plenty of room."

Long story short, I'm getting more college work thanks to an uppercut of a set at The Brickwall tonight.. or like 6 hours ago.
Oddly enough, the Brickwall Comedy Club in Spokane is now located in the basementé of... for those of you enthralled with last week's entries... The Budget Inn.

Thee, I shit not-eth.

Fist me running, The NFL Draft is like 5.5 hours away, and Killorn's gonna vlurp on the keyboard in the business center of a hotel that charges $150 a night just to pee indoors. Allergic like a mofo.

Bloggin' with Urkel,
Geoffers


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

To Mixed Reviews

Estacada, OR - ViewPointe Bar & Grill

The "Grill" in the name is a formality. It's a bar. A smokey, weird one, where every third Saturday is the town re-enactment of "The Accused" and no women are allowed, if'n you get my drift. I had to drive a winding, wet road through the middle of nowhere and what I hope was a Civil War re-enactment. As you can tell, Estacada isn't quite that progressive. I did come up with new slogans for them, however:
Estacada: Where The Men Are Men And The Women Are Bruised
and
Estacada: How Things Would Be If The South Had Won

Perhaps the residents who were at the bar were good people. Who knows? They didn't give me a chance to let it ride. People, for the most part, are middle-ground, and act with kindness to their fellow humans when called for, as long as it's not some comic trying to build an act who's interrupting a chicken-fried steak-fried chicken-steak & Ketchup/Mayo-gravy on fries! Hoo-weee. braaaaaaaaaaaaaap

There were a fair number of people in the venue when I arrived. The next guy to come in announced his presence after noticing a family of his friends (Three couples, including a mother & daughter), by shouting "Well HO-LEE SHEE-IT!" Indeed, fellow in the "I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am" T-shirt!

I then stood on a weird pulpit thing that may have been a stage at one time, when human cargo was still a viable form of currency. Jesus Fish jokes, flat. Jokes about big vaginas... siiiiigh... fantastic. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.

I got out with my life, 7 laughs in 30 minutes, and got to watch Dwight Slade puppeteer the room. He could have killed for 45, but Dwight entertained himself much of the time. Masterful, professional, and hysterical.


Oregon City - Wichita Bar & Good Times, Saturday Night

After a hapless performance I was ready to uncork the humorist's equivalent of a night-cover airstrike. Just as I powered up and got into the air I took some FLAK from the front row. Two pipes, muzzle flash suppressed by Jack Daniels to my 2 o'clock, 11 o'clock dampened by an Absolut fog. I hadn't even cleared the base and things were getting soggy. Nothing to do but fire back and show them how I got these stripes.

Alright, enough cheese. These two monkies were in sad shape. The other 20 hours of their Saturday, these two people could be the nicest, sweetest kids to ever clock a shift at HotDog-On-A-Stick and knock back a Jumbo Beefaroni before heading to the Wichita. And they may be able to drink like Kennedys any other night of the weekend. But last Saturday night they were belligerent. I got two sentences out before they started asking questions and mentioning dildos and fingerless gloves (?!?!).

The girl cooled it after a return volley. The guy had no clue. I asked his name and he said "F*ckface." I figured it was Cherokee or some-such, and showed respect. Cableknit turtleneck, black cargo pants, fingerless gloves, shaved head, you get the picture. He was a Mike's Hard JuiceBox away from barfing near the pooltable, possibly into a cargo pocket or a woman with "-lene" at the end of her name.

Anyway, that set went much better, I worked in a couple of callbacks and did what I could to learn & survive. It's not a place to build the kind of act I want to build, where there would be some required reading to get the whole thing, but no sweat, overall. I had fun and got three new bits out of the shows.

And Portland's new slogans should be:
Portland: Hope You Like Books!
Portland: What The F Else Are You Gonna Do?
Portland: We Dare You To Try And Get Out.
Portland: Yeah, We Know... Sorry.

Alright, that's enough of that.
==============
And this was a teaser for a story on KING-5 news at 11...
"A story of amazing survival, listen to why doctors say this 10 year-old girl... should be dead!"
Whomever wrote that, okay'ed it for broadcast, and said it should have a heel dropped on their windpipe. The girl's 10 years old, and her heartwarming story on TV is prefaced with the doctor's giving an under-over in the deadpool.
Dennis Bounds, grow a scrote and say "No" now and again.
And don't forget to check out Seattle's Favorite Klepto, the Decrepit Canary Skeleton!
And why not Joel McHale, all gussied up now on E!'s "The Soup!"

The Kings Of Leon... please, can you stop loving yourselves for a second? Everything that's wrong with "new rock" begins and ends in the ironic mustache of that one Followill brother.


If ya need me, I'll be entering the bar shortly. Shades on my head, jacket over the shoulder, Dingo boots on, nose ring glistening, and a totally retro outfit workin'... Hells yeah.
=======================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Made It... barely...

At this time, the conclave has begun, and will begin discussing where I should have lunch. Come on, Sean John Quizno's.

Killorn, seriously... did you post somebody else's satirical take on Kevin Federline's drama? You'll have to re-take the WASL now. Killorn is better than that, isn't she, Class?
======
I usually use Mozilla FireFox, but it's got a glitch when I throw a hyperlink in this blog. And, shitting thee not-eth, I had IE open for exactly 2 minutes before the first pop-up. I don't want Smileys, I don't want a fish screensaver, my loan isn't coming through, University of Lower Cleveland Terwilliger Institute for Financial Harship can wipe their collective asses with the degree I won't be getting from them. Cripes, we can't stop a dancing chicken flash-animation from popping up, no fuggin' wonder Microsoft has to send out security patches all the time.

Microsoft isn't a monopoly. They engineer poorly so that other companies can make money. They all shook hands on in it over a sixer of Thomas Kemper Orange Sody-pop!

Go get FireFox.
======
Oh wait, now I get it.
"Meet the FOCKERS!." That's... whew... good one.
======
This is my first day back in the office after 3 weeks of working from home. Not much has changed. NoMakeup Sandie is still LA-HAT-HAFFING down the hall, a self-important Project Manager has called another meeting, the network is really slow, and people I report to are total maroons.

For the 5th time just now I told a woman that the January report she has previously asked me FOUR times for is not in existence. Ask again, it's not going to magically appear like some fantasmical father figure she missed at every Christmas.

I am leaving shortly to work from home again. Believe this: my laptop is running slower here than on DSL. Rad.
======
and now, Comedy Weekend Review!!!
~Budget Inn Motel Room: Oregon City, OR~
First up, the lobby. There was an overpowering melange of odors. Antiseptic cleanser, but not Lysol, more like when your dog has a tube hanging out and you can smell the healing process dancing the Tango with the iodine and scabs. Thank God they were burning incense, though. I would hate to take in ANY oxygen while gagging.

Next up, my room. Oh wow. I've stayed in some pretty nice places. This one was gross. The Zagat rating was 2 buttholes. On the way to my room, I passed Room 211, which had the window open and some desktop speakers on the windowsill. Blasting forth were the notes of Three Dog Cream, or FogShat or that 70's-era Freedom Rock crap. Also blasting forth was the singing of the inhabitant, who was "totally feeling it, man." He said that to another "dude" while rocking back a Hurricane tall-boy about an hour later.

I asked for a smoking room, and lucky me, they had one. The smoke kind of dampened the odor of despair, which smells a lot like Ranch Dressing, gas station Drakkar, and Jack Osbourne. My carpet was dark-ish. It could have been dark red, brown, gray, or green, I couldn't really tell. Looking down caused me to lose my balance. My room had two queen beds, HBO, and pubic lice. Room service was a bedpan and a needle exchange bucket. There were cigarette burns on the ledge of the tub, which was 18 inches from the toilet. Get the picture? People were smokin'... and crappin'. At least the meth cooks of previous stays were into time-management. Top it off with hot & cold running schizophrenia, and ya got yerself room 215.

The guy at the front desk had this request of me: "(My) room has two queen-size beds but please kindly use only one." I slept in my car. I only really needed a place to crap and smoke. Which ended up happening in the parking lot. Worry not, I was far from the first to break the barrier for that combo. Maybe I stepped over a burrito or a sock, I don't know, I don't like to get involved. There were cigarette burns on my bumper, so I had to keep my eyes peeled.

ESTACADA,OR: "What Would Have Happened If the South Had Won The Civil War."
Owen: No, I didn't make it to the Safari Club, but it was referenced numerous times as being the most ridiculous thing in the city.

I have to do some actual work now, so I'll be back in a bit.

More to come:
Estacada & Oregon City comedy reviews
New slogans for Portland
Are People Actually, Despite Much Empirical Evidence, Good?
What It Smells Like In Here

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Road Trippin'

Hey, how's it going?

Cool.

First off, to my friends who posted in the previous blog about not liking jazz, it's okay that you're not into it. So far, out of a million records that Killorn has posted as being the "best CD to makeout on the toilet while listening to over PBRs," the only one I liked was Coheed & Cambria. That rocked. Space rock for those who can't shake Motley Crue. Brousseau on the other hand, well he got me into Millencollin and Alkaline Trio, so he's good with me. Killorn likes a lot of music, as long as it's big. She's got only the one ear, ya know. The other's packed with boogs and most of a beer.
Jazz is about not getting in the way of the music, like good comedy: Don't let your mouth get in the way of the funny, let it flow.
Classical, well, I can't convince you one way or the other. Just imagine writing music for 15 instruments while subsisting on nothing but snuff, unleavened bread, and syphillis. Is it "The Firebird" or "Sticky Fingers?" I DON'T KNOW! P. Greyy, chime in, please.
It's not like I was giving props to those fruits from the Baroque. Chill.

I went to the doctor yesterday for some tests, and things are looking okay. My doctor was a little concerned, however. I've been having some trailing spots in my vision, like I look to the left, mine eyes affix to a spot, and a split-second later a ghost-image crosses my vision. It's dark gray, and concerns me a little, because it's chasing a PacMan-image with no magic pill to eat! So easy! No, really, my doctor is wondering what's up, so I have to go back in and get some tests done today. Then I have to hight-tail it outta town. I'll tell you more about that another time.

I'm looking forward to this weekend. Last weekend was amazing. My girlfriend and I took a trip over to Langley on Whidbey Island, stayed at The Inn, which was kickass, and just chilled out. It gave me perspective, again. When on the road doing comedy, at this level, one must stay in smaller places like the Budget Inn, or Crammit Inn, or the EyeHerpes Inn Your Eyes Inn. So when I have hit a couple of those places, I can fully appreciate the luxury of a mini-bar (best $2.50 can of Diet Coke I ever did have), a giant shower with no door, and watching gray whales play in the Sound while lounging in the jacuzzi tub, with only the bottom-half of the bottle of wine to go.

This weekend I'll be comedying in Estacada, OR and Oregon City, OR (slogan: "Come Enjoy Our Creativity!") with the phenomenal Dwight Slade. It's my first time working with Slade, who is as good a comic as is out there. Plus I get to see my friend Russ (slogan: "Seriously man, crack a window."), and Tracy Tuffs (slogan: "Mmhmm. YEAH YEAH YEAH YEEEAAAH!") at Harvey's Comedy Cloob. I'm looking forward to doing some new material and revisiting some old bits I have not done in a long time. I'll be audio taping, and will post some clips in the next week or so. New bits: Steroids For Oil, Where Are The Heroes?, and America: The Greatest Idea In The World.

So this wasn't very entertaining, but I have to go get an oil-change, and call in sick to work, cough-cough. My boss' are - get this - "passionate about providing (root cause analysis) for the director level and up." You just heard the sound of my ass not caring.

Have a fun sandwich and wash it down with a GetSomeActionSmoothie.

Laters,
LOTT

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Wed Nes Day

AIn't got much time nor mind for blogging. So here are some random thoughts.

My new addiction is "Band Of Brothers." I found this the other night while watching The History Channel. Actually, I was F'ing around and hoping to find something that didn't retard my thought patterns. This actually was inspiring. Adrenaline rush, galvanizing scenes, like "Saving Private Ryan" with a backstory.

I thought of the phrase "Bi-furious" the other week and it makes me laugh every time it comes to mind. Instead of wondering open-mindedly about a dalliance, perhaps it reflects a person's frustration with not having the option.

I'm going to have to give it up to Comcast cable for their late night programming run. Spread out over Cartoon Network, the History Channel, and TNT, I could very well be F'ed for sleep for a while. IT starts at 10pm with Band of Brothers. That's one for 2 hours. 12am kicks off AquaTeen Hunger Force (thankfully they've been repeats and I have the first 3 seasons on DVD. Next up is "Mail Call" with R. Lee Ermey, recounting the advancements of military weaponry (note: America is fuggin' LOADED with sweet firearms). Then, at 1pm we've got a hotshot of "The X-Files" on TNT. That's unhealthy.

The Governor of Wisconsin has rejected a bill that would allow the hunting of feral cats. This proves that government works, and that when you want something done, it's best done quickly, quietly, and with a submachine gun or flame-thrower from the window of a moving car. Me-ouch.

Even with all the empirical evidence stating the negative, men are still wearing pony tails, Birkenstocks, and products containing "Body Spray" in the name. Thus proving that artsy, outdoorsy guys enjoy a good roofie/fondle combo as much as their pot dealer.

No Blood For Oil! Not for trade, not as a substitute in my Vinaigrette. Keep your laws off my body! And into my car! SMILEY

In waiting for the Rapture, I have been run-over by a meth addict on a Harley, shot with a BB-gun, shot with a paintball gun, and endured 6 years and 6 months of no upward mobility in my current place of employment. There has to be a Heaven. If this is it, I am going to be really pissed, and even more pissed for not acting upon it.

Rap music is the ButtRock of the New Millenium. Repetitive themes, look-alikes, sound-alikes. Dr. Dre is the GodFather of good hip-hop. The Chronic is the Old Testament. Anything by Common or Talib Kweli is damn near like listening to a Message. It's not Rap. It's much more. For the most part, I don't listen to rap. I'm getting more into Classical Music and Jazz. That's some stunning stuff when you think of it. Arranging music for 17 instruments to be played in unison for hours on-end? And then Jazz, opening your mind and flowing through it. There's something to be learned from the soul of music that Dr. Phil will eventually put a flavor to and sell as a breakfast drink.

Dr. Phil is a walking a-pipe.

When I see somebody who is particular about having things a specifc and certain way or their very existence will collapse in on itself before lunch... I can't help but sneeze on their door handle or leave one little green "~" on a whiteboard after erasing it.

I am hoping the misguided angst in the Seattle Comedy Scene is over. In an art form where the word "hack" is thrown around like cigarette smoke at an open mic, nothing is more Hack than bitching about the act of some guy who has no affect on your career.

But it can be fun, so... ya do what ya do.

Well, it's time again for ATHF. Laters.
=========================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Neighbor in Building E,

No, no, you go back to sleep. That is, if you ever startled awake at the sound of your car alarm.

Ever.

It sounds like a good one. It's one of those fancy 6-sounders, with the full spectrum of schizophrenia-inducing alarms. The "WOOP," the "EEE-AAAH," the siren, the "AYNK, AYNK," and then, my favorite, the "Sounds like a brick through the passenger's window." That was my customization.

I know you are protecting your investment in the 1995-9 BMW M3. As well you should. Apparently this is the kind of apartment complex where a car must be alarmed so that you know when somebody drives near it or happens to lean too far over their balcony railing to find out what in holy Iowa is making so much noise. Good thing you've got it tuned to go off at the slightest rumble. Some day we can use it to detect a forthcoming earthquake... or even a fart!

How is it that your alarm wakes me up, yet rocks you to slumber as though cradled moistly in your mother's gin-swirling womb? Now I know which car is surely unattended-to. Never once have I seen you rocket from the bedroom, which I can only imagine holds the finest black, shiny dresser with gold hardware that can be purchased with weed money by a now-imprisoned older brother, and like, major stacks of Maxim.

Many times in my life, I drop into slumber with an unanswered question. If the solution has not appeared in my dreams, I know I must go forth and find that answer on my own. And from that question sprung forth a mighty answer, which came to me not in a dream, but as I squatted on the hood of your car, Kenmore Gazette in hand. Yes, your car will indeed register a deuce dropped from greater than 24-inches.

My, that's some fine machinery.

========

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

That's Friggin' Ludacris, Word?

Yesterday I accidentally left the TV on MTV for .3 seconds and a Ludacris video came on. It was #1 in some sort of countdown, likely the "Now That's What White Kids Are Listening To!" top-10. Ludacris, for those who are lucky enough to not know, is a rapper, an "MC" for those in tha know of the lingo. More on Ludacris when he writes his own blog.

As we know, rappers sing songs of stealing and jackin' and various crimin' and rhymin', when they're not layin' down lyrics of candyshopping, drugs, cars, platinum, and whatever the cheese "crunk" is. It sounds like a huge moneymaker to me. Put the word "CRUNK" on any kind of jersey, pair it with a backwards baseball cap, and y'all're ready to walk the meanest food court in the mizzall.

So while I embrace my decidedly uncrunkalicious demeanor for something for more sardonic yet lovingly honest, I hear the music from the catch-phrase heavy late-90's phenomenon "Austing Powers." Just a few strains, the "Doot-deet-deet-doot-doot," the horns/organ combo that was all over every local news magazine show in 1999 whenever they dressed in '60s-mod gear to hip up a story about a local kid who had a Biblical case of the trots. I didn't even turn around to see the screen... then I heard Ludacris start-to-rappin'.

Not only has this "artist" run out of colors on his pallette, he's started chipping off of other artist's work from 6+ years ago. In stand-up, we call that "needing to update your references." Andthe guy is a multi-millionaire. To that I say, Great Job, Luda. I'm ready to make that kind of money, too. I'm open to the idea of creating for wealth by creating, especially if I don't have to work that hard at it. I would like to get her done.
Hey.... I think I'm on to something here...

Y'ever think that Religion is actually a fence, and not a conduit, between the human spirit and God, the Creative Energy of the Universe? As if it started as a way to connect, but became, instead, a way to create wealth for a few under the guise of poverty and celibacy? I guess it's all in what you believe, how you practice, your ability to deny guilt, and loving the dichotomous nature of your perfect spiritual being existing within a human lifeform.

Thank you, I'll be here all week, enjoy the airline food.

Be good to yourselves and your elves.

=============
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Nostrildammit: Futuristic Forecaster, Egotist

Yes, I Love Technology
Television will continue to gain popularity as it is beamed to mobile communication devices. Families will gather around their hand-helds at church.

MCDs will be MP3 players, television sets, internet browsers, phones, typing terminals, blood alcohol sensors, vibrators, voting booths, ATM cards, stun-guns, RayBans, bear-spray guns, and/or Balance Bars, Honey Peanut flavor.

Downloading music will be "how it's done." The CD, record store, and shit pop-punk bands will become obsolete. Artist's will release new songs 3 at a time every 6 months for a fee of $5 to $10. People will plug their MCDs into their computers, download a song directly from an artist's website, and the fee will be sent over from the MCD via password protected bank or credit card account information. ***Shitty bands will not sell any songs because people under 18 years of age will not be allowed to make purchases via their MCDs.

Geoff Lott will fart.

The sad passing of Mitch Hedberg will cause a resurgence in the popularity of stand-up comedy. More people with less talent will be signing up at open mics. Club owners, waitstaff, bartenders, cooks and janitors will each make more on any given night than comics. Some comics will continue developing their acts into finely-tuned, perfectly crafted one-man acts that, while lacking insight and humor, will be like watching a play. Other comics will continue honing their act and get funnier. Nobody will be on TV.

The only thing on TV will be the News and replays of the videotape of Carson Daly being elected Pope, then being Punk'd by Ashton, then Ashton getting shot by Cardinals in the Vatican.

Firefighters will get less and less action as robots fight fires. The men who fought fires will become either pro wrestlers or go back to bouncing.

I'll run out of things to type abo...

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Bleach Your Ass, Soul.

Last night I watched an episode of MTV's "I Want a Famous Face." It's a new program about celebrity worship to the Nth-degree, where an idiot has surgery to resemble a celebrity some drunken, saggy-assed banker once told them they kind of looked like in order to see their soon-to-be-bleached butthole. Yes, people are doing this now as a matter of vanity. I know mine belies my rosey complexion. It's always embarrassed me around the Turkish steam bath.

In last night's "I Want a Better Life/Famous Face" the subject of the fawk-u-mentary was a ho-tard in New Jersey or somewhere in the NorthEast. Her name is unimportant, but it was Jenee, and probably still is. She was obsessed with looking like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, an actress whose parents couldn't figure out what to call her; "our daughter the topless model" or "our daughter the stripper." So they named her one of each. Anyhole, TAT is, by my own caveman brain, a good-looking woman. The chick who wanted to look like her was last-call decent.

Sadly, Jenee was born with a major birth defect, missing most of her self-esteem and personality. Neediness and anger issues with her dad had grown instead. And somewhere along the line, when the lights were low and her blue contacts were in place, and she had mascara'ed the mole onto her cheek, and somebody glanced at her quickly, she was told she looked like Tiffani Deborah-Gibson. From that party behind the Gas & Grumps forward, Jenee decided that was good enough and dedicated herself to trying to continue looking like Tiffani-Amber Waves.

Jenee fought with her boyfriend who she asked if there would be a problem if she sent her "after" pictures to Playboy, and what if she got into Playboy and moved to Los Angeles, would he move with her, because he wasn't doing nothing there anyway?!?! She was harshly annoying, but she was right. At one point he was interviewed while playing XBox and wearing his headset to talk with other players, while she sat on the other end of the bed (it's in the bedroom!?) going glassy-eyed over ending up in People magazine, hanging off of Luke Perry's hard-on like a trout on opening day of fishing season. Jenee wanted a "better life" than the one she had. She was a hairstylist in her mom's salon. Which means she took classes into the hundreds of hours to become a stylist, she didn't fall into it backwards. Her "better life" likely consisted of getting roofied more often and maybe someday waking up in bed that didn't have Star Wars sheets. Her famous face would get her there!

But Jenee didn't get a famous face. Jenee, instead, dropped $13,000 to get new tits, and have about 9 liters of fat sucked out of her midsection and thighs. If she really wanted to look like Marcia-Marcia Marcia, she would have needed a nose job to put a button on that horn of hers. Nope, tits and ribs. They sucked out fat like they were detailing her Acura. Afterwards she couldn't sit down to pee. Her boobs were obviously fake. And she wasn't happy, not with the size of her stomach, nor with having to pay a cover at some crappy Jersey shore nightclub.

The pics at the MTV link above were after Jenee had sat in a make-up artist's chair for an hour. An artist. A PAINTER made her look a lot like TAT, and the resulting pics were supposed to go to Playboy. They didn't. Jenee balked on her dream of showing her TwAT to millions of men. She'll have to settle for showing it to guys who say they are firemen, one at a time.

Your body and your psyche are in direct relationship to each other. Bodybuilders can't get big enough, in their minds. Anorexia causes people to see themselves as fat, still, FAT! But if you work on each of them, your self-esteem and your physical self, you'll find they meet in the middle, and just maybe you'll love yourself to not care what people think of the color your butthole. And isn't that the dream all parents have for their children?



Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Uh...

I'm not sure, but there was a pause in the conference call I am on, and I think it's because of something I just said.

A number of "managers" are debating among each other whether or not to re-work 5 hours worth of data for a spreadsheet so they can filter it, so they can read it more easily. This means that they want to go BACK to the format I was using a month ago when they dropped a knee into the throat of that soldier. 10 hours of work, now going into another 5 hours of work, so a spreadsheet can be looked at for about 2 minutes if it's perfect. And no, they won't be doing any of the work.

The words "redundant horseshit" came to mind, and may have come out of my mouth, thus causing the pause. I can't really remember if they came out or not. I'm only sorry I wasn't face to face with them so that I could repeat myself.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Perspective, Revisited

As I mature, wizen, and/or grow some emotional callouses I am finding the importance of Perspective. The P-word, the juxtaposition to your situation, good or bad, from which you can see things more clearly. It is the lesson in action. I try to not get stuck reading the screenplay when I can clearly see that my next line is:

"Hey, how's it going? I'm here to, uh...

(adjusts toolbelt) Check your pipes."

I value perspective now that I'm older. I used to think that something trying would go down and I'd wallow in it with a "Why me? Tell me great Lormok, Wisest of All FrogWizards!!!" Yeah, I have my traditional spirituality, and that which demands sacrifice. Perspective. But things happen against the grain and it can throw the proverbial trick-knee into your day.

Look, shit's gonna happen and it's going to piss you off. My dad's illness, for one. His personality has been 80% wiped out. His behavior is not too far from that of a 4 year-old who knows all the dirty words. He is still very loving and remembers his family and friends. But he will never fully appreciate watching his grandkids grow up (someday, not soon). He won't be emotionally engaged on the days his children get married. It's just not in his program any more.

Some of the other dads around my circle weren't as "there" as my dad was. He was in the groove of being a dad, he enjoyed it, he loved my sister and I. We know all of this, which is our Perspective to his affected self of Now. He loved my mom through quite a few moments where it seemed like the only thing to do would be disappear or divorce, but dammit, not another day of whatever was going on. And he stood his ground, telling me things like "keep your eyes open for the next few days. You'll see some changes." He taught me the importance of cause & effect, and Perspective rang through.

Appreciate your friends as people so they will be there when you need humanity. Enjoy a moment when you are "bored" before your moments are filled with the boredom of pointless efforts. Drink a cup of cold coffee and you'll see how heat and pressure can produce a pleasurable experience. Have a dog so you can see how great it is to not have a cat. Quietly appreciate your health in the midst of much illness. Take a deep breath and enjoy the air while you can, because what you think are Seagulls are actually the ocean police and you'll soon be in mermaid jail.

You can have it better. It could be worse. Focus ahead of you, and be happy that your legs work, as you skitter away from that section of Gottschalk's that you have fouled. For now, you're off for bargains, while another person will appreciate fresh air that much better. Thank you PerspectiveGirl. You are my favorite of all PrettyGood Heroes.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Spiraling

Currently, I am playing catch-up with work due to the fact that an e-mail I should have received yesterday afternoon came through about 10 minutes ago.

That e-mail asked me to set aside the work I am supposed to do today, and play Data Entryman with old data to a new sheet that will confuse most of the people looking at it.

I was already 1/4 done with the work I am expected to do when I got that email, so now I've asked the guy who people say is my boss to prioritize for me: Work that matters now, or work that is old news.

In the meantime, my cube neighbor is debating the reasons as to why there are baked beans and tomato slices on the plate of an Irish Breakfast. I'm here to tell you that after eating those nearly every day for a couple weeks in Ireland in 1999, those two items aren't always there, unlike my desire to yell "ARE YOU F*CKING KIDDING ME?!" to nobody in particular.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Careening

Today is the first day of the month, so I'm in the office for the first time all week. I worked from home the other days and got a lot done.

The drive to work wasn't any more treacherous than any other normal drive
SANDIE the retard is already laughing... are you shitting me?

Anyway, here's a blow-out.
My productivity has suffered because my boss can't communicate and rolls over when asked to do something.

My stress level is higher than it has been all week thanks to my being in the office.

Sandie just laughed about "rebooting, that's what it needs! UNH UNH UNH UNH!" She is my daily dose of Larry The Cable Guy. KOOOONT!

Dear God, I'm serious, I really need a break today. This place is not for the sane, the adjusted, the unmedicated.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Mitch Hedberg, Dead At 37.

As of last night when this was originally written, the passing of Mitch Hedberg had not been confirmed. This morning, sadly, it has been. Mitch Hedberg, well known and loved stand-up comic, is dead. He was 37.

Mitch is one of the most-quoted, most-copped comics of the past 10 years. The rest of this entry will cover that topic. Heart failure is being noted as the cause of Mitch's death. Apparently he was born with a defect in his heart.

Mitch had is own way of doing things, especially in the past few years. Mitch was famous for less than 10 years. Less than The Dave Matthews Band. Less than Snoop. And he's gone now.

Nobody will ever see Mitch again. That is what really stinks, on many levels. He was talented. He was a good person, from all I'd heard. He was a phenomenal comic. I hope this will begin the downstroke of people copying Mitch's style of drawling, simplified, peripheral brilliance. I hope it will begin the outpouring of stories of what a great guy he was. Appreciate his work and his life. I have removed some of the stuff I had on here about Mitch's personal life, out of respect for a Person, and because he could have died with a cup of green tea in his hand, or a turkey-baster full of smack in his veins, neither would matter to how much he meant to comedy and to what kind of person Mitch was.

My condolences go out to Mitch's family and his real friends. He had a talent so recognizable that we won't see it again until an open-mic'er steals his persona and nicks his material.

To those who stood by while Mitch destroyed his body and career, my middle finger goes out to you. He was your bank account, your dealer, your hook-up, and you can look forward to an eternity in Hell, where every night you host an endless open mic where everyone goes up and "does Mitch."


Terry Schiavo also died this morning. That's for another time, but I really wish politicians and people in tank tops would leave her alone. The question here: If you were Terry Schiavo, would you want to die with dignity, or be kept alive to keep your parents from feeling bad?
===============
(Now back to the original blog)
In my quest to find out who is and is not dead (IS: Johnny Cochrane, Nietzche, Comedy. IS NOT: You, Me, Comedy) I happened upon an exchange of words in the alt.comedy.standup newsgroup in the Usenet world. To spare you the boredom, it's where comics get together and let their egos go wild as they post messages while doing what comics love to do best: Not be interrupted. Perhaps only the comics who read this blog will get any joy out of this, but I figure it's worth sharing.

First off, the topic of Stealing in Comedy. Here are some highlights:

• "Joke-eoke," as in Karaoke. I believe Killorn notified us of this last week, and it's been noted by one comic who started the thread in the forum. He basically was saying that there are so many guys working in comedy these days that you don't even have to be a comic to get work. What is a comic? I can't really define it, but I will say this: If I could get the same pay from comedy that I do from my crappy day job, I would have ass-wiped a signature on my 2 Week Notice a LONG time ago. But Comedy doesn't pay well because, here, catch the 22, there are so many guys working. Question: How do so many guys become funny enough to go on the road? Answer: Who said they were funny?
  
• Being Unique on stage, being a truth of yourSELF. A quote from the thread:

We need to look at how famous comics selected and developed their personas. Study what "Larry the Cable Guy" did to build his persona. Because jokes come and go, and can't be protected, but a strong, recognizable persona is like a signature and everyone can smell it if somebody tries a forgery.

Basically, as a performer, you are yourSelf, turned up a notch or two. I have heard guys from Portland talk to me in the whitest, most Eddie Bauer'ed tone you can imagine, then go on stage with a slightly Southern-fried accent in order to affect the persona that makes their jokes work. Question: Are they faking it in order to be funny? Answer: Who said they were funny?

• Stealing is addressed in the thread. It goes from the Vaudeville days through to Buster Keaton getting hacked by Red Skelton, hacked by Benny Hill, hacked by whomever. I've heard the freakishly popular Larry The Cable Guy (Dan Whitney, doing a character) do twists on street jokes (those are the ones you get in your e-mail from the official workplace funny guy/gal!) And it's rampant. Here's another quote from one JJay Boyd:

Hell me and the 2 comics I am on the road with had 2 off nights in the
pacific northwest.... we did some open mic nights.. EVERY comic from
this town? Was stealing.. (short of ONE tall girl who had the guts to
do her own stuff and was very promising).. One guy was doing Andrew
Dice Clays Nursery Rhymes but as Jimmy Stewart... so I guess in his
mind thats DIFFERENT. (sic)

Does anybody know if JJay Boyd has been through Seattle? First off, saying "EVERY comic" in "This town" of the Pacific Northwest (narrowed down nicely, thank you JJay) steals is a very broadly sweeping statement. However, at an open mic I'm betting a fair amount of the personas seen on stage were direct lifts of well-known acts. And the open mics around here are usually testing grounds for people getting their rocks off without the intent of pursuing stand-up, and/or a few actual working comics either working out a few new bits or getting their rocks off with the intent of pursuing chicks in the audience. The ONE Tall Girl may very well have been the inimitable (it's a good word, relax) Lizzy Pilcher. Just giving props where props be due.

• Currently bored as shit with that thread (read it yourself) I summarize the stealing thread with this: I always want to be told if something I do on-stage is a lift. There is something called "parallel development" where a topic is viewed in a similar light by different people. A bit I wrote the 2nd month I'd been on-stage is pretty similar to one done by Greg Giraldo (no more links for now, look him up) so I dropped it. I will write more. Other than that, and this goes for any situation in life, don't be afraid to protect what is yours, and don't be afraid to be classy in doing so. You catch more flies with honey than you do with vinegar, that's what my gramma used to say. She always had very crunchy honey. (see, writing Hedberg is easy)

I have been party to "blog wars" in the past. They are really f*cking stupid. I learned that if I have a problem with someone it's better to find a resolution the old fashioned way, but when they live in an apartment it can be tough and dangerous to drop the flaming crapsack at their front door.
That's a joke.
ANYwho, here's a "blog war" of sorts, a thread flaming if you will. Two guys get into it with each other, and it's really really dumb. Not only do they keep saying "Go away" or "I win," THEY KEEP RETURNING TO THE POST. Insecurity is that voice that tells you to check, one more time, to make sure the door is locked. It's a minor form of insanity, and it's a great lesson in growing up.
Stand back and watch them windmill at each other. I'm really embarrassed to say I ever got involved in that shit.

Anywho, I'm off to bed now. I've been writing for over an hour.

The Moral Of The Story Is This:
If you're going to steal someone's act, and that person's on-stage persona, instead of trying your hardest to be original, make sure you also cop their off-stage habits.
In the corporate world, stealing someone's ideas is called "Middle Mangement."

Good night, get home safely, and remember to tip your cows.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Imagine That

REPEAT, for those of you who ain't gone to vote yet:
My friend Ryan Hamilton is a finalist in the Sierra Mist "Next Great Comic" contest, and after listening to the other dudes, he's got a really great chance at winning. Please check out that site and vote for Ryan. I entered that contest, and didn't make it to the finals. I am really freaking happy that Ryan did. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, myself included.

ALSO, imagine this:
You have been hired to write a tell-all under a fictional name. The story you tell will be close to real life, but you get to embellish it here and there. So you mine the core hell of your daily existence, even if it's small, and deliver some work that weakens some people's knees. They read it and say "You dated someone who called you THAT?" or "You had a boss who wanted to do what?"

Now imagine that either of those people steps forward to sue you for slandering them. Not only did they out themselves as the a-pipes in question, you never mentioned their names so they can't really lay claim to anything you've earned. Why can't they just be happy to be famous and leave you out of it?

I've had a wicked-sweet stomach flu for a good 29 hours now. I'm holding on to food longer, so by this weekend I should be able to leave the house for more than 45 minutes with the confidence that I won't need to be within shouting distance of a restroom.

The more you advance at anything in life, the more you will be accosted by people who are trying to cut you down. That is their jealousy, envy, and ugly green hat to wear. Keep walking. Don't miss your appointment getting into a shouting match with somebody who only knows how to shout. You got a life to live. Now go be the best ClownHooker this town's ever seen.

I am outta here.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Because It Matters To Some

Wow, we finally got past Easter! I always go so crazy with the shopping and the parties. Lots of my friends are way into Easter, the whole dressing up and traditional feast and what-not. You probably have no idea what a pain it is to coordinate a re-creation of The Last Supper, costumes and all, but the majesty is something else. Some of the people to Dan "Jesus '05" Crandall's left got snarky when I missed a line. Say what you will, Geoff The Baptist asks for little, but if I want unleavened bread, Stacey "Iscariot," I will fuggin' ask for it. Biznatchalacka!

Saturday night was a fun evening out. Killorn O'Neill, Tony "Man Handy" Moser, Queen Alicia, and The Geoff Lott Experiment all tripped Cap Hill-ward to catch Tony opening for Doug Stanhope. It was a disjointed affair, but overall, an entertaining evening. We arrived 45 minutes prior to the doors opening. The normal conversations started up, namely, the problem with the Homeless in Seattle. Not the Homeless Problem (i.e. we can see them), but the reasons that people become and remain homeless. Is it lethargy? Apathy? Scurvy? Perhaps they aren't taking advantage of the many programs designed to help people without homes rectify their situations. The flip side is that if every homeless person DID, there wouldn't be enough room, nor caseworkers, since the business of helping people who need it pays turds, unless you're a doctor. And no, insurance companies don't help people.

So the crowd files in and one dickwad is wearing sunglasses. Saturday night it was raining that sideways, sidewalk-clearing, eye-poking rain. But he's "in costume" to party. At the bar he ordered a "really tall, uh.... dude... Red Bull-Vodka." The bartender held up a small rocks glass and said "this is as tall as we go here." Shades McBallhair says "Yeah, I'll take three." Perhaps you're seeing the kind of crowd that was on-hand. Yes, there was at least one guy with a bandanna, West Coast Choppers jacket, and goatee yelling "Git 'er Done!", which continues to cement it's place in the entertainment world as the new "FREEBIRD!" I think if anybody yells it, as a comic, you HAVE to do 3 street jokes everyone's heard as punishment.

After the show I talked with Doug for a second. I MC'ed a show for him two years back at the Underground, and he was very cool to me. That was the consensus opinion, how laid back and cool Doug was the other night. Two years ago I watched a drunken Doug nail down 75 minutes of hysterical comedy at that show. The other night he wasn't drinking much, turning away shots and espousing the fact that he needs to give his body a rest after 20 years of debauchery. He did a pretty masterful job of wrangling the crowd, which had gotten sauced and rowdy. As he told one beer-farting frat hump in the first row "You have to be a special kind of douchebag to be that f*cked up at 8:20 on a Saturday night." I spend a lot of time watching comics for different reasons. I'm still learning a few things. I learned a lot about how just remaining calm and calling the situation for what it is will eventually sink in with people. I don't think many of the people knew that Doug had been a comic long before The Man Show or the Wild Girls thingy started. 80% of the crowd was there to see what was gonna go down, the others just kept looking around for an appearance by Joe Rogan or a tit, but I repeat myself. I wonder if people pull that shit at Henry Rollins' spoken-word shows. Once they went with Doug, it was easy as pie.

Except for that one really dumb, attention-needing whore-ority sister who kept yelling "EEEEW" when the words "Rubber F*ck My Face" were said. It really astounded me. That many guys who own a volume of "Girls Gone Wild" and not ONE frigging Roofie? BULL'S SHIT! He's trying to close up, quiet her down.

In summation, Seattle clubs seem to be in limbo about promoting comedy as The Hippest Of Entertainment, and when you hear the words "Terry Schiavo," be caller 10 to win tickets to the Pope's funeral.

Open Mic tonight. I pray that I can get up early. Judge not, lest ye be funny and unscripted.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Good Decisions All Around

In looking for some artwork for an angel tattoo I am planning on designing, I found one that reminded me that words in tattoos are never a good idea.

Good. Friday!

Today is Good Friday in the Christian/New Testament Religions. It is the day Jesus was crucified and buried in his tomb, when the ground shook, the seas ran red, and Hollywood found a cornerstone for blockbuster films.

This morning I'm rafting on mixed emotions. It's my family's first holiday without my Dad at home. I have epididymitis, diagnosed last night by a guy who, were it not for introducing himself as a doctor and wearing a white jacket, would have been touching me inappropriately. I am working from home - unquote - today, and I am quite happy to not have to go into the office. I have a ton to write about, but little time to do it. My friend Ryan Hamilton is a finalist in the Sierra Mist "Next Great Comic" contest, and after listening to the other dudes, he's got a really great chance at winning. Please check out that site and vote for Ryan. I entered that contest, and didn't make it to the finals. I am really freaking happy that Ryan did. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, myself included.

I have a hard time asking for things, but I'm getting better at it. I used to suffer through somebody else's moving day, then when it came time for me to get out of the halfway house, I would just make 200 trips in the Buick Skyhawk and hope somebody would want to grab a beer later. I realized this at work recently. I asked 30 managers to each send me a list of who they manage. They sent me Adobe PDFs of charts with 1500 names on them, and said "I'm in this organization." Lazy shits. That added to the confusion. I ask for very little at work, and that's what I get. Since then I realized that I'm not doing anything extra for anybody I work with. Not a new spreadsheet, not a test-run of an application, zilch.

I'm ready to get on with my life. My dad's condition's progression over the past 18 months has got me feeling a little anxious, realizing that life is short, especially if you're going to keep living after what you knew as Life is gone. Thankfully, and oddly so, my dad's condition brings on apathy as if it were the norm, he cares very little about anything, shows few emotions. He likes the Inn he's been moved to. He likes it so much that he doesn't really relax when we're with him outside of it, and usually gets anxious and wants to go back. We cannot reason with him or calm him down much. This is what Is, now. It's a new Normal. It sucks. Being defiant of it will not help any of us move on. There is anger and hate and compassion. And a lot of Love and prayers. And at the end of the day we just hope that Dad's happy and healthy, and that our feelings of guilt and anger subside.

You should leave work early today. Make it a Good Friday.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

It's A Question That Had To Be Asked

Listening to LoveLine right now, and the comedic genius who is Adam "Ace Rockola" Carolla is fielding a question from a caller with either a drug problem or... who am I kidding... AND a head injury. For sure, the kid's got a bunk smoke detector that's chirping at 1-minute intervals, Adam timed it a second ago. How punk is Adam? The guy don't even gots a website, BE-AH-YATCH!

The kid on the phone said he was getting some sort of allergic reaction after getting oral sex from his girlfriend.
The guest says "Dude, you're allergic to fellatio?"
Adam asks the question I wish that had to be asked, from a comedic standpoint but would never fly on stage:
"How long before America's got a black kid named Fellatio? Or whaddya think, think there's already one family out there named a kid Fellatio?"

I had to share that with you, it simply could NOT go by the wayside.

Reacharound Jackson

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Testing, Testing, Is This Thing On?

By now we all are aware of the Terry Schiavo case in Florida. I expect it to be a punchline in many comics acts very soon as they attempt to appear edgy and "Stanhope-like." But here's how I figure we can end the debate.

Terry Schiavo's brain activity is near zero. Her EEGs are at zero, showing no thoughts or firing of neurons towards cognition of surroundings and Life as defined by medical experts. Her spirit, her aenima has left. Her body is being biologically wheelbarrowed each day by people who are split between dying with dignity, and hoping for a miracle. The Congressman on Capital Hill who is heralding the re-insertion of her feeding tube is also the biggest supporter of the Death Penalty, so that doesn't seem to work out for me. Both subjects, in that case, are being removed from life support by judges.

Anyway, if you wanna see if Terry's still alive, play her an audio cassette tape recording of the works of the inexplicably popular "Larry The Cable Guy."
If she does not react, there's your answer: She's Fine.

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

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Comedy, Harmony, Tony Moser's Bottom Lip, And My A.D.D.

I would like to give a giant "THANK YOU!" to everyone who came over to Laughs Comedy Live Show And BYOB Lounge this past weekend! You helped sell out both shows, yet had some trouble with the bar staff. I hope you got your money's worth out of the show.

My hair looked really awesome, thanks to Jeni at Salon Rivera in Bellevue. Go check that place out on 3rd and 105th, just to see how tiny a dog can actually be.

Blue (from Canada) was great. He didn't pander Canadian, had a great, loose set that had the crowd going from the start, and really helped kick the night off.

Fahim was Fahim-enal on Friday night, again bringing new and funny stuff to the table. He could really go somewhere with his talents, as long as he doesn't let his mechanical engineering degree trip him up. From his last few blogs, I think he's trying to tank his education so he can go on the road in the next 18 months. Good play, Fahim. Check and mate.

Travis Simmons, hey bud, thanks for doing 15 minutes. Also, thanks for stretching it out over 25 minutes and pushing the end of the show out to nearly 10:45. Again, you took a comedy show and did what you could to make it about you. The best thing I heard from you all night was the sound of your car starting. Be cool to the other comics by not eating that much time with nothing to really solidify your set. Ridiculous.

Didi McCarty had a great set on Saturday night. Everyone was talking about it after the show, wondering who "that first girl" was. She was actually the only girl, unless you count Charles Darby and me. Nice work Didi! I hope you got some ayse this weekend, like you were hopin' for.

Dan Moore eased into a great little set. He's gotten better since he slowed down. At one point he was going backwards. I was surprised, and happily so, to see Dan in attendance and center-stage. Thanks Dan!

Charles Darby did an admirable job with a crowd that couldn't tell if they were ready to laugh or not. I think the bar service threw people off on Saturday night. 3 people making drinks and nobody taking orders or running them, that's what caused the line at the bar. Charles, I hope it all went well at Misty's for ya. Did you see Didi over there?

Yes. I'm kind of a dick.

========

Yesterday I was floating in some sort of abyss, emotionally. I didn't have much to give by way of creativity, likeability, focus, or energy. I would just as soon fold laundry and stare at a wall as lay in bed and stare at Pink Floyd's "The Wall" mirror I have hanging eternal on my ceiling. Anything sounded like it would have been fun to do, but nothing was so fun as to jolt me out of my blueness. I had a caffeine rush that kind of got me moving, but after 80 minutes I crashed back to my reality that is Kenmore:
Tomorrow, I have to go to work.

So here I am again. Last night I dreaded this place. And this morning it's been worse than I imagined. This company is paying some people upwards of $85,000 a year to manage 2 people. And those 2 people are self-contained, technical survival units. So basically the Manager is getting a ganglion cash-cyst for hounding holy hell out of me for numbers they don't really fathom. I'm overpaid for a baby-sitter, but underpaid for making a lot of these turds come up smelling rosey.

I read an article last night about the number of thoughts and brain activity quotients people work within during the day. An average person, such as me, has 3,000 to 4,000 thoughts each day. That ranges from associating a shoe with its color to how much money you have left in that jar under the floorboard next to the ammo and canned soups. The most successful people in the world, such as the top-level athletes, investment bankers, stock-swindling muffin mavens, and Travis Simmons, have a different number of thoughts each day. In fact, they have about 1/3rd the number of thoughts. Why is that?
Confidence? Intuition? Fearlessness? It's a "Thought-Act" process, I believe. It's being "in the zone." Playing loose. Michael Jordan's tongue would wag when he was in it. Relaxed performance, the mind has slowed to process what's important NOW, and not what needs to be done on THURSDAY (Ikea trip) nor what went wrong this weekend (rusty build-up on a few jokes). Letting it go and getting NOW handled.

I focus more when I'm writing. Creating. Producing something from my brain's recesses. I feel more balanced with that happening. Blogging, some days, is my only respite from the MBA-tards I work with/for. I've come out of the abyss, and know what I have to do for now. And that is, sigh... work.
================
Dave Attell tickets go on sale at NOON today.



Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Respite

I have to blog right now because I have no other escape hatch in my day.

So far this morning everyone at work seems to have either the "Short Friday Hurries," cramming as much in before noon so that they can leave early and flop ass-wise into their favorite Starbucks chair, or they're doing what they normally do (nothing, other than annoy me) and therefore they don't actually have to be here, but they would have felt guilty staying at home. I've seen 4 people wearing velour sweatsuits today, and only one of them is female, and that's NoMakeup Sandie who is half-human/half-turtle.

Do not invest in the Orange Jack Phone Company. It is management-heavy, light on leadership, and filled brim-side with too many people who believe it matters. I can't say I'm one of them.

The reporting system I use apparently got corked last night, as it went face-down for an hour, for no reason. Yesterday afternoon I was using Excel, tried to save a monster of a worksheet that was three weeks in the making, and suddenly I get a

"Windows is attempting to install Microsoft Office Professional.

Please wait while the installation puts the brakes on your life."

So, I was using a program within the Office suite, yet it wasn't actually in-use, because it wasn't even installed on the laptop that work shoved off onto me? Every day, The Matrix and 1984 meet for drinks in my kitchen, laughing at the simplicity of Office Space. I am officially burned out on this job as of Wednesday night. I literally stared at a computer screen for 38 minutes straight, blinking but not seeing anything of import or value after that split second of eye-wetting Valhalla.

So anyway, my job sucks, and if anyone wants it, they can have it. Doing the work is not difficult. Finding enough motivation to do it for people who don't remember screaming a request into the phone for it once they get what they want, now THAT will take a special person to fill this chair. I'm looking for a new job, perferably making Dave Attell money for comedy and writing, like $20Gs a pop.

I'm headlining Laughs all weekend. The other night I riffed around at Pegasus with moderate success for 55 minutes, only going through a few real bits. I'm excited to see what happens tonight when I can really drill down into the material and find a new vein of comedy gold. Hope you can make it to a show! 9pm Friday and Saturday.

Pink velour sweatsuit, likely not a new one, probably one that was hanging around since they were last popular. I think she's roller-disco'ing, too.

Live the nightmare.

this blog has been as entertaining as my day at work.

======

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

And Another Another Thing

If anyone thought I was the only person who thinks The Stranger is an incestuously "self-made hipster" rag of Biblically Gay-But-Not-In-A-Homo-Way proportions, check out this week's "I, Anonymous" entry.

Compare it to my previous blog regarding that fibrous melange of lines and pictures.

And then wipe your pipe with the local music reviews. And the "Drunk Of The Week" horsecrap of a feature is probably just a bunch of their exes they want to out for being tanked too often. Real drunks don't get their pictures taken while awake. Get with the program.

I stand by my previous quote that "Celebrity I Saw U" is the only thing in that diaper-liner worth reading.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

How To Tell When Somebody Is Lying

You know that feeling you get in your gut that says "there's no way this prostitute isn't a cop."? Yeah, check in with that.

If someone tells you a trait about themselves, an intrinsic trait, not something visible like pretty eyes or a well-tucked fruit-cocktail, then that person's probably lying to you.

You can usually tell something about somebody because you have a sense of decency and smell to let you in on it. It's a gut reaction to the way someone walks, looks around a room, and picks up the tab every time.

So remember, if somebody has the need to tell you a trait about themselves, like "I'm funny," or "I'm a great guy," or "I don't need attention," the exact opposite is true, and they will be on stage in a few minutes.

Behold the finest knifeholder created. At www.viceversa.com





I Care,
Lott
============
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Putting The "Con" in Conference Call

I "rushed" into work this morning because, like a lot of days, I had a conference call. The factors of timeliness and building-presence don't affect me emotionally. If I could do my job from home, I wouldn't; I don't want any of these people to know where I live, not to mention that I'd be waist-up naked and likely wine-drunk most of the work day. My focus wanes from moment to moment after the badge scan, even more-so when I know I don't have to be back here for 16 hours.

My "team" is based in California. Perfect. My original boss in this organization is about 12 feet away. The manager I had following her is about a quarter-mile down the road in another building. My current manager is in Calafournee. My next manager will be a naked mole-rat/human hybrid who lives near the center of Sugarloaf Mountain in South America. It helps save $$$ in facilities when the middle-managers are middle-crust dwellers with daylight problems. No cubes, no offices, no badges.

Thanks to technology, I am brought together (interlocking fingers, head tilt, slight smile) with my teammates in California. This conference call is the work-a-day equivalent of a car-wash hangar: Follow the instructions and you can do it yourself! No, now, don't try and throw a curveball, just get it done with and look back at it later to see how many spots you missed. Oh crap, and you've scratched living hell outch-yer protective coat. Wow... was this necessary?

It's the ever-necessary Preview Of The Year's Goals Call. It is vital to have a call of this nature so that we can each look back and say "It was horsesh*t at the beginning, too." As we cover these goals and platitudes to be worked towards, it was made clear to me that the "Scoring" system that a lot of teams are on is based on the work I produce.
And all this time I thought I was powerless.

The work I produce measures workload, efficiency, and trends of each. I pull, format, and produce these reports, or "metrics" if you wanna be corporate about it, for Four teams. I fell into this job as a back-up to the previous guy. The database he built was a house of cards, and one day someone walked by too quickly and it came a-tumbling down. Too bad, because it automated the work I have to do now, with keyboards and mouse-clicks, teeth grinding so hard they barely let any Jameson pass. The work is entered from a raw format into a... hey, wake-up... into a spreadsheet that I have created with formu... hey... are you snoring? Forget this part.

So now here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. My work will affect the scores (imagine grades, but with a mortgage payment attached) attained by many a co-worker. The technician's scores will roll up to the scores hanged by the names of their managers. These are the same managers who, when asked for a list of people they manage, sent me a 3MB org. chart so that my mailbox would be clogged for a week while I found that they manage 2 of 743 people in their regional office. And I get to decide how it all goes!

I have to go now. I am going to send a note to managers to alert them that the scores their salaries and therefore their self-worth are fed from the system that they never use, by people they have minimal communication with, by a guy who is unaffected by how well... or how pathetic... it appears their team is doing. And these folks haven't clued in yet that I can, if necessary, and with fully ethical practices, make it appear that of their 5 direct reports, only 2 of them even work for the company, and that 3 paychecks are all going to an offshore account in the Sugarloaf Savings & Loan Bank for a Mrs. Chandira Rolemat. I found the Golden Ticket, Gobstoppers. Willy Wonka's power is no match for somebody willing to float a Baby Ruth down the chocolate river.

Gotta roll, phone's ringing. Oh look, it's a manager! Unless the first two words uttered are "FREE LUNCH," I see someone with a long Q2 ahead of them.

===========

I will be headlining the Wednesday Show at Pegasus Pizza in Kirkland, 9:30pm, as well as the entire weekend at Laughs in Bellevue. Shows Friday and Saturday night, 9pm, and one Brunch Showcase Sunday morning, 10-10:30am. Enjoy a blintz!

===========
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Somebody's Trying To Tell Me Something

Monday again?

Last week I printed out an article from The Onion written by a fictitious author, Jim Anchower. Jim's a late-era hesher, living in a world of broken cars, bad weed, broke friends, and low-paying jobs. I don't know if he's ever been a comic, sorry.

So anyway, I forgot the printed version on the tray and somebody left it on my desk some time between Friday afternoon and this morning. I had the article in an e-mail window, which, when printed, had my mail profile name on the top. I'm stupid sometimes.

The funniest part was that somebody had stapled a note as a cover sheet that said:

Hello,

This was left on the printer, and is not the first document like this. Fortunately, it was found and given back to you by somebody concerned for youre well being. If you are having troubles with work or general life circumstances, this company offers these resources to assist.


So here's what I think is so funny:
1- the cover-sheet person thinks I wrote the article, and/or
2- the cover-sheet person thinks my life is the subject of the article, and/or
3- the cover-sheet person thinks I am having a problem with somebody named Wes, not having any beer, scoring bunk doobage, my car breaking down, and getting evicted from an apartment, if they read the entire article, and/or
4- they also think I call myself a "lone-wolf," which I do on occasion, and/or
5- they have zero sense of humor to have never heard or the ability to appreciate The Onion.

I'm too busy making other people think I give a flip about this job, but the person did write my old manager's name on the paper. My old manager would get a huge kick out of the incident, so I really hope they called my old boss, who has not contacted me. But I do have handwriting to match to, so now I have to peruse the fridge to see who wrote on their lunches, because friggin-A, when you're on a suicide watch at work, you need the sustenance that only a meal in a cheese-sauce can provide.

My job sucks and is beneath me. It's time I look elsewhere.
===
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad