I often find myself walking up to the line in the sand that says “Cross, and… well, I don’t know what’s going to happen.” For a long time I have been a firm believer that if you shake your own Sno-Globe before some-one/thing/a-pipe does, you are never going to be unable to handle thethings coming your way. And by “shake” I don’t mean that you should go to the extremes of pet adoption, jingoism, or divorce. Hey, you marry Gay, YOU STAY GAY. Challenging your own status quo is a great way to grow at your own pace, instead of being racked and rolled.
The first half of last week I lived like a man on a mission. Tons of phone calls, some of my best writing, fearless comedy deliveries, planning my future, re-working my budget, trimming the bustle in my hedgerow, etc. I was getting things DONE, people. Then, come Saturday, I hit a wall or a pothole or a bump or a dip or a crater. I dumped the tanks on the “Balance Cruiser” and spent Saturday night in a haze, and Sunday in a weird state of confusion and dread. I felt as if I was being either punished or tested, for what I did not know. So my head started making laps like qualifying for the Freud 500, and every gauge was showing low pressure, but redline revving.
I felt like I had no shields to deflect any thing coming my way. My sensors needed re-calibrating. Some were wide open, some dim, some just read everything as incoming artillery. I then started wondering if what I was feeling was of my own creation, instead of someone else’s . Ah, the thin line of Rational Thought and Emotional Presence:
If I Choose To Be Happy, Do I Become Blind To My Troubles, or Do I Light The Way For Others?
And THIS my friends is the bane of my existence. Since I was a kid I have been able to see either side of an argument quicker than you can say “Michael Jackson, Guilty Of Thrillin’ You.” Thusly, I rarely see a benefit in taking a side unless I have some throbbing, purple-headed reaction to the sitch. I see small decisions having giant ripples, and big decisions as flaccid and shriveled. And why the hell am I being told what this person is telling me? How can I be told such a thing and be expected to stare back, blankly, when, isn’t it obvious, that this is the kind of information that someone tells you when they WANT AN EMOTIONAL REACTION? And if you are attempting to elicit a reaction, you are reaching under my console to push buttons you shouldn’t push. One of them is, after all, The Button. Boom.
Perhaps yesterday was a Perspective Day. It was the Blink that cured the Highway Hypnosis of my “Business side.” I gained insight into some key areas of my life that I would not have seen had I held blind allegiance to the Happy Nation flag. I re-established the link with things and people that are most important to me. But I did realize how little I like to feel tested, and how much I truly care about the people in my life. I’m not always right, but I can at least see when I’m wrong. And I’m rarely wrong, although I am often mistaken. I can’t sweat the small stuff. And if my small stuff is big stuff to you, remember, I’ll always think it’s smaller than it is, until I think it’s bigger than it is, at which point somebody will tell me, no, Geoff, it’s not that big.
Stuff, I mean.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Monday, July 25, 2005
Friday, July 22, 2005
Of Accountability and Satchels
My debit card was one of a trailer-load that MAY have been compromised when somebody left their IM open at a bank and threw most of King County into terror.
I got a new card a week ago, but no PIN number, as something went to, then back from, my old address. The one thing that I needed, that PIN, was returned. I have a shiny new card, money in the bank, and no access to it without, gulp, filling out a withdrawal slip.
I had no idea the revolution was going to happen so soon. I had it penciled in for early October, but I've been really busy, so...
In the event somebody DID steal my identity, I'm only gonna say this once:
You do so much as ONE hacky joke, and I'll personally Horse you Enumclaw-style.
============
In response to the tragedies of the London transportation bombings, New York City's police and/or Port Authority officials are going to start conducting random bag searches.
"WHAT?!" somebody exclaims. "INFRINGE ON MY FREEDOM?!?!" No. Infringe on Privacy. Big diff. And if you're trying to hit the subway and tell a badged person to "put (their) head in (their) ass and a bag and search THAT for a sign of intelligence, DoucheNozzle!" or something to that effect, well gosh, you just ain't gettin' on the train.
People don't want to trade privacy for security. The invasive searches step all over privacy, and by privacy I mean the right to hide embarrassing things in a bag or sack. These Peeky Petes are looking for bombs, explosives, hazardous materials such as guns or children. It's a measure to keep things safe.
Take a deep breath. It's not illegal to carry a bag. Nor is it illegal to carry, in that bag, something that makes the search-party question why they even took the assignment. In their search for boombooms, they may come across a pickle jar filled with a gooey, brown substance interlaced with Romaine lettuce, the jar be-labled "July 5, '05." They don't have to know it's only brownie batter. It's a hassle, it's annoying, it's invasive, and until people stop acting batshit-crazy in the name of their false god, it's 100% necessary. I don't think that ALL Muslims are psychotic suicide bombers. I don't even think .001% of them are.
Don't worry, if they do it right, only the shifty Middle-easterners are going to get searched, every friggin' time. Profiling? Yep. The extremists who are blowing things up and killing innocent, hourly workers, 99% of the time, have the same complexion, hairline, and belief system. YES, white people blow shit up, too, but the subway staircases are too narrow for "Something Ray Something-kins" to get the rental van down it. Eventually, if done correctly, the searches will take place in our homes, where we'll be surprised and stripped down, then made to dance like a tiny ballerina, dooty doo ballerina DANCE FOR FREEDOM.
OR, we can fast forward 10 years and say "These bombings could have been avoided if they'd just started checking people's bags, I mean, who wouldn't stop for 2 seconds just to, hold on... yes, please fill my StarBucks Bag with 1/2-caff and one Sugar pill, I'll turn the drip on later." Win or lose, I need to stop carrying the alarm clock and road flares HA HA HA HA HA thank you Open Mic skills!
I speak from experience when I say that these added security measures are inconvenient. Each time I fly somewhere, I get stopped and wand-searched because I have a rod in my leg as a result of an accident that the government said was due to terrorists. The guy piloting the motorcycle that caused me to have a really shitty Thursday morning was high on heroin, which probably came from Yakima or Kabul.
His decisions back THEN caused me to get searched each time NOW, and therefore Terrorism affects us all, so sayeth the Gubment. I guess they have to be careful.
Whatever, I'm tired. Put weird shit in your bag so they can search away, don't wipe your ass for two days before flying, and you'll be fidgety enough to get strip searched. F*ck You Right Back, Patriot Act. Look into my ass-eye.
===================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I got a new card a week ago, but no PIN number, as something went to, then back from, my old address. The one thing that I needed, that PIN, was returned. I have a shiny new card, money in the bank, and no access to it without, gulp, filling out a withdrawal slip.
I had no idea the revolution was going to happen so soon. I had it penciled in for early October, but I've been really busy, so...
In the event somebody DID steal my identity, I'm only gonna say this once:
You do so much as ONE hacky joke, and I'll personally Horse you Enumclaw-style.
============
In response to the tragedies of the London transportation bombings, New York City's police and/or Port Authority officials are going to start conducting random bag searches.
"WHAT?!" somebody exclaims. "INFRINGE ON MY FREEDOM?!?!" No. Infringe on Privacy. Big diff. And if you're trying to hit the subway and tell a badged person to "put (their) head in (their) ass and a bag and search THAT for a sign of intelligence, DoucheNozzle!" or something to that effect, well gosh, you just ain't gettin' on the train.
People don't want to trade privacy for security. The invasive searches step all over privacy, and by privacy I mean the right to hide embarrassing things in a bag or sack. These Peeky Petes are looking for bombs, explosives, hazardous materials such as guns or children. It's a measure to keep things safe.
Take a deep breath. It's not illegal to carry a bag. Nor is it illegal to carry, in that bag, something that makes the search-party question why they even took the assignment. In their search for boombooms, they may come across a pickle jar filled with a gooey, brown substance interlaced with Romaine lettuce, the jar be-labled "July 5, '05." They don't have to know it's only brownie batter. It's a hassle, it's annoying, it's invasive, and until people stop acting batshit-crazy in the name of their false god, it's 100% necessary. I don't think that ALL Muslims are psychotic suicide bombers. I don't even think .001% of them are.
Don't worry, if they do it right, only the shifty Middle-easterners are going to get searched, every friggin' time. Profiling? Yep. The extremists who are blowing things up and killing innocent, hourly workers, 99% of the time, have the same complexion, hairline, and belief system. YES, white people blow shit up, too, but the subway staircases are too narrow for "Something Ray Something-kins" to get the rental van down it. Eventually, if done correctly, the searches will take place in our homes, where we'll be surprised and stripped down, then made to dance like a tiny ballerina, dooty doo ballerina DANCE FOR FREEDOM.
OR, we can fast forward 10 years and say "These bombings could have been avoided if they'd just started checking people's bags, I mean, who wouldn't stop for 2 seconds just to, hold on... yes, please fill my StarBucks Bag with 1/2-caff and one Sugar pill, I'll turn the drip on later." Win or lose, I need to stop carrying the alarm clock and road flares HA HA HA HA HA thank you Open Mic skills!
I speak from experience when I say that these added security measures are inconvenient. Each time I fly somewhere, I get stopped and wand-searched because I have a rod in my leg as a result of an accident that the government said was due to terrorists. The guy piloting the motorcycle that caused me to have a really shitty Thursday morning was high on heroin, which probably came from Yakima or Kabul.
His decisions back THEN caused me to get searched each time NOW, and therefore Terrorism affects us all, so sayeth the Gubment. I guess they have to be careful.
Whatever, I'm tired. Put weird shit in your bag so they can search away, don't wipe your ass for two days before flying, and you'll be fidgety enough to get strip searched. F*ck You Right Back, Patriot Act. Look into my ass-eye.
===================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, July 20, 2005
The Kid Stays In The Picture, His Dad Can Eat It
President Bush 2: Son Of Ridicula, nominated John G. Roberts, Jr. for Supreme Court justice sometime in the past few weeks. I don't watch much news unless I'm on it. So John G. Roberts, Jr., who may be even whiter than his name belies, brings his family to the White House for the announcement by W. of John G. Roberts, Jr.'s nomination.
The nation that kind of cares watches as the Prez recites what is written for him on a Kid's Menu from Air Force One (re-named Air Force Fun on Saturdays). And as John G. Roberts, Jr. stands near the 6th Most Powerful Man in the Nation (behind Jordan, Dr. Phil, and the alien controlling Cheney's pacemaker -tie- Tom Cruise, and whomever has Lance Armstrong's preserved jingler), Robert's son starts GOING FOR IT!
YOU WANT A HERO, YOU F*CKING GOT A HERO
Let's go over this picture, clockwise.
Left to right, dad's trying to keep his composure. He's realizing that he can't do the normal beating of the boy on TV, even if the President would be cheering him on, but he's planning a good guilt trip the boy will take with him into his career as a GloryHole. Daddy John's got a sort of sick pride in the boy, and likes that he's rambunctious enough to off-set the queer saddle shoes.
W., well, he may be oblivious. It's not uncommon for him to blank out when kids fidget, if you remember story-time on that fateful September morning. The script doesn't say anything about acknowledging child-like, gleeful seizures, so words words words "say, I sure could go for a twirl myself right now."
Wifey's mortified. That boy would be stifling sobs right now if it weren't for the 3 Xanax she chewed down with the mimosa. She can't even look at what her loins have produced. She's either counting backwards from 10, or trying to remember the name of that homeless man she gave a dollar to in hopes of plotting a child abuction. "the code word is... damn him... the code word is FootLoose."
The daughter's got a death-grip on mom, trying to kill little John with her thoughts, knowing that if she so much as sighed she'd get a Richter-scale shaking. This is one moment that will be replayed when she's found at a party with a joint and 4 hickeys, two from her gym teacher, Ms. Danskin.
And finally, our Protagonist, Little John. Crunkin' the conference up like it ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' but sugar and a Little Titans marathon. He's a mascara smudge and tear-drop away from the first-ever televised Honky Krumpin'. And that soundtrack that kids have when they are in the flow, oh man:
"My dad, is the KING and my sister is a FART, and my mom is a BRAT, and I can DANCE like a ROBOT and a ROBOT goes like THIS and I FART and my sister SMELLS it because she is a FART BRAT and I go pee on the CAT that my sister cannot HAVE because Daddy ran it OVER in the car that Mom THREW UP inside, after all that JUICE at Uncle DAN's party farty farty fart fart BUTT BOOBS..." (to the bridge)
Unhinged, unsolicited, unconscious. The kid's got style. Rock on, little weirdo. You may never be able to drive a car or understand why your first family left you at a Toys R Us, but I'm in your corner. I hope your dad gets the appointment, and I hope you dance so well that someday you get Britney Spears' sister pregnant.
I hope you dance.
============
the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
The nation that kind of cares watches as the Prez recites what is written for him on a Kid's Menu from Air Force One (re-named Air Force Fun on Saturdays). And as John G. Roberts, Jr. stands near the 6th Most Powerful Man in the Nation (behind Jordan, Dr. Phil, and the alien controlling Cheney's pacemaker -tie- Tom Cruise, and whomever has Lance Armstrong's preserved jingler), Robert's son starts GOING FOR IT!
YOU WANT A HERO, YOU F*CKING GOT A HERO
Let's go over this picture, clockwise.
Left to right, dad's trying to keep his composure. He's realizing that he can't do the normal beating of the boy on TV, even if the President would be cheering him on, but he's planning a good guilt trip the boy will take with him into his career as a GloryHole. Daddy John's got a sort of sick pride in the boy, and likes that he's rambunctious enough to off-set the queer saddle shoes.
W., well, he may be oblivious. It's not uncommon for him to blank out when kids fidget, if you remember story-time on that fateful September morning. The script doesn't say anything about acknowledging child-like, gleeful seizures, so words words words "say, I sure could go for a twirl myself right now."
Wifey's mortified. That boy would be stifling sobs right now if it weren't for the 3 Xanax she chewed down with the mimosa. She can't even look at what her loins have produced. She's either counting backwards from 10, or trying to remember the name of that homeless man she gave a dollar to in hopes of plotting a child abuction. "the code word is... damn him... the code word is FootLoose."
The daughter's got a death-grip on mom, trying to kill little John with her thoughts, knowing that if she so much as sighed she'd get a Richter-scale shaking. This is one moment that will be replayed when she's found at a party with a joint and 4 hickeys, two from her gym teacher, Ms. Danskin.
And finally, our Protagonist, Little John. Crunkin' the conference up like it ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' but sugar and a Little Titans marathon. He's a mascara smudge and tear-drop away from the first-ever televised Honky Krumpin'. And that soundtrack that kids have when they are in the flow, oh man:
"My dad, is the KING and my sister is a FART, and my mom is a BRAT, and I can DANCE like a ROBOT and a ROBOT goes like THIS and I FART and my sister SMELLS it because she is a FART BRAT and I go pee on the CAT that my sister cannot HAVE because Daddy ran it OVER in the car that Mom THREW UP inside, after all that JUICE at Uncle DAN's party farty farty fart fart BUTT BOOBS..." (to the bridge)
Unhinged, unsolicited, unconscious. The kid's got style. Rock on, little weirdo. You may never be able to drive a car or understand why your first family left you at a Toys R Us, but I'm in your corner. I hope your dad gets the appointment, and I hope you dance so well that someday you get Britney Spears' sister pregnant.
I hope you dance.
============
the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Shopping list: Sponge on a stick, Spray Deodorant, Apology Cards
Last night I went to the home of A-Bomb, Moses In JamShorts, and The Ghost Of Warranty Past. The Ghost done sliced up her hand this past weekend, her right hand. It's giving her troubles, to say the least. I'm happy she's okay.
That being said, the weather's been warm, unkind to the mammals of the planet who perspirate. Let's just leave it at this:
When your right hand is bandaged and needs to stay dry, sometimes, just sometimes, your left armpit can pack quite a wallop. Compared to that, my nose has been more delicately punched.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
That being said, the weather's been warm, unkind to the mammals of the planet who perspirate. Let's just leave it at this:
When your right hand is bandaged and needs to stay dry, sometimes, just sometimes, your left armpit can pack quite a wallop. Compared to that, my nose has been more delicately punched.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, July 19, 2005
Friday, July 15, 2005
ACHTUNG!
Crash Callahan is at it again.
Check out her blog update for July14th, and see what I'm talking about. She posted a statement from some Kraut philosopher stating "Any concept of Truth is an Act of Faith."
Germany produces great cars, great beer, fine people, and phenomenal weirdos. They are either dancing in a circle, eating an ex-gay-lover fricassee, or spreading panic via simple statements. Be thee Jung'er than you are Freud (I know, Karl was Swiss, chill), psychology is the study of behavior based on how your brain is wired, and how your brain is wired is up to you.
The way I see the statement up there is this:
Concept is a word meaning "idea," and an Idea of Truth is a Belief. It's not hard evidence, it's Faith. So that statement is true for itself... but not for everything. It's not absolute. What I BELIEVE to be True (Tom Cruise is an alien, Tigers are homophobic, work sucks) is true only in my world. Some people thing Tom's more gay than alien, and therefore hated by tigers. But let's not get off track here.
Anything you believe to be True is true to you. Any thing you KNOW to be true is probably true to someone else. Faith is not math and numbers and paint swatches. How do you know today is even real? Because you can feel your hangover, that's how.
Okay, I gotta go, sorry I can't expound on this, but Elbows O'Noodle, A-Bomb, and The Geoff Lott Experience talked about this last night and it got me thinking. That's what philosophy is supposed to do; create a perspective in your head so that while you are pondering the universe, that noise in the background is the showering off of whatever you went home with last night. Make sure you get out before they marinate you.
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Check out her blog update for July14th, and see what I'm talking about. She posted a statement from some Kraut philosopher stating "Any concept of Truth is an Act of Faith."
Germany produces great cars, great beer, fine people, and phenomenal weirdos. They are either dancing in a circle, eating an ex-gay-lover fricassee, or spreading panic via simple statements. Be thee Jung'er than you are Freud (I know, Karl was Swiss, chill), psychology is the study of behavior based on how your brain is wired, and how your brain is wired is up to you.
The way I see the statement up there is this:
Concept is a word meaning "idea," and an Idea of Truth is a Belief. It's not hard evidence, it's Faith. So that statement is true for itself... but not for everything. It's not absolute. What I BELIEVE to be True (Tom Cruise is an alien, Tigers are homophobic, work sucks) is true only in my world. Some people thing Tom's more gay than alien, and therefore hated by tigers. But let's not get off track here.
Anything you believe to be True is true to you. Any thing you KNOW to be true is probably true to someone else. Faith is not math and numbers and paint swatches. How do you know today is even real? Because you can feel your hangover, that's how.
Okay, I gotta go, sorry I can't expound on this, but Elbows O'Noodle, A-Bomb, and The Geoff Lott Experience talked about this last night and it got me thinking. That's what philosophy is supposed to do; create a perspective in your head so that while you are pondering the universe, that noise in the background is the showering off of whatever you went home with last night. Make sure you get out before they marinate you.
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, July 11, 2005
The Report Was Neither Toxic, Nor Collegiate
Toxicology reports have come back in regards to the passing of one of Stand Up Comedy's true Stars, Mitch Hedberg.
Mitch died of Clone Poisoning. While the causes of clone poisoning can be found at any comedy open mic, the vaccine is untested. If anybody who believes they are affected by the Hedberg strain of CP would please call OriginalityLabs IMMEDIATELY, everyone, especially Mitch's soul, would be greatly less critical of you.
Funniest Story I've Heard In Relation To Mitch's Passing:
And no, I don't know why I've decided to drop this stuff today as opposed to 3 months ago when it happened.
This story was told by Craig Gass on The Robin And Maynard show a little over a week ago. (the more I learn about Craig, the more I like him. He's locally raised, has a successful career going without an agent or manager, and for what it's worth, is quite an amazing impressionist)
There were numerous memorials for Mitch, two of which were comic-centric. One in LA at the Friar's Club gathered many comics with many industry types, and friends and family of Mitch. Doug Stanhope hosted the affair. As many of the stories began with "This one time, Mitch and I were so drunk/high/wasted/Republican" or what-have-thee, and it was making a few people cringe and shift considering the sad and foggy circumstances surrounding Mitch's death.
After a number of these stories had started like that in-a-row, and ellicited the reactions as noted in-a-row, Doug comes on stage and says (paraphrasing):
"Hey, look, some of you are cringing at the fact that we're recounting a time or two when we were drunk or high with Mitch, but that's part of what we loved about Mitch, he pushed the fun limit. (getting worked up) He wouldn't be crying about it. (getting angrier)
Hey, when Ralphie May keels over nobody's gonna be crying about how they should have pulled the chowder bowl away from him."
I'm done linking, so get your own Ralphie May picture.
Comedy, I love you, you whore.
===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Mitch died of Clone Poisoning. While the causes of clone poisoning can be found at any comedy open mic, the vaccine is untested. If anybody who believes they are affected by the Hedberg strain of CP would please call OriginalityLabs IMMEDIATELY, everyone, especially Mitch's soul, would be greatly less critical of you.
Funniest Story I've Heard In Relation To Mitch's Passing:
And no, I don't know why I've decided to drop this stuff today as opposed to 3 months ago when it happened.
This story was told by Craig Gass on The Robin And Maynard show a little over a week ago. (the more I learn about Craig, the more I like him. He's locally raised, has a successful career going without an agent or manager, and for what it's worth, is quite an amazing impressionist)
There were numerous memorials for Mitch, two of which were comic-centric. One in LA at the Friar's Club gathered many comics with many industry types, and friends and family of Mitch. Doug Stanhope hosted the affair. As many of the stories began with "This one time, Mitch and I were so drunk/high/wasted/Republican" or what-have-thee, and it was making a few people cringe and shift considering the sad and foggy circumstances surrounding Mitch's death.
After a number of these stories had started like that in-a-row, and ellicited the reactions as noted in-a-row, Doug comes on stage and says (paraphrasing):
"Hey, look, some of you are cringing at the fact that we're recounting a time or two when we were drunk or high with Mitch, but that's part of what we loved about Mitch, he pushed the fun limit. (getting worked up) He wouldn't be crying about it. (getting angrier)
Hey, when Ralphie May keels over nobody's gonna be crying about how they should have pulled the chowder bowl away from him."
I'm done linking, so get your own Ralphie May picture.
Comedy, I love you, you whore.
===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Double Fisted, or "What Brown Did For Me"
Starting last Friday, I have been wondering when a shipment would arrive.
It did, last Friday, to my home. I was on the premises, yet the UPS driver didn't really do much to let me know he'd arrived. I don't recall hearing a knock nor buzz, but I do recall asking the brown and yellow sticky note "Oh what the f*ck?"
With no time noted as to when he'd arrive the next business day, I didn't sweat it. I checked yesterday morning on the UPS site, www.wehaveyourboxsochewonturd.com, and noted that the box delivery on Tuesday was at 11:34a.m., attempted. So I scooted home yesterday about 10min prior to that and.. long story, short, I had to trip out to the distro center this morning.
I won't go into details but check this out. UPS gives f*ck all about the non-business customer. I'm writing a bit about it, started in the parking lot of the distro gulag. I had to wait, sign my name for the package, and then find out that I was sent a size of shoe I can't wear, as my 12 would be over-snug in the 7 I was sent. All for nothing. But I did get to give somebody an autograph this morning. It's pronounced Jeff Lot. Eat Shit is the Gaelic spelling.
SIDE NOTE:
The woman two spots ahead of me had three large boxes that she needed help loading into her car. The Brown Troll said he couldn't help her lift them, only push them out to her car. Immediately, the gal ahead of me told the customer "I'll help you when I'm done, if you can wait a few seconds." They were strangers. That's Customer Service.
FedEx, Postal Service, or just drive it over and have a bite with your recipient. But do whatever you can to not use Unconcerned Parcel Shippers.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
It did, last Friday, to my home. I was on the premises, yet the UPS driver didn't really do much to let me know he'd arrived. I don't recall hearing a knock nor buzz, but I do recall asking the brown and yellow sticky note "Oh what the f*ck?"
With no time noted as to when he'd arrive the next business day, I didn't sweat it. I checked yesterday morning on the UPS site, www.wehaveyourboxsochewonturd.com, and noted that the box delivery on Tuesday was at 11:34a.m., attempted. So I scooted home yesterday about 10min prior to that and.. long story, short, I had to trip out to the distro center this morning.
I won't go into details but check this out. UPS gives f*ck all about the non-business customer. I'm writing a bit about it, started in the parking lot of the distro gulag. I had to wait, sign my name for the package, and then find out that I was sent a size of shoe I can't wear, as my 12 would be over-snug in the 7 I was sent. All for nothing. But I did get to give somebody an autograph this morning. It's pronounced Jeff Lot. Eat Shit is the Gaelic spelling.
SIDE NOTE:
The woman two spots ahead of me had three large boxes that she needed help loading into her car. The Brown Troll said he couldn't help her lift them, only push them out to her car. Immediately, the gal ahead of me told the customer "I'll help you when I'm done, if you can wait a few seconds." They were strangers. That's Customer Service.
FedEx, Postal Service, or just drive it over and have a bite with your recipient. But do whatever you can to not use Unconcerned Parcel Shippers.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Leggo My Ego
This ought to be fun, once I get around to writing it. Until then, remember the words of my late, great-great-great grandfather:
"Your women are working half as hard as your horses, and smell twice as bad."
=======
Moderate update at 12:25a.m.
My ego has me in Eagle Scout knots at times, tying me to the notion that Comic A is doing what I'm not, and Comic B is already surpassing me, and Comic C is still believing that there's a shot when that shot left the barrel a long time ago, and could barely even plink-chip a pint glass. And it's THAT, right there, the negative aspect that my ego is telling me that I'm lagging, yet good enough, but not good enough yet, to do what I ought to be doing. And not doing what I ought, that's just a waste of time and talent. Then the anxiety sets in like moths to a flame to a cigarette, and something's gonna die in that chain.
Then I stop pulling so hard against the knots. Ego keeps pacing around the room, shaking its giant head on its narrow shoulders, splintering a calm solliloquy with a shot at Esteem. Come on Ego, I say, you know my penchant for self-deprecation. If Ego had been stroking itself the whole time, I'd be disgusted, but the moment I quit fighting and started wriggling to myself, shick shick shick... those knots started loosening up like I'd been pouring wine and lies down its throat since Happy Hour. Go ahead, tell me again what a sinkhole I am. What do you know, besides fear and whatever somebody that nobody has heard of told nobody you've ever heard of about you, who nobody has ever heard of.
And in that Universal anonymity I am free. Pay me a compliment, and Ego steps forth on a short leash, salt in one hand, one ear covered by the other. Spew forth a vomitorious edict about my thin hair, flaccid set, choice of spiritual pursuit, or how your mom doesn't like me and I'll laugh. Considering the source, it sounds like somebody's Ego is defending the indefensible position. Anger, jealousy, fear, are each and all weapons of the Ego. My hands are free, and while many people would tell me "throttle the shittor," I'd prefer to stand right in your face until you either bite me or kiss me. Either way, Ego is a little scared kid trying to be the dad it never had to the sons/daughters other people never were.
What do I know? I'm just a comic.
And in closing, my client would greatly appreciate it if anybody reading this happen to light a firecracker after 11pm on July 4th would tape one to their toothbrush, and jam it directly asswise, lit, and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance. You are a useless cockhole, and your mom will be barely sad when the hospital calls her to come identify both of your earrings and armband tattoo, you impacted colon of wasted life energy.
And you're car is really high off the ground YEAH I SAID IT.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
"Your women are working half as hard as your horses, and smell twice as bad."
=======
Moderate update at 12:25a.m.
My ego has me in Eagle Scout knots at times, tying me to the notion that Comic A is doing what I'm not, and Comic B is already surpassing me, and Comic C is still believing that there's a shot when that shot left the barrel a long time ago, and could barely even plink-chip a pint glass. And it's THAT, right there, the negative aspect that my ego is telling me that I'm lagging, yet good enough, but not good enough yet, to do what I ought to be doing. And not doing what I ought, that's just a waste of time and talent. Then the anxiety sets in like moths to a flame to a cigarette, and something's gonna die in that chain.
Then I stop pulling so hard against the knots. Ego keeps pacing around the room, shaking its giant head on its narrow shoulders, splintering a calm solliloquy with a shot at Esteem. Come on Ego, I say, you know my penchant for self-deprecation. If Ego had been stroking itself the whole time, I'd be disgusted, but the moment I quit fighting and started wriggling to myself, shick shick shick... those knots started loosening up like I'd been pouring wine and lies down its throat since Happy Hour. Go ahead, tell me again what a sinkhole I am. What do you know, besides fear and whatever somebody that nobody has heard of told nobody you've ever heard of about you, who nobody has ever heard of.
And in that Universal anonymity I am free. Pay me a compliment, and Ego steps forth on a short leash, salt in one hand, one ear covered by the other. Spew forth a vomitorious edict about my thin hair, flaccid set, choice of spiritual pursuit, or how your mom doesn't like me and I'll laugh. Considering the source, it sounds like somebody's Ego is defending the indefensible position. Anger, jealousy, fear, are each and all weapons of the Ego. My hands are free, and while many people would tell me "throttle the shittor," I'd prefer to stand right in your face until you either bite me or kiss me. Either way, Ego is a little scared kid trying to be the dad it never had to the sons/daughters other people never were.
What do I know? I'm just a comic.
And in closing, my client would greatly appreciate it if anybody reading this happen to light a firecracker after 11pm on July 4th would tape one to their toothbrush, and jam it directly asswise, lit, and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance. You are a useless cockhole, and your mom will be barely sad when the hospital calls her to come identify both of your earrings and armband tattoo, you impacted colon of wasted life energy.
And you're car is really high off the ground YEAH I SAID IT.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Just Thinking...
I feel it is vital that we work to break down stereotypes.
In a world where African-American comics often go to a hackneyed line about "black people got bad credit..."
We're not breaking it down by forgiving African debt.
If numerous nations can forgive trillions of dollars in debt, what's stopping banks in this country from doing the same? It's mostly a bunch of 1's and 0's these days, anyway. Oh right, because this country has a lot of white people, and they got the money to pay for everything, which is stereotyping and prejudicial. How about a lottery where 1% of the population has their debt zeroed? Who pays for it?
I'm thinking "somebody else." I don't really care.
The 2nd biggest cause of personal bankruptcy in this country is the cost of medical care. $76 office visits, and rarely are you seen for more than 10min. So where's the f*cking wait time coming from? Trying to figure out what country you're from to charge accordingly.
On the bright side, Africa will be really really grateful for having their debt forgiven. Then we can go back to helping them with the face-flies and shit ditches.
Oh world, you so crazy!
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In a world where African-American comics often go to a hackneyed line about "black people got bad credit..."
We're not breaking it down by forgiving African debt.
If numerous nations can forgive trillions of dollars in debt, what's stopping banks in this country from doing the same? It's mostly a bunch of 1's and 0's these days, anyway. Oh right, because this country has a lot of white people, and they got the money to pay for everything, which is stereotyping and prejudicial. How about a lottery where 1% of the population has their debt zeroed? Who pays for it?
I'm thinking "somebody else." I don't really care.
The 2nd biggest cause of personal bankruptcy in this country is the cost of medical care. $76 office visits, and rarely are you seen for more than 10min. So where's the f*cking wait time coming from? Trying to figure out what country you're from to charge accordingly.
On the bright side, Africa will be really really grateful for having their debt forgiven. Then we can go back to helping them with the face-flies and shit ditches.
Oh world, you so crazy!
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Body Of Work
The female of the species we call Human Beanies has got it pretty rough. First there was the sending them away when they were menstruating... comment withheld... and these days it's back around to sexual identity. Life is difficult enough without wondering how you look through a pair of night-vision goggles. I blame women themselves. Not "WOMEN" in general, but a blame that is as much as I blame men for each of our own issues. And if you're pissed right now, take a friggin' Midol and whatever pill makes you accountable to yourself and relax.
Oh wow, the "women's magazines" throw out all these terms like "LEAN" and "TONE" and "FLAT" and "BULIMIA" and "RENAL FAILURE." Then don't F'ing buy them. You can get every recipe, workout tip, and list of "Top 10 Secret Hollywood Crushes" off the internet for free. (btw, the only common factor in all 3 of those is Steve Buscemi) Have you seen a men's health-oriented magazine? Not Maxim, which may or may not be the Wall Street Journal for Acquaintance Rapists. Men's magazines talk about how you should be wearing this Armani jacket with these Ferragamos, running this interval workout in between pushing your new Aston Martin when you can't make it to the gym because you have to be on the jet to Milan in an hour, and hey, wear condom when you arrive because you are getting tons of ass, right? Luckily, I can't read.
Yeah, guys have to go to Europe now to get women who aren't as concerned with their bodies. Why? Because in America, the media has thrown around so many images of what "sexy" is, that after a while, somebody believes it. And if a woman has even one extra inch of unf*ckable flesh to her, then NOPE, sorry, she just ain't gonna be popular enough to make out with before closing time. HORSE'S SHIT. Confidence is sexy. Confidence in the swing on the back porch is even sexier.
Get an eyeful, readers, it's called "Jenny McCarthyism." Blonde, blue eyed, boobily-inflated Jenny sprung up a decade ago and was immediately the "it" girl. Recently, she had a procedure done that removed a peanut M&M-sized, flesh-colored mole from the bridge of her nose. That was her "it." But it's in some jar on her nightstand next to the TrimSpaz, Absolut, and nightly eye cream. Bye-bye mole. Why? Oh hell, how about VANITY? Did you know it was there? No, because you were too busy looking at her fake tits and airbrushed bikini line and ass. What you see isn't what you get. And she chopped it off. It was her only endearing quality.
It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you. Discipline. Dedication. Brazilian. Monobrow. Happy Trail. Flatulence. One testicle. Size of an apple. That can see your future. Lactose intolerance. Abcessed choad. Nobody is perfect. Nobody you see. Nobody you saw. Nobody you fooled around with. That's what's so great. If we were all perfect, we'd know better than to have that next 3 martooners and lock lips and hips now and again. There'd be no stories or lessons to learn and then lock away out of shame. What happens in Vegas, stays at Planned Parenthood. Stop that groaning shit RIGHT NOW.
I think my biggest impetus for writing this was my trip to the gym last night. I was really pushing around some heavy iron, for what reason, I don't know. I've never been half-way through writing cross-formulas and needed to rep-out some military presses. Never had my raise hinge on a one-rep deadlift. No matter how hard that hardbody is working on that body, there are no reps to build "likeability." Long-story slightly longer, there are more magazines with "perfect" bodies on the cover because there's no way to sell Personality. Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Personality is in the heart. And pants.
Now drop your top.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Oh wow, the "women's magazines" throw out all these terms like "LEAN" and "TONE" and "FLAT" and "BULIMIA" and "RENAL FAILURE." Then don't F'ing buy them. You can get every recipe, workout tip, and list of "Top 10 Secret Hollywood Crushes" off the internet for free. (btw, the only common factor in all 3 of those is Steve Buscemi) Have you seen a men's health-oriented magazine? Not Maxim, which may or may not be the Wall Street Journal for Acquaintance Rapists. Men's magazines talk about how you should be wearing this Armani jacket with these Ferragamos, running this interval workout in between pushing your new Aston Martin when you can't make it to the gym because you have to be on the jet to Milan in an hour, and hey, wear condom when you arrive because you are getting tons of ass, right? Luckily, I can't read.
Yeah, guys have to go to Europe now to get women who aren't as concerned with their bodies. Why? Because in America, the media has thrown around so many images of what "sexy" is, that after a while, somebody believes it. And if a woman has even one extra inch of unf*ckable flesh to her, then NOPE, sorry, she just ain't gonna be popular enough to make out with before closing time. HORSE'S SHIT. Confidence is sexy. Confidence in the swing on the back porch is even sexier.
Get an eyeful, readers, it's called "Jenny McCarthyism." Blonde, blue eyed, boobily-inflated Jenny sprung up a decade ago and was immediately the "it" girl. Recently, she had a procedure done that removed a peanut M&M-sized, flesh-colored mole from the bridge of her nose. That was her "it." But it's in some jar on her nightstand next to the TrimSpaz, Absolut, and nightly eye cream. Bye-bye mole. Why? Oh hell, how about VANITY? Did you know it was there? No, because you were too busy looking at her fake tits and airbrushed bikini line and ass. What you see isn't what you get. And she chopped it off. It was her only endearing quality.
It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you. Discipline. Dedication. Brazilian. Monobrow. Happy Trail. Flatulence. One testicle. Size of an apple. That can see your future. Lactose intolerance. Abcessed choad. Nobody is perfect. Nobody you see. Nobody you saw. Nobody you fooled around with. That's what's so great. If we were all perfect, we'd know better than to have that next 3 martooners and lock lips and hips now and again. There'd be no stories or lessons to learn and then lock away out of shame. What happens in Vegas, stays at Planned Parenthood. Stop that groaning shit RIGHT NOW.
I think my biggest impetus for writing this was my trip to the gym last night. I was really pushing around some heavy iron, for what reason, I don't know. I've never been half-way through writing cross-formulas and needed to rep-out some military presses. Never had my raise hinge on a one-rep deadlift. No matter how hard that hardbody is working on that body, there are no reps to build "likeability." Long-story slightly longer, there are more magazines with "perfect" bodies on the cover because there's no way to sell Personality. Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Personality is in the heart. And pants.
Now drop your top.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Marked, Noted, and Streaked
I am officially astounded by the number of guys not using the ass-gasket sheet when hittin' second gear in the men's rest room. Each day I've been in the can there's been at least one dude bare-backing the seat as if it is his Own Private Idahole.
There hasn't been so much as a clearing wipedown of the seat, just a shutting of the stall, trou-drop, and touch down of mancakes, extra flabby. As if the only other person in there all day was their dominatrix, just click, zip, flap. This is conquered frontier, guys! It's one small step for evolution, one giant leap for common courtesy. Just like keeping your eyes closed when the clown pees on you, SAFETY FIRST.
And let's all revive the Courtesy Flush, can we? That's the flush you make for others so that any noises, from groaning to ripping to splash-down, are covered by the rushing waters of civilization. There's enough shame associated with being in the can without total disregard for germs AND decibel level. It's not for you, it's for everyone else. Welcome to America.
I'm mad about other people's poopin' habits! Grrrrrrr! MAD MAD MAD!
============
Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
============
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There hasn't been so much as a clearing wipedown of the seat, just a shutting of the stall, trou-drop, and touch down of mancakes, extra flabby. As if the only other person in there all day was their dominatrix, just click, zip, flap. This is conquered frontier, guys! It's one small step for evolution, one giant leap for common courtesy. Just like keeping your eyes closed when the clown pees on you, SAFETY FIRST.
And let's all revive the Courtesy Flush, can we? That's the flush you make for others so that any noises, from groaning to ripping to splash-down, are covered by the rushing waters of civilization. There's enough shame associated with being in the can without total disregard for germs AND decibel level. It's not for you, it's for everyone else. Welcome to America.
I'm mad about other people's poopin' habits! Grrrrrrr! MAD MAD MAD!
============
Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, June 24, 2005
Snappy Judgment
Some poor kid is stuck at work all day with a parent. The kid is up on this floor going through his Star Wars knowledge as if it's currency for puddin', and my dearest of friends know what puddin' be to me, and I want to tell him...
"Kid, never lose that enthusiasm. Never lose sight of the fact that the only interesting thing in corporate America is the imagination of a virgin working in IT. Your dad here is a cockwad. I've never worked with him, but that many earthtones in one outfit is a pretty fair indicator of boredom in top-siders. You'll never be a professional athlete. One of my grandmas is dead. Your pets will die. And no matter what happens, the next 6 years of your life will be formative, intense, jerkin'-filled, and above all, total bullshit. Accept it now. If you can get through it with a unique personality intact, the only thing you'll be missing is your virginity. Make sure you call your mom to wish her a Happy Pride weekend. Do you smoke?"
Hindsight is 20/20. Hindusight is way better. Chrissie Hynde can kick your ass.
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"Kid, never lose that enthusiasm. Never lose sight of the fact that the only interesting thing in corporate America is the imagination of a virgin working in IT. Your dad here is a cockwad. I've never worked with him, but that many earthtones in one outfit is a pretty fair indicator of boredom in top-siders. You'll never be a professional athlete. One of my grandmas is dead. Your pets will die. And no matter what happens, the next 6 years of your life will be formative, intense, jerkin'-filled, and above all, total bullshit. Accept it now. If you can get through it with a unique personality intact, the only thing you'll be missing is your virginity. Make sure you call your mom to wish her a Happy Pride weekend. Do you smoke?"
Hindsight is 20/20. Hindusight is way better. Chrissie Hynde can kick your ass.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Oh, THIS One Is THAT Issue...
Seattle's most frighteningly incestuous street-rag, The Stranger, has declared that This Week's Issue is the Gay Issue.
How is it different, you ask?
Dunno. Maybe that it's out of the closet for a week, while the Seattle Weekly stands by and says "Yeah, we know. You're blocking the keg."
I would say that it's an attempt by The Stroker to sell more issues, but it's free, so it's an attempt by The Stringer to troll for some of that hot Weekly-on-Weekly action you can only find in Belgium.
You may be asking yourself if you are gay for reading this week's edition. Only if you read it while planted firmly on Dan Savage's column and/or face and/or maypole.
===========
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How is it different, you ask?
Dunno. Maybe that it's out of the closet for a week, while the Seattle Weekly stands by and says "Yeah, we know. You're blocking the keg."
I would say that it's an attempt by The Stroker to sell more issues, but it's free, so it's an attempt by The Stringer to troll for some of that hot Weekly-on-Weekly action you can only find in Belgium.
You may be asking yourself if you are gay for reading this week's edition. Only if you read it while planted firmly on Dan Savage's column and/or face and/or maypole.
===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Give In
The point I am nearly at is the point where I am the only thing that matters in my world. And I say "thing" like I am not even a person, because I want to exclude all nouns, 'cep' for me. My Aquarian nature is to help, help, help others, for the simple reason that help is needed. And I have been fighting that part of the program for the better part of 3 months now.
Almost weekly I feel like I need to Not Do for anybody else. But Doing is what I do. Fighting it is a Fear Response. You may ask "Fear of What, Geoff?" Or you may ask "Was that you?" It probably was. Sorry, it's the broccoli/Clamato cocktails. The FEAR of Doing For Others is that I'm Not Doing For Me. Giving away, not just giving. Giving in a way that is not going to be appreciated. Giving away to a point of poverty. That's how Fear works, it slow-dances you into a corner by the punchbowl until you realize the party is over. Being at the party is cool. You were there, you didn't get drunk or spill anything. You didn't risk the foolish play of setting your ass kitchen-sinkward and asking the host "Hey, does your garbage disposal work?" You walked home alone, while Fear stuck around to cockblock. Why did you even go? To PARTY, yes, friend, that's the whole reason you are there. Let go. Hang it out there. Suck it dry.
And to Not Do, when it's simply part of who I am, is to fight the force that helps me get through days I don't feel like belly-crawling through. Fear held me back from so many things in life that I really should have gone after. There's a term out there, Fear Of Success, that is actually, in my mind, misleading. It's Fear Of Failure with it's arms open. Hug or smother, it's your call. Success is not to be feared. Failure is not to be feared. My fear is that I will give so much that I will have nothing for myself. That has NEVER been the case, and is actually "deprivation thinking" which leads to diminished returns. The key is to let go, and when Fear comes around, throw a shot of Jack down it's gullet, bend it couch-wise, and give Fear a proper kneading of the dough.
Somebody had to get to Oprah's level, it just happened to be Oprah. Scared people to do not Go Oprah. Carson Daly, who is dating his vaginal equivalent in Vanessa Carlton (first date banter: "You like Vanilla Frozen Yogurt, too? Mass."), and Carson Daly has no discernible talent. Ashton is, at the very least, caulking Demi Moore's hot-tub. But Carson Daly isn't afraid of failure. He simply said "I am going to be on TV." And there he is. He has aimed for, and gained, a high-level of mediocrity, per his goals. Fearless.
So here I go again, on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. I am To Give. Simple as that. I will Give, fearlessly. Friendship, love, moustache rides, advice of dating, advice on dating a clown, advice on moustache riding a clown. Do what it is you do. And do it until it is done in a way that doing it let's others know that you Can Do.
Take Me Home
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Almost weekly I feel like I need to Not Do for anybody else. But Doing is what I do. Fighting it is a Fear Response. You may ask "Fear of What, Geoff?" Or you may ask "Was that you?" It probably was. Sorry, it's the broccoli/Clamato cocktails. The FEAR of Doing For Others is that I'm Not Doing For Me. Giving away, not just giving. Giving in a way that is not going to be appreciated. Giving away to a point of poverty. That's how Fear works, it slow-dances you into a corner by the punchbowl until you realize the party is over. Being at the party is cool. You were there, you didn't get drunk or spill anything. You didn't risk the foolish play of setting your ass kitchen-sinkward and asking the host "Hey, does your garbage disposal work?" You walked home alone, while Fear stuck around to cockblock. Why did you even go? To PARTY, yes, friend, that's the whole reason you are there. Let go. Hang it out there. Suck it dry.
And to Not Do, when it's simply part of who I am, is to fight the force that helps me get through days I don't feel like belly-crawling through. Fear held me back from so many things in life that I really should have gone after. There's a term out there, Fear Of Success, that is actually, in my mind, misleading. It's Fear Of Failure with it's arms open. Hug or smother, it's your call. Success is not to be feared. Failure is not to be feared. My fear is that I will give so much that I will have nothing for myself. That has NEVER been the case, and is actually "deprivation thinking" which leads to diminished returns. The key is to let go, and when Fear comes around, throw a shot of Jack down it's gullet, bend it couch-wise, and give Fear a proper kneading of the dough.
Somebody had to get to Oprah's level, it just happened to be Oprah. Scared people to do not Go Oprah. Carson Daly, who is dating his vaginal equivalent in Vanessa Carlton (first date banter: "You like Vanilla Frozen Yogurt, too? Mass."), and Carson Daly has no discernible talent. Ashton is, at the very least, caulking Demi Moore's hot-tub. But Carson Daly isn't afraid of failure. He simply said "I am going to be on TV." And there he is. He has aimed for, and gained, a high-level of mediocrity, per his goals. Fearless.
So here I go again, on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. I am To Give. Simple as that. I will Give, fearlessly. Friendship, love, moustache rides, advice of dating, advice on dating a clown, advice on moustache riding a clown. Do what it is you do. And do it until it is done in a way that doing it let's others know that you Can Do.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
A Crap-Ton Of Shitballs
First off, Verizon, your DSL service can lick the back of my fundle.
It wasn't hooked up when you said it would be.
I called to report it and got locked into a retardo-matic convo with someone obviously just following procedure, but that procedure is RETARDO.
She asked me, and I shit thee not, "Where do the phone lines come into the house?"
Dear reader, that is as broad a question as it can get. In my mind there are 100 ways to answer it, bit since I knife-fight with Occam's Razor, I replied with...
"From the lines outside."
Her response was "No, like are they in through the wall, or a pipe, or under ground?" I hadn't ever seen them at this new place, so I said I didn't know, because outside is where the hug monster lives and he wants me to be his lap-cowboy. She also wanted me to put filters on all the phone lines and test the DSL connection again. I told her I couldn't as I was talking to her from a landline. Her reply...
(silence)
(more silence)
(dumbfounding silence)
(acceptance that technology's ease is a wash compared to techtards)
"Okay, so you can't plug filters into all the outlets?"
No, because I'd have to disconnect this call, and that would be fun, but unproductive.
My favorite instance was being told that they could get somebody out to fix the problem on Tuesday, some time between 8am and 5pm. I replied "That's pretty broad, can we narrow that down?"
"Like what, with an appointment?"
Yeah, if you make them, an appointment. I can't take an entire day off of work for internet access.
"Yes, we can make an app..."
At that point my brain white-noised with the words 'THEN OFFER THAT AT THE BEGINNING, YOU DIPSHIT.
I'm going with cable instead, as it's the only access I have in the office at my place. I'm not sure why I'd even do all this. The internet bores me. I'm more into my education than my entertainment.
====
Today is the Summer Solstice. If you've noticed people being a bit weirder, edgier, or more hyped up than usual, today has a lot do with that. It's the end-day of the upswing cycle of your year's purpose. In other words, you're gonna get in a fight before the end of the day, and blow your load, and get f*cking on with life. It owes you nothing, so keep moving. This line has places to go.
====
When in doubt, shut up.
When in the right, speak up.
When in Bothell, shoot up.
When near my cube, smell my braap.
=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
It wasn't hooked up when you said it would be.
I called to report it and got locked into a retardo-matic convo with someone obviously just following procedure, but that procedure is RETARDO.
She asked me, and I shit thee not, "Where do the phone lines come into the house?"
Dear reader, that is as broad a question as it can get. In my mind there are 100 ways to answer it, bit since I knife-fight with Occam's Razor, I replied with...
"From the lines outside."
Her response was "No, like are they in through the wall, or a pipe, or under ground?" I hadn't ever seen them at this new place, so I said I didn't know, because outside is where the hug monster lives and he wants me to be his lap-cowboy. She also wanted me to put filters on all the phone lines and test the DSL connection again. I told her I couldn't as I was talking to her from a landline. Her reply...
(silence)
(more silence)
(dumbfounding silence)
(acceptance that technology's ease is a wash compared to techtards)
"Okay, so you can't plug filters into all the outlets?"
No, because I'd have to disconnect this call, and that would be fun, but unproductive.
My favorite instance was being told that they could get somebody out to fix the problem on Tuesday, some time between 8am and 5pm. I replied "That's pretty broad, can we narrow that down?"
"Like what, with an appointment?"
Yeah, if you make them, an appointment. I can't take an entire day off of work for internet access.
"Yes, we can make an app..."
At that point my brain white-noised with the words 'THEN OFFER THAT AT THE BEGINNING, YOU DIPSHIT.
I'm going with cable instead, as it's the only access I have in the office at my place. I'm not sure why I'd even do all this. The internet bores me. I'm more into my education than my entertainment.
====
Today is the Summer Solstice. If you've noticed people being a bit weirder, edgier, or more hyped up than usual, today has a lot do with that. It's the end-day of the upswing cycle of your year's purpose. In other words, you're gonna get in a fight before the end of the day, and blow your load, and get f*cking on with life. It owes you nothing, so keep moving. This line has places to go.
====
When in doubt, shut up.
When in the right, speak up.
When in Bothell, shoot up.
When near my cube, smell my braap.
=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, June 17, 2005
That's Pretty Coup
With tons of good intent and some heavy chrome clankers, I am attempting to pull off a sort of a coup on behalf of HAX TV. Fingers crossed, and more to come on that whole deal.
I have had the last two days off of work in order to get my life together after the move and painting and unpacking and what-not. It's a pile right now. I feel like I packed up some of my friend's crap, as if they brought their troll dolls and half-bottles of Pert over to screw with my inventory and thin theirs. I am going to simplify my life quickly, or go crazy trying. Either way, I'm getting a nap and some Tylenol PM.
I found myself today accepting, again, my penchant for internalized judgment. Guilt would, in the past, wash over me when I had a negative thought about someone in particular. But I'm finding that the detractions are held in check until somebody does something truly dumb, selfish, blind, or Republican, which includes but is not limited to: Wearing sunglasses inside, not saying "Thanks" when the door is held open for them because they're on the Nokia, taking an already-crying child into a grocery store, telling me that marriage is the best thing that ever happened to them, dressing poorly, and withholding cleavage.
Today I was at a local bodega-type joint, 5th of 7 in line, and some moustachio'ed RX-7 jockey was trying to warm the plugs of the chica working the 10-3 shift. He's talking, and talking, taking longer than he needs. He's holding up 6 people's lives in an attempt to become the next guy that girl thinks is either "creepy," or at best,"nice, like Uncle Bert without the fanny grabs." Hey, God bless the guy's attempts to liven up the day, but his Yang to Richard Simmons's Yin was just too much. I couldn't decide what was funnier, him standing to the side to continue the forced conversation after his transaction, or my asking the girl behind the counter "Does he work here?" while he stood not 3 feet from me.
I really only feel bad about not yelling from the line "Hey Magnum, I have 75 square feet of low-pile, high-density olefin that has a better chance of getting laid this weekend than you do. Hit your PIN and get back to bending metal. Please. Thanks." If nothing else, we all walk with a story to share.
"Hey honey, this cockholster in line at the Buy&Fly yelled at some Sam Elliott-lookin' fruit who was ..."
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I have had the last two days off of work in order to get my life together after the move and painting and unpacking and what-not. It's a pile right now. I feel like I packed up some of my friend's crap, as if they brought their troll dolls and half-bottles of Pert over to screw with my inventory and thin theirs. I am going to simplify my life quickly, or go crazy trying. Either way, I'm getting a nap and some Tylenol PM.
I found myself today accepting, again, my penchant for internalized judgment. Guilt would, in the past, wash over me when I had a negative thought about someone in particular. But I'm finding that the detractions are held in check until somebody does something truly dumb, selfish, blind, or Republican, which includes but is not limited to: Wearing sunglasses inside, not saying "Thanks" when the door is held open for them because they're on the Nokia, taking an already-crying child into a grocery store, telling me that marriage is the best thing that ever happened to them, dressing poorly, and withholding cleavage.
Today I was at a local bodega-type joint, 5th of 7 in line, and some moustachio'ed RX-7 jockey was trying to warm the plugs of the chica working the 10-3 shift. He's talking, and talking, taking longer than he needs. He's holding up 6 people's lives in an attempt to become the next guy that girl thinks is either "creepy," or at best,"nice, like Uncle Bert without the fanny grabs." Hey, God bless the guy's attempts to liven up the day, but his Yang to Richard Simmons's Yin was just too much. I couldn't decide what was funnier, him standing to the side to continue the forced conversation after his transaction, or my asking the girl behind the counter "Does he work here?" while he stood not 3 feet from me.
I really only feel bad about not yelling from the line "Hey Magnum, I have 75 square feet of low-pile, high-density olefin that has a better chance of getting laid this weekend than you do. Hit your PIN and get back to bending metal. Please. Thanks." If nothing else, we all walk with a story to share.
"Hey honey, this cockholster in line at the Buy&Fly yelled at some Sam Elliott-lookin' fruit who was ..."
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Schnumerology
Last year I did a lot of nothing at work and a lot of a lot in my social life.
This year I'm buried to my fundle in work that doesn't mean jack to the progress of mankind.
A friend directed me to a numerology website and I fig'red, what the heck, I have 8 seconds free. With no bulls to ride (thanks to my co-worker's involvement with PETA), I did myself up fancy with a numerology reading for how my year's a-gonna go.
I found it HERE. Karen Cornell, btw, is, yes, the Mother Cornell of the musical Cornells of Seattle notoriety.
You wanna know what Your Year is? Add your birthday month and day to 2005.
Here's mine: 2/4/2005.
2+4 = 6
2+0+0+5 = 7
6+7 = 13
1+3 = 4
So a 4 Year on the charts tells me....
4. Work-work-work! This is the opposite of last year! It is a real nose-to-the-grindstone year. One foot in front of the other. This is very slow moving energy. A real plodder! The good news is, you will accomplish a lot. The bad news is, you probably won't see much of your friends as you will be working so hard. It is very low physical energy and your immune system almost takes a nose dive as well, so taking care of yourself is really important. Stay positive and upbeat so all this doesn't get the better of you!
Last year was my socializing year. Next year is my Crazy Energy year. I guess these cycles also work in perspective. Fun, work, cutting loose.
So anywho, the most intensity of the year is felt from January 1st to June 21st, the Summer Solstice. That's a good thing, because I'm friggin' burned out on bullshit. There is a LOT going on that is all a directive towards great things, with the rebirth of HAX, my new place being painted and moved into, family, work, etc. I've got plenty to do to see it happen. But my attitude is much less "oh let's see if this flies." I'm feeling much more like "Do A, then do B, then C & D, call E, and voila! F!" I have no doubts about everything coming to fruition, and I've accepted the constant pace of my life's tempo matching up with a Ramones number. But within that parameter I face my greatest fear of all: Stagnation.
If it's not getting better, then at the very least... it's not getting better.
Changes on the horizon, but first I have a wall to knock down to better the view.
Done by Tuesday.
============
Watch your Blogs.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
This year I'm buried to my fundle in work that doesn't mean jack to the progress of mankind.
A friend directed me to a numerology website and I fig'red, what the heck, I have 8 seconds free. With no bulls to ride (thanks to my co-worker's involvement with PETA), I did myself up fancy with a numerology reading for how my year's a-gonna go.
I found it HERE. Karen Cornell, btw, is, yes, the Mother Cornell of the musical Cornells of Seattle notoriety.
You wanna know what Your Year is? Add your birthday month and day to 2005.
Here's mine: 2/4/2005.
2+4 = 6
2+0+0+5 = 7
6+7 = 13
1+3 = 4
So a 4 Year on the charts tells me....
4. Work-work-work! This is the opposite of last year! It is a real nose-to-the-grindstone year. One foot in front of the other. This is very slow moving energy. A real plodder! The good news is, you will accomplish a lot. The bad news is, you probably won't see much of your friends as you will be working so hard. It is very low physical energy and your immune system almost takes a nose dive as well, so taking care of yourself is really important. Stay positive and upbeat so all this doesn't get the better of you!
Last year was my socializing year. Next year is my Crazy Energy year. I guess these cycles also work in perspective. Fun, work, cutting loose.
So anywho, the most intensity of the year is felt from January 1st to June 21st, the Summer Solstice. That's a good thing, because I'm friggin' burned out on bullshit. There is a LOT going on that is all a directive towards great things, with the rebirth of HAX, my new place being painted and moved into, family, work, etc. I've got plenty to do to see it happen. But my attitude is much less "oh let's see if this flies." I'm feeling much more like "Do A, then do B, then C & D, call E, and voila! F!" I have no doubts about everything coming to fruition, and I've accepted the constant pace of my life's tempo matching up with a Ramones number. But within that parameter I face my greatest fear of all: Stagnation.
If it's not getting better, then at the very least... it's not getting better.
Changes on the horizon, but first I have a wall to knock down to better the view.
Done by Tuesday.
============
Watch your Blogs.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Ceaselessly Amazed
The pace of buying a home, moving out, storing, moving in, painting, gigs, work, car breakdowns, reading, writing, filming, crinkling my nose at co-workers wearing tear-away pants to work, and general, you know, boolshit has officially taken it's toll on me.
Not but a few weeks ago I felt concern for others. Now I'm back to not really giving a shit if you get your numbers or not. Did I dawdle at a yellow and make you miss a light? Blame your slapped-seven-times snooze button, shit pig. Six would've had you eight minutes ahead of your day, and you wouldn't be back there fuming. And I do so hope you are fuming.
I'm not saying I've lost faith in humanity. That happened long ago. Life ain't all home-makeover shows and winning Lotto tickets, is it? In fact, Life ain't even close, is it? No, Life gives greatly to a few, and randomly so, in order to make us wonder, "Hey, why did THAT shitpile get a new Mustang?" Because God knows that guy who has lost three marriages and 8 kids to drugs, jail, crime, and more drugs should have a sweet car to sell so he can pay, not child support, but for that final, life-ending speedball.
Wait a second... did I just sniff some fairness? Blow me if that dudn't smell like hot apple pie and multiple orgasms the day after your least favorite co-worker gets escorted from the building by turkish prison doctors.
I know it'll all come out in the wash, but I'm humoring myself with my own prickishness for a wee bit. I'm not going to hurt anybody. I'm not driving under the influence of Tom Leykis or teaching blind kids to mime. But I have done the following:
* Closed doors to overly-loud, non-Geoff-affecting meetings on a half-hourly schedule.
* Told people "no" on a regular and frequent basis when their request neither benefits my reputation nor provides them any substantial foothold in being cool.
* Have avoided talking with people who I like while I'm within the sepia-toned fog of a beer hangover.
What I would really like to do now is tell this particularly self-loathing yet self-involved woman at work, "Hey dear... that's quite enough of the stories that affect only you." Yesterday was a 45 minute diatribe in her boss's office (door open) about how raising kids is the hardest thing in the world, how hard it is to be a good mom, how being a mom is like being a Drill Instructor and a Teddy Bear all at the same time... On and on. What I heard was...
"My 4 year old twins don't understand all the hell I go through just to get home and care for them. Instead of just loving them the best I can by being a Parent, I'm going to assume the Martyr role and secretly harbor resentment towards them because, as you can know I am a twice-divorced woman (door's been open other times), men cannot be counted on to contribute to my happiness, regardless if they are drunk on a couch, drunk on a lawn mower, drunk on my sister, or just innocent little kids who will eventually resent women, or at the least, never leave home so they'll take care of me. It's the circle of my life, like the elastic waist in my stirrup pants. Yes, this is a cable-knit cardigan."
or
"Gawd, that guy around the corner should stop wearing headphones. He'd probably be able to hear how much he farts."
I guess it's all in the tone of voice, you had to be there. I literally HAD to be there.
In the meantime, I should sum it up by saying this ain't a pity party. I have too much perspective on my life to get down over the burn I'm feeling lately. I've had much worse come my way, mostly of my own doing, and always came out stronger. That doesn't replace the want to call somebody taking too long at the grocery store a "canopy-dwelling pygmy slow loris," but it is, time to time, a nice balm.
=============
In another part of the galaxy, Jay Leno continues to rack up points in Purgatory for his egomaniacal projects. You think Heaven would book Leno over Hedberg, Hicks, and Dangerfield? And even hell would say "Oh come on, we don't want him... It's already Hell."
Jay has pledged to ride his celebrity-autographed motorcycle 'round the U.S. to raise money for Tsunami relief. Okay, the tsunami... yeah, the big wave that killed hundreds of thousands of pairs of your favorite jeans in December... was horrible. It's a major wake-up call to the rest of the world to start reading their Bibles. Christianity is about as popular in Thailand as having sex with a legal-aged woman in Thailand. Look up. That's the bar for Tsunami jokes. I may be able to best that.
Here's what chaps my Shandling. Jay is doing something he loves to do (blather, annoy others), on a great motorcycle, during the nicest time of year in America. It's for a TSUNAMI RELIEF EFFORT! Tsunami! Waves! Water! Destruction! Death! It's not a thoughtful gesture to have Matt Lauer interviewing you every Thursday to see where in the states your chin has ended up. Shouldn't he have to jump a Bellagio fountain full of his Michael Jackson jokes to make it seem like an effort?
Then again, the Rockies right now? Gorgeous. At least somebody is doing SOMETHING to help those people affected by the Tsunami... 6 months later.
===========
Thanks. I feel better. I guess I needed to write a bit.
BTW, I have no opinion on Cupcakes v. Muffins. They are equally delicious. However, I have serious issues with any pastry that is overflowing their cup all sloppy.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Not but a few weeks ago I felt concern for others. Now I'm back to not really giving a shit if you get your numbers or not. Did I dawdle at a yellow and make you miss a light? Blame your slapped-seven-times snooze button, shit pig. Six would've had you eight minutes ahead of your day, and you wouldn't be back there fuming. And I do so hope you are fuming.
I'm not saying I've lost faith in humanity. That happened long ago. Life ain't all home-makeover shows and winning Lotto tickets, is it? In fact, Life ain't even close, is it? No, Life gives greatly to a few, and randomly so, in order to make us wonder, "Hey, why did THAT shitpile get a new Mustang?" Because God knows that guy who has lost three marriages and 8 kids to drugs, jail, crime, and more drugs should have a sweet car to sell so he can pay, not child support, but for that final, life-ending speedball.
Wait a second... did I just sniff some fairness? Blow me if that dudn't smell like hot apple pie and multiple orgasms the day after your least favorite co-worker gets escorted from the building by turkish prison doctors.
I know it'll all come out in the wash, but I'm humoring myself with my own prickishness for a wee bit. I'm not going to hurt anybody. I'm not driving under the influence of Tom Leykis or teaching blind kids to mime. But I have done the following:
* Closed doors to overly-loud, non-Geoff-affecting meetings on a half-hourly schedule.
* Told people "no" on a regular and frequent basis when their request neither benefits my reputation nor provides them any substantial foothold in being cool.
* Have avoided talking with people who I like while I'm within the sepia-toned fog of a beer hangover.
What I would really like to do now is tell this particularly self-loathing yet self-involved woman at work, "Hey dear... that's quite enough of the stories that affect only you." Yesterday was a 45 minute diatribe in her boss's office (door open) about how raising kids is the hardest thing in the world, how hard it is to be a good mom, how being a mom is like being a Drill Instructor and a Teddy Bear all at the same time... On and on. What I heard was...
"My 4 year old twins don't understand all the hell I go through just to get home and care for them. Instead of just loving them the best I can by being a Parent, I'm going to assume the Martyr role and secretly harbor resentment towards them because, as you can know I am a twice-divorced woman (door's been open other times), men cannot be counted on to contribute to my happiness, regardless if they are drunk on a couch, drunk on a lawn mower, drunk on my sister, or just innocent little kids who will eventually resent women, or at the least, never leave home so they'll take care of me. It's the circle of my life, like the elastic waist in my stirrup pants. Yes, this is a cable-knit cardigan."
or
"Gawd, that guy around the corner should stop wearing headphones. He'd probably be able to hear how much he farts."
I guess it's all in the tone of voice, you had to be there. I literally HAD to be there.
In the meantime, I should sum it up by saying this ain't a pity party. I have too much perspective on my life to get down over the burn I'm feeling lately. I've had much worse come my way, mostly of my own doing, and always came out stronger. That doesn't replace the want to call somebody taking too long at the grocery store a "canopy-dwelling pygmy slow loris," but it is, time to time, a nice balm.
=============
In another part of the galaxy, Jay Leno continues to rack up points in Purgatory for his egomaniacal projects. You think Heaven would book Leno over Hedberg, Hicks, and Dangerfield? And even hell would say "Oh come on, we don't want him... It's already Hell."
Jay has pledged to ride his celebrity-autographed motorcycle 'round the U.S. to raise money for Tsunami relief. Okay, the tsunami... yeah, the big wave that killed hundreds of thousands of pairs of your favorite jeans in December... was horrible. It's a major wake-up call to the rest of the world to start reading their Bibles. Christianity is about as popular in Thailand as having sex with a legal-aged woman in Thailand. Look up. That's the bar for Tsunami jokes. I may be able to best that.
Here's what chaps my Shandling. Jay is doing something he loves to do (blather, annoy others), on a great motorcycle, during the nicest time of year in America. It's for a TSUNAMI RELIEF EFFORT! Tsunami! Waves! Water! Destruction! Death! It's not a thoughtful gesture to have Matt Lauer interviewing you every Thursday to see where in the states your chin has ended up. Shouldn't he have to jump a Bellagio fountain full of his Michael Jackson jokes to make it seem like an effort?
Then again, the Rockies right now? Gorgeous. At least somebody is doing SOMETHING to help those people affected by the Tsunami... 6 months later.
===========
Thanks. I feel better. I guess I needed to write a bit.
BTW, I have no opinion on Cupcakes v. Muffins. They are equally delicious. However, I have serious issues with any pastry that is overflowing their cup all sloppy.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, June 06, 2005
Sense Her Ship!
The previous Muffin-Cupcake post dealt with some pretty tough issues.
I see now that had I never mentioned race whatsoever, it would have challenged me to write more creatively, yet clearly, in order to get across the point.
So if anybody is upset that race was mentioned and talked about, lighten up, and I mean that in an existential mood-sense, and no other way than that. Sometimes, jokes happen, and those who are offended are usually those left behind or those asking "What? What happened there? Why do I always have to ask questions at movies? Where is my walking stick? I'm going to hunt a mastodon because I'm a primitive shit pile! I only call it 'mastodon' because that's what they'll call it thousands of years from now when my metaphorical charicature is used in a 'blog' by 'Geoff Lott,' whatever kind of beast that will turn out like. And never you mind why I'm in the movies! Probably because that 'Geoff' thing is on the train of thought, and he wants you to know that your nitpicking is getting old, REALLY old, so quit the nagging, you seat sniffer."
Hey, anybody know how much a thermostat for a 1999 Chrysler Cirrus and a Radiator flush usually run? Because that's what I'm paying for tomorrow morning around 11am. It's gonna suck dingles, Barry.
We got it together baby...
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I see now that had I never mentioned race whatsoever, it would have challenged me to write more creatively, yet clearly, in order to get across the point.
So if anybody is upset that race was mentioned and talked about, lighten up, and I mean that in an existential mood-sense, and no other way than that. Sometimes, jokes happen, and those who are offended are usually those left behind or those asking "What? What happened there? Why do I always have to ask questions at movies? Where is my walking stick? I'm going to hunt a mastodon because I'm a primitive shit pile! I only call it 'mastodon' because that's what they'll call it thousands of years from now when my metaphorical charicature is used in a 'blog' by 'Geoff Lott,' whatever kind of beast that will turn out like. And never you mind why I'm in the movies! Probably because that 'Geoff' thing is on the train of thought, and he wants you to know that your nitpicking is getting old, REALLY old, so quit the nagging, you seat sniffer."
Hey, anybody know how much a thermostat for a 1999 Chrysler Cirrus and a Radiator flush usually run? Because that's what I'm paying for tomorrow morning around 11am. It's gonna suck dingles, Barry.
We got it together baby...
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Knowledge In Your Eye, Hand, Tummy
Does anybody out there know if the following is an already-prepped joke, and if so, by whom?
I'm not sure I'll ever do it on-stage, as it is a bit too cutesy, if not unfunny, for my sets, which lately have taken on an air of smarm with just a hint of Bourgoisie Masculinity. So here goes.
Muffins.
We call them "muffins" because, at 8:30 in the morning, nobody's gonna eat a Cupcake. You can jam all the blueberries you want in there, cake is cake, CarbLoader.
The only muffin that's actually a muffin is any muffin with Bran in it. You have never had bran cake, have you? And don't say you have just to try and ruin my muffin tirade. I'm not anti-muffin, I'm just anti-muffin naming.
Look, muffins are as much muffins as they are cupcakes, just depends on the situation. Morning, MUFFIN. Birthday party, CUPCAKE. Bedroom, BIKINI.
Like when that mulatto kid down the way is around his boys, he's "Urban." But the cops come around and oh boy, look who can't dance now? Be who you are, either muffin or cupcake. Accept that you may be both. But don't say Muffin when I can see your Chocolate Chips.
Call it what you will, but the truth is the truth. Muffins are for people who's dad would freak out if he caught them with cupcakes in the morning.
And their music is crap.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Consider that button Push-ed.
===================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I'm not sure I'll ever do it on-stage, as it is a bit too cutesy, if not unfunny, for my sets, which lately have taken on an air of smarm with just a hint of Bourgoisie Masculinity. So here goes.
Muffins.
We call them "muffins" because, at 8:30 in the morning, nobody's gonna eat a Cupcake. You can jam all the blueberries you want in there, cake is cake, CarbLoader.
The only muffin that's actually a muffin is any muffin with Bran in it. You have never had bran cake, have you? And don't say you have just to try and ruin my muffin tirade. I'm not anti-muffin, I'm just anti-muffin naming.
Look, muffins are as much muffins as they are cupcakes, just depends on the situation. Morning, MUFFIN. Birthday party, CUPCAKE. Bedroom, BIKINI.
Like when that mulatto kid down the way is around his boys, he's "Urban." But the cops come around and oh boy, look who can't dance now? Be who you are, either muffin or cupcake. Accept that you may be both. But don't say Muffin when I can see your Chocolate Chips.
Call it what you will, but the truth is the truth. Muffins are for people who's dad would freak out if he caught them with cupcakes in the morning.
And their music is crap.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Consider that button Push-ed.
===================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Thankless Little Bastard
Dear Ma,
Thank you so much, again, for all of your help in the final move and clean on Monday... or Sunday. The days run together when I do that much hero... when I don't sleep much. You were a lifesaver, and showed your moxie and muscle with multiple table moves! I can't believe we still have that old dining room table. I used to sit at that thing and taunt Katie, the dog, and probably myself. I've done homework at it. With well over 14 gallons of lacquer coating that old hatchcover, it will surely be around long after the dog dies...
What?
Schatzi's DEAD? WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME??? SHE WAS WHAT, LIKE 23? SO YOUNG!
Oh she died in 1997? -ish? Damn. I really miss her all of a sudden. Remember that time we were watching the Cosby show and I was constructing a diorama of the Last Supper out of glitter, macaroni, and my own blood, and Schatzi bit it right off the back of the couch? GAWD, she acted like she meant to do it, but what a hoot we had! She was a great dog. I sure will miss HEY I found $5 in my pocket!
Seriously though, you have shown a strength and resolve in the past year that can only be deemed as Spirited. With everything these Lotts have had put on our table, as well as those problems facing Sue and Grampa, this is where all of that love we've been banking can really be cashed in. I'm all for ya, Mom. Katie, not as much, she's a Cancer and what-not, but hey, I'm here if ya need me. Even though when I was 3 and I was watching the neighbor dog 'tween the slats in the fence and my big baby head got stuck and you helped me out.
AFTER laughing and taking a picture of me with a stuck big baby head. That's why I'm thinning up top now. Doctor said so.
Too bad Kates ain't got a blog.
=====
Honestly, the simple fact that my mom has done all she's done in the past 4 years as my dad's condition progressed is a feat of Love, Spirit, Strength, and she's done it all 100% sober. She is the anchor of our family. And if you ever want to stop smoking, just ask me to ask my mom to pray for you. You'll stop smoking right after an accident lands you in the hospital, swear to Charles Nelson Riley, it's happened twice.
Love you, Mom.
=====
I gotta go. I'm staying with Alicia, Tony, and Killorn for a couple days and Tony and Killorn want to use the computer so they can upload their latest "couples video." It's likely the one where Tony plays a plumber and Killorn's at home alone and Tony comes in and drinks all my vodka and then drops a 2-zee in the garbage disposal. Part 3. Pray for me.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thank you so much, again, for all of your help in the final move and clean on Monday... or Sunday. The days run together when I do that much hero... when I don't sleep much. You were a lifesaver, and showed your moxie and muscle with multiple table moves! I can't believe we still have that old dining room table. I used to sit at that thing and taunt Katie, the dog, and probably myself. I've done homework at it. With well over 14 gallons of lacquer coating that old hatchcover, it will surely be around long after the dog dies...
What?
Schatzi's DEAD? WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME??? SHE WAS WHAT, LIKE 23? SO YOUNG!
Oh she died in 1997? -ish? Damn. I really miss her all of a sudden. Remember that time we were watching the Cosby show and I was constructing a diorama of the Last Supper out of glitter, macaroni, and my own blood, and Schatzi bit it right off the back of the couch? GAWD, she acted like she meant to do it, but what a hoot we had! She was a great dog. I sure will miss HEY I found $5 in my pocket!
Seriously though, you have shown a strength and resolve in the past year that can only be deemed as Spirited. With everything these Lotts have had put on our table, as well as those problems facing Sue and Grampa, this is where all of that love we've been banking can really be cashed in. I'm all for ya, Mom. Katie, not as much, she's a Cancer and what-not, but hey, I'm here if ya need me. Even though when I was 3 and I was watching the neighbor dog 'tween the slats in the fence and my big baby head got stuck and you helped me out.
AFTER laughing and taking a picture of me with a stuck big baby head. That's why I'm thinning up top now. Doctor said so.
Too bad Kates ain't got a blog.
=====
Honestly, the simple fact that my mom has done all she's done in the past 4 years as my dad's condition progressed is a feat of Love, Spirit, Strength, and she's done it all 100% sober. She is the anchor of our family. And if you ever want to stop smoking, just ask me to ask my mom to pray for you. You'll stop smoking right after an accident lands you in the hospital, swear to Charles Nelson Riley, it's happened twice.
Love you, Mom.
=====
I gotta go. I'm staying with Alicia, Tony, and Killorn for a couple days and Tony and Killorn want to use the computer so they can upload their latest "couples video." It's likely the one where Tony plays a plumber and Killorn's at home alone and Tony comes in and drinks all my vodka and then drops a 2-zee in the garbage disposal. Part 3. Pray for me.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Many Thanks, and a Notice
Many many thanks to Alicia, Killorn, Shoogs, Tracy, and Farts Mosey-Moser (not her real name) for their help in the move this past weekend. It never got to the point of pending nor actual fisticuffs, but I did throw up out of exhaustion after realizing I moved the dresser down three flights of stairs without pulling the drawers nor the body parts therein - OUT.
DUMMY HEAD This guy, huh?
Also, I'm gonna be busy as Robin Williams at an Open Mic for the next while, but I'll write when I can. Yeah, big threat, I know you care tons and what-not, but I guess it goes like this:
There's a LOT of useless news and generally masturbatory crap being floated about in the blogosphere, comedy stages, and your mom's sock drawer.... bzzzzzzz...
It is my intent to write something worth reading, and not just flarping forth some slam-dunk essay on Paris Hilton (engaged to be divorced, so popular), drug side effects, hopelessness, STDs, Girl Scouts, and why black people are different from white people, which I'm still not sure the precise factors involved therein. Has something to do with dancing, clothes, talking with polices, and how big a girl can get before she's deemed "unattractive." (I think it's when she can't cover rent)
Stop furrowing your Botox field, if anyone other than a white guy had said it, they'd call it "edgy." I see the line in the sand just fine, thank you.
So anywho, racist stereotype comedy is always a crowd pleaser, I have two storage units that look like a top-down view of Tetris (on Crack!!!), and I'll be damned if Kidd Valley doesn't sog a bun every time around.
More to write when it's useful. Get a drink.
DUMMY HEAD This guy, huh?
Also, I'm gonna be busy as Robin Williams at an Open Mic for the next while, but I'll write when I can. Yeah, big threat, I know you care tons and what-not, but I guess it goes like this:
There's a LOT of useless news and generally masturbatory crap being floated about in the blogosphere, comedy stages, and your mom's sock drawer.... bzzzzzzz...
It is my intent to write something worth reading, and not just flarping forth some slam-dunk essay on Paris Hilton (engaged to be divorced, so popular), drug side effects, hopelessness, STDs, Girl Scouts, and why black people are different from white people, which I'm still not sure the precise factors involved therein. Has something to do with dancing, clothes, talking with polices, and how big a girl can get before she's deemed "unattractive." (I think it's when she can't cover rent)
Stop furrowing your Botox field, if anyone other than a white guy had said it, they'd call it "edgy." I see the line in the sand just fine, thank you.
So anywho, racist stereotype comedy is always a crowd pleaser, I have two storage units that look like a top-down view of Tetris (on Crack!!!), and I'll be damned if Kidd Valley doesn't sog a bun every time around.
More to write when it's useful. Get a drink.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
It'll Take Spinach, Lo-Carb Monster, and Chevy Flatbed
Aaaah, the joys of moving.
What are they?
Getting rid of old crap, that's about it. So far I've loaded at least 3 if not 17 50-gallon Hefty bags (not a plug) full of unused, two years-untouched crap such. Old shoelaces (huh?), 1/10th of a tube of men's body wash (yow!), and an empty bottle of Grey Goose (a plug).
I've yet to pack my kitchen, bedroom closet, or time management. In the meantime I'm closing on my condo tomorrow, and feeling really good about everything. I have written e-commitments from a couple of guys to help me move this weekend (standard pay scale, pizza & beer), and am about to call in and get my cable, phone, and Secret Service surveillance team changed to my new address. I've got plenty to do.
I'm at the point where most things are boxed up, except my TV and stereo, dishes, pots/pans, . And some things can't be boxed, like the entertainment center, couch, coffee table, desk, bed, dresser... holy sh... bedside table, book case, and multiple storage bins. It's all the big stuff, and odd as it sounds, this is the best I've ever packed. At THIS point, of course. That usually changes on that last day of the move prior to cleaning, where I'm running through the apartment at 11:53pm with a Bobcat front-loader, trailing a Zamboni machine loaded with OxiClean, SimpleGreen, Dasani, and toothpaste (double-action agent for ambient odors AND knicks in the drywall).
OH FAWK, the DRYWALL.
It's been a fun little journey, this homebuying thing. My housing payment is actually $70 LESS than my rent payment, for another 300sq-ft, an extra bedroom (don't tell Bradley Lewis), a small backyard (beer swing on backorder), and a kitchen and master bathroom I can gut and remodel. It's the start of what I hope will be a long line of real estate purchases. By 2015 I hope to own most of NorthEast KingCounty. Militia uniforms on backorder.
If I could share any part of my experience with you, it would be this: Do whatever you can to purchase some real estate. It appreciates immediately. It's not as expensive as you think. They don't want the whole $2.3mil for the place (oops, did I slip?) all at once. And if nothing else, you can do this the old fashioned way. It's been too long since we had a good case of squatter's rights.
Right now, I feel like I ought to just jack-up one side of my apartment and snow-shovel whatever's left inside into a dumptruck. Garage sale forthcoming. I have a custom-made bodywash cocktail that'll knock your socks off, and will leave you with that "Just did a rail" feeling!
==-=-=-=-=-=-=-==
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
What are they?
Getting rid of old crap, that's about it. So far I've loaded at least 3 if not 17 50-gallon Hefty bags (not a plug) full of unused, two years-untouched crap such. Old shoelaces (huh?), 1/10th of a tube of men's body wash (yow!), and an empty bottle of Grey Goose (a plug).
I've yet to pack my kitchen, bedroom closet, or time management. In the meantime I'm closing on my condo tomorrow, and feeling really good about everything. I have written e-commitments from a couple of guys to help me move this weekend (standard pay scale, pizza & beer), and am about to call in and get my cable, phone, and Secret Service surveillance team changed to my new address. I've got plenty to do.
I'm at the point where most things are boxed up, except my TV and stereo, dishes, pots/pans, . And some things can't be boxed, like the entertainment center, couch, coffee table, desk, bed, dresser... holy sh... bedside table, book case, and multiple storage bins. It's all the big stuff, and odd as it sounds, this is the best I've ever packed. At THIS point, of course. That usually changes on that last day of the move prior to cleaning, where I'm running through the apartment at 11:53pm with a Bobcat front-loader, trailing a Zamboni machine loaded with OxiClean, SimpleGreen, Dasani, and toothpaste (double-action agent for ambient odors AND knicks in the drywall).
OH FAWK, the DRYWALL.
It's been a fun little journey, this homebuying thing. My housing payment is actually $70 LESS than my rent payment, for another 300sq-ft, an extra bedroom (don't tell Bradley Lewis), a small backyard (beer swing on backorder), and a kitchen and master bathroom I can gut and remodel. It's the start of what I hope will be a long line of real estate purchases. By 2015 I hope to own most of NorthEast KingCounty. Militia uniforms on backorder.
If I could share any part of my experience with you, it would be this: Do whatever you can to purchase some real estate. It appreciates immediately. It's not as expensive as you think. They don't want the whole $2.3mil for the place (oops, did I slip?) all at once. And if nothing else, you can do this the old fashioned way. It's been too long since we had a good case of squatter's rights.
Right now, I feel like I ought to just jack-up one side of my apartment and snow-shovel whatever's left inside into a dumptruck. Garage sale forthcoming. I have a custom-made bodywash cocktail that'll knock your socks off, and will leave you with that "Just did a rail" feeling!
==-=-=-=-=-=-=-==
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
Do's and Don'ts of Crappy Customer Service
If you are ever wondering what you, an employee of the University of Washington Medical Center in Shoreline, can do to prove that you, and apparently ONLY you, have your head lodged ass-wise, do THIS!
First, when somebody makes an appointment with your clinic, do NOT update their information. Especially the phone number. That's how you could call them to tell them about the problem with the appointment they made.
Second, when somebody makes an appointment with a specialist in your clinic, do NOT mention that, in order to see a specialist, the patient must be referred to that specialist, and can be referred by general physician within your clinic, and ONLY a physician within your clinic.
Third, when somebody with an appointment that shouldn't have been made in the first place shows up, do NOT be present to explain the situation, even though you answered the phone not 3 minutes prior to the patient walking through the door. Leave your colleague to break the news and cover your ass, while offering to get the patient in with a doctor who can make the ever-so-precious referral within 90 minutes. Hide in the bathroom with what is likely a weak constitution and milky, clammy skin.
And call yourself Scott.
================
If you are a policy-maker for Safeway Grocers, or hell, for any company that has overhauled their Customer Service stance in the past year to include verbally mauling shoppers, and want to prove that you are out of touch with the shopper while thinking you are making a pre-emptive dent in the reputations of WalMart or Whole Foods... Do THIS!
First, hire an aggressive carnival barker to push your line of custom soups. Make sure he does not greet, but instead CONFRONTS, every passing customer with a "Have you tried this soup?" And please make it a pre-requisite that he is nasally loud, and moustachioed, and bushily so, like a walrus or a cop in a disco band.
Second, walk around in a tan shirt that is emblazoned with your store's logo, guaranteeing that you'll wear it with pride, in case your boss should ask how you wear it. Talk to people who aren't making eye contact with you, in order to break their train of thought of why they came into your store anyway... gawd, what was it? Flamethrower? Bear trap? No...
Third, keep those with the weakest grip on the region's native tongue stationed where they have to ask and answer questions of customers. Perhaps they can help a guy find... what the hell was it?
Finally, pretend that this IS your dream come true. It will keep you from draining another Bacardi Silver and trading salamis with the Soup Trooper.
==========
I remember a time when helpful people were available to help you, not waiting underfoot like discarded, yapping, wretched, hairless rat-dogs named Mr. Peanut who can't seem to get a website so... TORTILLAS! Damn, now I have to go back? No way. I'm eating my tacos the old-fashioned way: Drunk at 2:30a.m. from bag.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
First, when somebody makes an appointment with your clinic, do NOT update their information. Especially the phone number. That's how you could call them to tell them about the problem with the appointment they made.
Second, when somebody makes an appointment with a specialist in your clinic, do NOT mention that, in order to see a specialist, the patient must be referred to that specialist, and can be referred by general physician within your clinic, and ONLY a physician within your clinic.
Third, when somebody with an appointment that shouldn't have been made in the first place shows up, do NOT be present to explain the situation, even though you answered the phone not 3 minutes prior to the patient walking through the door. Leave your colleague to break the news and cover your ass, while offering to get the patient in with a doctor who can make the ever-so-precious referral within 90 minutes. Hide in the bathroom with what is likely a weak constitution and milky, clammy skin.
And call yourself Scott.
================
If you are a policy-maker for Safeway Grocers, or hell, for any company that has overhauled their Customer Service stance in the past year to include verbally mauling shoppers, and want to prove that you are out of touch with the shopper while thinking you are making a pre-emptive dent in the reputations of WalMart or Whole Foods... Do THIS!
First, hire an aggressive carnival barker to push your line of custom soups. Make sure he does not greet, but instead CONFRONTS, every passing customer with a "Have you tried this soup?" And please make it a pre-requisite that he is nasally loud, and moustachioed, and bushily so, like a walrus or a cop in a disco band.
Second, walk around in a tan shirt that is emblazoned with your store's logo, guaranteeing that you'll wear it with pride, in case your boss should ask how you wear it. Talk to people who aren't making eye contact with you, in order to break their train of thought of why they came into your store anyway... gawd, what was it? Flamethrower? Bear trap? No...
Third, keep those with the weakest grip on the region's native tongue stationed where they have to ask and answer questions of customers. Perhaps they can help a guy find... what the hell was it?
Finally, pretend that this IS your dream come true. It will keep you from draining another Bacardi Silver and trading salamis with the Soup Trooper.
==========
I remember a time when helpful people were available to help you, not waiting underfoot like discarded, yapping, wretched, hairless rat-dogs named Mr. Peanut who can't seem to get a website so... TORTILLAS! Damn, now I have to go back? No way. I'm eating my tacos the old-fashioned way: Drunk at 2:30a.m. from bag.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, May 23, 2005
Comforthing
So... James Wolcott wrote, in the most recent issue of Vanity Fair (the one with the stars of Dyspeptic Barmaids on it), about Stand-up Comedy being dead, and there being no edge left to it.
The blog-unfindable Lizzy first alerted my sector of the world to this article, so I fig'red it would be a good read. I found a copy of VF at the sto', but wasn't going to drop $4.50 when all I wanted was about 12 pages of the magazine. You know you're a maturing male when the articles are more interesting. I have an imagination, thank you, and whatever Teri Hatcher's doing to Marcia Cross with that Kitchen Aid mixer and a stomach pump whilst both don firefighter's overalls and little else, well, it idn't yer garsh dern bidnoose.
I miss my friend's blogs.
I found Wolcott's article on-line, and am preparing to read it as I type this. The first quote in the article is from Garry Shandling, saying how Johnny Carson, God rest his soul, was the first person Shandling ever craved the approval of. I can understand that. It has to get edgier for references, I hope. Garry Shandling?
Wolcott lives in Manhattan, and is a book, TV, movie, and general pop culture critic, while doubling duty as a moderate weirdouche. He has 3 cats, and appears to have written a poof-piece about a the dating scene in Manhattan that rips of Jane Austen, "The Catsitters." For the love of Street Jokes, the guy writes for VANITY FAIR. I sense that most of Britney's videos illicited a change in heart rate for Wolcott. I'll find out more after I read his stuff.
Review of reviewer to be released as soon as time, packing, and my being on hiatus allows.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
The blog-unfindable Lizzy first alerted my sector of the world to this article, so I fig'red it would be a good read. I found a copy of VF at the sto', but wasn't going to drop $4.50 when all I wanted was about 12 pages of the magazine. You know you're a maturing male when the articles are more interesting. I have an imagination, thank you, and whatever Teri Hatcher's doing to Marcia Cross with that Kitchen Aid mixer and a stomach pump whilst both don firefighter's overalls and little else, well, it idn't yer garsh dern bidnoose.
I miss my friend's blogs.
I found Wolcott's article on-line, and am preparing to read it as I type this. The first quote in the article is from Garry Shandling, saying how Johnny Carson, God rest his soul, was the first person Shandling ever craved the approval of. I can understand that. It has to get edgier for references, I hope. Garry Shandling?
Wolcott lives in Manhattan, and is a book, TV, movie, and general pop culture critic, while doubling duty as a moderate weirdouche. He has 3 cats, and appears to have written a poof-piece about a the dating scene in Manhattan that rips of Jane Austen, "The Catsitters." For the love of Street Jokes, the guy writes for VANITY FAIR. I sense that most of Britney's videos illicited a change in heart rate for Wolcott. I'll find out more after I read his stuff.
Review of reviewer to be released as soon as time, packing, and my being on hiatus allows.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Before I Go -- Sometimes "Haters" Aren't Hatin', Just Wonderin' "Why?
This is hysterical to me. I've never heard of San Francisco 49ers' receiver Brandon Lloyd. This is an article from YahooNews I just couldn't pass up.
Fantasy owners are hopeful that Lloyd will have more to rap about next offseason after he finishes his third season. Brandon is not listed in our top-40 offseason wide receiver rankings, nor do we expect his album to crack the top-40 charts. (Verdict: as a rapper, he makes a moderately decent wide receiver)
You understand, of course, I'm going to download this...
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News
49ers' wide receiver Brandon Lloyd has recorded a rap album. "I'm trying to show people what it is to be in my shoes, who I am, what I do," Lloyd told the Mercury News of his second career. (whew! Good, wow! can't wait to hear a song about playing special teams and acting bored around 19 year-old community college chicks) The third-year receiver admits that his main profession eliminates some of the material other rappers use. "I can't talk about drugs and shooting people," he said. "That's not what I'm doing. So I rap about my experiences and traveling and just hanging out." (gripping. check out the undergound single "This Morning I Had A Vitamin") Lloyd will release the material under the name B.Lloyd. (names NOT chosen: B-Lo, Bloyd, Branlo, Skids, NightGas, StrapSnarfer)
Fantasy owners are hopeful that Lloyd will have more to rap about next offseason after he finishes his third season. Brandon is not listed in our top-40 offseason wide receiver rankings, nor do we expect his album to crack the top-40 charts. (Verdict: as a rapper, he makes a moderately decent wide receiver)
You understand, of course, I'm going to download this...
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My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, May 22, 2005
Hiatus
Dear Reader,
Thank you for stopping by and checking things out. I think I have some of the funniest, most creative readers in the house. Thanks for everything up to this point. I'm sure more will follow.
In the meantime, I've got lots going on, so I'm-a take a break on the writing thing. Check out my archives, though, and see where I was a year ago.
When I return, I'm aiming to deliver something worth reading every time I post, something that will make you laugh until you pee, then realize that you get so turned on by watersports that you have found a new level of eroticism, and can't help but thank me for it. Or something that will rile you into action against your drug dealer.
I'm out. Take care.
Peace.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thank you for stopping by and checking things out. I think I have some of the funniest, most creative readers in the house. Thanks for everything up to this point. I'm sure more will follow.
In the meantime, I've got lots going on, so I'm-a take a break on the writing thing. Check out my archives, though, and see where I was a year ago.
When I return, I'm aiming to deliver something worth reading every time I post, something that will make you laugh until you pee, then realize that you get so turned on by watersports that you have found a new level of eroticism, and can't help but thank me for it. Or something that will rile you into action against your drug dealer.
I'm out. Take care.
Peace.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, May 19, 2005
A Police Presence, Kind of Like A Fart
Sad to say, last night during the Mariners - Yankees Game, a man by the name of John Douchebag broke into my girlfriend's car. Smashed in the passenger window, mauled the dash in an attempt to make off with the stereo, and instead left with a handful of CDs. Hours of inconvenience, caused in a few moments, raising insurance rates for all of us. Oh yeah, and don't get me started on the Insurance Industry just yet.
Thievery Douche-ola didn't make off with nearly enough of my girlfriend's belongings to make worthwhile the hassles of getting a new window and all the paperwork handled. But she did call the police in order to get a report and a case number. From all accounts, the officer was a total dickhole.
I know that car burgles ain't all that exciting to cops. Got it. Mostly just paperwork and But this guy was a wad. I hope that it's not reflective of the police force as a whole. Sheesh, that guy's probably my counterpart on his job: Grumpy and Rumpled and ready to move on. But after the shit's gone down, he tells my girlfriend "You shouldn't leave stuff in your car." Thank you, Officer. Sorry to interrupt your shaking down of prostitutes.
That's right, people. Every crime enacted against you is your fault. I have forgotten that so many times. Every time I was bullied, my fault for making the bully mad. Every time a car was broken into, my fault for parking somewhere other than where I could stay up all night and stare at it. Every time a woman is followed into a dark alley, that whore... And every time your pension fund is raided, or your identity is stolen, or you are molested via e-mail... It is YOUR fault, and you must exact the proper measures so that NEVER AGAIN is the line you are in cut into by someone who feels they are the only person that matters.
Is it that the police are no longer "peace keepers?" They are Law Enforcement Officers, damn you, and will be respected as such. It is is VITAL to their well-being to treat every situation, from a cat stuck tree-ward to a drunken man firing a submachine gun at his adopted immigrant workforce children stuck tree-ward, the SAME. You MUST be in control. Show no compassion. Show no weakness. Show your mustache and flat-top. And speak in short sentences.
A police presence wouldn't stop crime, by the numbers. It would just flush it to other areas. The only thing that can stop crime is, quite simply, vigilante justice. Arm yourself with alarms, firearms, explosives, and cobras. Imagine that... somebody breaks into your house while you're at Eric Clapton's Rehab Island and all they hear is "ssssssssssss." Right until the SPROING! YEAH CRIMINIAL, YOU GOT A COBRA ON YOUR EYE!!! For many years I have wanted to create a car alarm system that reacts in the following way:
All electronics are wired to a main system that is dis-armed when the key is in the ignition. The main system is then wired to low-grade explosives or a flamethrower. If any item on the dashboard is disengaged from the BoomBoom-GL and the key is not in place... well... BLAM. The car blows up. Look, if you're gonna break into my car, let's have a f*cking SHOW. My insurance will go up $25 a quarter either way. Bye bye criminals.
Got any stories of dis-enchanted cops? Here's another one. Three years ago I'm at the stoplight at Denny and Westlake, behind two cruisers, side by side. Heading Northbound, away from the station, I figure these guys are just on-shift at 10pm. They're talking out their windows to each other. The light turns green, they chat a few seconds more as a MiniVan RUNS the red light heading East, right in front of the cops. They watch the MV, look at each other, shrug, and carry on. No harm, no foul, I guess.
Let's hear your stories of police officers wrapped up in being a Cop more than being a helpful person in the public eye.
Police are not the enemy, they are people who have to make decisions about whether to shoot or beat the minority first, then assess the situation. What are we gonna do?
However, they maced, gassed, and beat living hell out of the Hippies back around the WTO situation, so they've got that going for them. Oh, and crowning the meatheads during the Seattle Mardi Gras melee was STELLAR, although their presence didn't help for that young man who was beaten to death.
I'm gonna need a good lawyer.
====================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thievery Douche-ola didn't make off with nearly enough of my girlfriend's belongings to make worthwhile the hassles of getting a new window and all the paperwork handled. But she did call the police in order to get a report and a case number. From all accounts, the officer was a total dickhole.
I know that car burgles ain't all that exciting to cops. Got it. Mostly just paperwork and But this guy was a wad. I hope that it's not reflective of the police force as a whole. Sheesh, that guy's probably my counterpart on his job: Grumpy and Rumpled and ready to move on. But after the shit's gone down, he tells my girlfriend "You shouldn't leave stuff in your car." Thank you, Officer. Sorry to interrupt your shaking down of prostitutes.
That's right, people. Every crime enacted against you is your fault. I have forgotten that so many times. Every time I was bullied, my fault for making the bully mad. Every time a car was broken into, my fault for parking somewhere other than where I could stay up all night and stare at it. Every time a woman is followed into a dark alley, that whore... And every time your pension fund is raided, or your identity is stolen, or you are molested via e-mail... It is YOUR fault, and you must exact the proper measures so that NEVER AGAIN is the line you are in cut into by someone who feels they are the only person that matters.
Is it that the police are no longer "peace keepers?" They are Law Enforcement Officers, damn you, and will be respected as such. It is is VITAL to their well-being to treat every situation, from a cat stuck tree-ward to a drunken man firing a submachine gun at his adopted immigrant workforce children stuck tree-ward, the SAME. You MUST be in control. Show no compassion. Show no weakness. Show your mustache and flat-top. And speak in short sentences.
A police presence wouldn't stop crime, by the numbers. It would just flush it to other areas. The only thing that can stop crime is, quite simply, vigilante justice. Arm yourself with alarms, firearms, explosives, and cobras. Imagine that... somebody breaks into your house while you're at Eric Clapton's Rehab Island and all they hear is "ssssssssssss." Right until the SPROING! YEAH CRIMINIAL, YOU GOT A COBRA ON YOUR EYE!!! For many years I have wanted to create a car alarm system that reacts in the following way:
All electronics are wired to a main system that is dis-armed when the key is in the ignition. The main system is then wired to low-grade explosives or a flamethrower. If any item on the dashboard is disengaged from the BoomBoom-GL and the key is not in place... well... BLAM. The car blows up. Look, if you're gonna break into my car, let's have a f*cking SHOW. My insurance will go up $25 a quarter either way. Bye bye criminals.
Got any stories of dis-enchanted cops? Here's another one. Three years ago I'm at the stoplight at Denny and Westlake, behind two cruisers, side by side. Heading Northbound, away from the station, I figure these guys are just on-shift at 10pm. They're talking out their windows to each other. The light turns green, they chat a few seconds more as a MiniVan RUNS the red light heading East, right in front of the cops. They watch the MV, look at each other, shrug, and carry on. No harm, no foul, I guess.
Let's hear your stories of police officers wrapped up in being a Cop more than being a helpful person in the public eye.
Police are not the enemy, they are people who have to make decisions about whether to shoot or beat the minority first, then assess the situation. What are we gonna do?
However, they maced, gassed, and beat living hell out of the Hippies back around the WTO situation, so they've got that going for them. Oh, and crowning the meatheads during the Seattle Mardi Gras melee was STELLAR, although their presence didn't help for that young man who was beaten to death.
I'm gonna need a good lawyer.
====================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
REVIEW OF... Star Wars III: The End Of The Beginning
I have to make this quick, because this nasally-clogged idjit a few seats away from mine is gale-force blowing tsnotsunamis one after the other. 10 seconds yielded 7 expulsions, one of which was most of my breakfast.
Last week I won passes to see the latest and lastest Star Wars movie, Star Wars III: The Chronic '05 Fah Tha Streetz. I admit that I have not seen the previous 2 movies, which I heard were horrible. I was hoping I could follow along.
I won the passes through work, as did a lot of folks. Nothing makes a person feel good about themselves quite like the sight of their co-workers miserable lives. Nobody dressed up like Star Wars characters. A few people dressed up like boring assholes. Nobody appreciated my Vulcan ears and nerve pinchings. Married couples stared off into space. A girl showed a lot of cleavage because her gut stretched her shirt downward with gusto and beer. The woman... yeah, woman to my left nearing not only the 500lb mark, but also the 6'6" mark. Pro-wrestler size, wow. It was awesome.
Before we could even get into the theater we were required to leave all cell phones in the car. No audio capabilities, no picture-phoning. This was good because most of my carrier's phones don't work indoors. Still, had to take the phone to the car. After the movie, in the restroom, a guy who sat a row behind me was on his phone while having a wizz, so security was great.
A director of another department spoke prior to the movie to let us know about how, a year ago, her team flew to the Skywalker Ranch to discuss a branding tie-in with this latest Star Wars movie. Skywalker Ranch was also going to be a salad dressing, but no real Star Wars fan is going to put salad dressing on their Darth Bugles nor their Obi Wan Kenoodles, nor anywhere near a vegetable. Dang, another $2,000,000 into the escape hatch. Moving on, the director lady said "It is because of your work in the past year that our promotion has gone so well. Without you, we could never have done this." No, I'm pretty sure it would have gotten done without my spreadsheets, seeing as how that woman could have been a paid extra in a bad suit and frizzy hair-don't and I wouldn't have been the wiser.
Then we watched the movie. The Wookiees are kick-ass but don't get enough screen time. The low-points of the movie include any moment where the guy playing Anakin Skywalker is talking to Natalie Portman instead of eating food off of her, and needing to take a squirt with 30 minutes left. I'll give it away to you right now...
The movie just ENDS. Done. What about all the other people? Where the hell is the Darth guy, and the emporer who looks like the Queen of England? ZERO friggin' resolution to this movie, other than General Grievous dying and the cameo of a very green, very Jewish Woody Allen.
This movie is SHIT.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Last week I won passes to see the latest and lastest Star Wars movie, Star Wars III: The Chronic '05 Fah Tha Streetz. I admit that I have not seen the previous 2 movies, which I heard were horrible. I was hoping I could follow along.
I won the passes through work, as did a lot of folks. Nothing makes a person feel good about themselves quite like the sight of their co-workers miserable lives. Nobody dressed up like Star Wars characters. A few people dressed up like boring assholes. Nobody appreciated my Vulcan ears and nerve pinchings. Married couples stared off into space. A girl showed a lot of cleavage because her gut stretched her shirt downward with gusto and beer. The woman... yeah, woman to my left nearing not only the 500lb mark, but also the 6'6" mark. Pro-wrestler size, wow. It was awesome.
Before we could even get into the theater we were required to leave all cell phones in the car. No audio capabilities, no picture-phoning. This was good because most of my carrier's phones don't work indoors. Still, had to take the phone to the car. After the movie, in the restroom, a guy who sat a row behind me was on his phone while having a wizz, so security was great.
A director of another department spoke prior to the movie to let us know about how, a year ago, her team flew to the Skywalker Ranch to discuss a branding tie-in with this latest Star Wars movie. Skywalker Ranch was also going to be a salad dressing, but no real Star Wars fan is going to put salad dressing on their Darth Bugles nor their Obi Wan Kenoodles, nor anywhere near a vegetable. Dang, another $2,000,000 into the escape hatch. Moving on, the director lady said "It is because of your work in the past year that our promotion has gone so well. Without you, we could never have done this." No, I'm pretty sure it would have gotten done without my spreadsheets, seeing as how that woman could have been a paid extra in a bad suit and frizzy hair-don't and I wouldn't have been the wiser.
Then we watched the movie. The Wookiees are kick-ass but don't get enough screen time. The low-points of the movie include any moment where the guy playing Anakin Skywalker is talking to Natalie Portman instead of eating food off of her, and needing to take a squirt with 30 minutes left. I'll give it away to you right now...
The movie just ENDS. Done. What about all the other people? Where the hell is the Darth guy, and the emporer who looks like the Queen of England? ZERO friggin' resolution to this movie, other than General Grievous dying and the cameo of a very green, very Jewish Woody Allen.
This movie is SHIT.
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My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
What I Meant To Blog Was...
I have figured out why I dislike hearing people talk on their cell phones in public, and why I, too, hate doing so.
If you have a vital conversation you find a place that is quiet, isolated from noise so that you don't miss any of the info that's going on.
A couple weeks ago on the way home from Spokane, sitting at the gate in airplane-waiting position, a gal sat behind me jabbering at top volume. She also had a nervous tic that made her look like a yawning dog, and was ill enough to be snorking back snot like it was cut on a mirror at Studio 54. She was telling somebody on the other end "At the airport... gate C... ten minutes... about 15... we leave in an hour... I think it's a double prop plane." Uh, hey... maybe giving coordinates of the plane and a passenger list would suit her better. And holy moly, what a dynamic personality! Mark my words, pretty soon, for the sake of security, the Transportation Safety Administration is going to outlaw the use of cell phones once you get past security, because I'll have been shoving phones ass-bound.
But every other cellphone conversation that I am thrown under is usually just an exercise in banality. Whenever possible, I'm going to follow people on cell phones in public, pull out a small notepad, and write down everything they say.
What? Invasion of privacy? Nope, sorry, it's a public place, ladies bathroom or not.
============================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
If you have a vital conversation you find a place that is quiet, isolated from noise so that you don't miss any of the info that's going on.
A couple weeks ago on the way home from Spokane, sitting at the gate in airplane-waiting position, a gal sat behind me jabbering at top volume. She also had a nervous tic that made her look like a yawning dog, and was ill enough to be snorking back snot like it was cut on a mirror at Studio 54. She was telling somebody on the other end "At the airport... gate C... ten minutes... about 15... we leave in an hour... I think it's a double prop plane." Uh, hey... maybe giving coordinates of the plane and a passenger list would suit her better. And holy moly, what a dynamic personality! Mark my words, pretty soon, for the sake of security, the Transportation Safety Administration is going to outlaw the use of cell phones once you get past security, because I'll have been shoving phones ass-bound.
But every other cellphone conversation that I am thrown under is usually just an exercise in banality. Whenever possible, I'm going to follow people on cell phones in public, pull out a small notepad, and write down everything they say.
What? Invasion of privacy? Nope, sorry, it's a public place, ladies bathroom or not.
============================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
General Mayhem & Captain Grunderflaps
This evening, the Princess and Count Braapula (me) are taking the X-Wing (1999 Chrysler Cirkus) to a sneak-preview of "STAR WARS III: This Space for Rent" down in Redmond, WA. The past 10 years has taken Redmond from "The New Silicon Valley" to "Nerds With Benefits Highlands." I won the tickets through a drawing at work, and I doubt we have the entire theater just for members of the Blob a l'Orange gang. This shouldn't stop anyone from wearing doing "The Robot" while asking where "R2 has gotten off to."
In the meantime, when you hear reports of somebody walking around doing a "Vulcan nerve grip" on annoyed patrons, think of me.
Tommorrow's blog! Full review of Star Wars III: Bigger & Blacker, complete with awards for biggest dork, coolest hair, and loudest Wookiee growl (which is actually just a bear).
Oh, and this one ain't got no Ewoks, so NYEAH!
====
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
In the meantime, when you hear reports of somebody walking around doing a "Vulcan nerve grip" on annoyed patrons, think of me.
Tommorrow's blog! Full review of Star Wars III: Bigger & Blacker, complete with awards for biggest dork, coolest hair, and loudest Wookiee growl (which is actually just a bear).
Oh, and this one ain't got no Ewoks, so NYEAH!
====
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, May 16, 2005
Juxtaperspective
First up, to those who have left comments, thank you for reading and input. It's cool that this little blogosphere is connected to people.
I did check out www.jacksonayala.com, a slickly intertwined 'podge of ideas, pics, quotes, and the Not But Should Be Famous "Crazy Black Names." I offer up the name of an offensive tackle on the Virginia Cavaliers, Mr. D'Brickashaw Ferguson. Am I lying? Also, Jackson's quotes & bio page notes range from Dave Attell to Sophocles to Farrakhan, and just when you think it's time to get all up in your own ass about what he means by putting all these crazy things out there for y'all to read... he quotes Popeye. So take a breath and relax. He hates blogs, by the way.
I should be asleep, by the way.
A few times while blog-a-blog-blog-blogging away here I've used the term "perspective." I refer to it's importance as a tool that helps you appreciate what you have, see, or are experiencing. Perspective, which I guess could go Snap-On (not an endorsement) with "Juxtaposition." It's the Bizzarro world you are living in, the Parallel Universe where the Atkins Diet is a fast and Carson Daly was dumpster-jobbed at birth.
Why are Perspective and Juxtaposition important? First off, they'll be tabbed P&J from here on out. Second, P&J are important to help me appreciate what I have going. The ability to see the FlipSide is invaluable to me in many situations. If I'm down to my last $5,000 in checking, fretting, sweating, well heck, I COULD be down to my last $4,000... or $209. Or -$209 AFTER the payday loan. So I should appreciate and take care of what I have, because it could be worse.
This is a good thing to have in a relationship, too. I know a guy who is married, and, more or less, is a neanderthal with a driver's license. Let's call him Larry. I dated a gal who is a friend of his, and she once said "You're really kind of sensitive sometimes." But she didn't mean it like I get my feelings hurt easily. She meant it like "you can be a puss... sometimes." She clarified that for me right after the first comment. I cocked my head and said, with a smile, mind you, "Sometimes, yes, I can be. Sorry bitch. I can Larry it up for you, bitch, if you f*cking want me to." She got the point, but I had to point it out for her, because she had no perspective of chivalry. Gosh, ask permission before putting in the thumb and all good deeds hit pot-bottom.
Moderately autobiographical, some embellishment, you know what I'm getting at. Things could be worse. Things could be better. So what will I gravitate to? I'm trying to stay as positive as I can, ignoring the fire but letting the heat push me forward to cooler times, and laying off the flammable underwear. But still, there are times when being brutally honest and forthcoming is expected and rewarded, and I'll take those opportunities on with all the gusto of a fourth date, and we all know what happens on the fourth date. All I'm saying... BBQ Sauce.
Y'ever realize that the kid in the corner yelling about how he's leaving and doesn't want to be looked just wants attention, then you realize it's not a kid at all, but a full grown adult and you stop caring what they're yelling about and instead just go about your business and then you realize, WOW, you're really better off ignoring all the yelling in the corners? Yeah, me neither.
That's my time everyone, thanks for stopping by. This microphone smells like streetjokes.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I did check out www.jacksonayala.com, a slickly intertwined 'podge of ideas, pics, quotes, and the Not But Should Be Famous "Crazy Black Names." I offer up the name of an offensive tackle on the Virginia Cavaliers, Mr. D'Brickashaw Ferguson. Am I lying? Also, Jackson's quotes & bio page notes range from Dave Attell to Sophocles to Farrakhan, and just when you think it's time to get all up in your own ass about what he means by putting all these crazy things out there for y'all to read... he quotes Popeye. So take a breath and relax. He hates blogs, by the way.
I should be asleep, by the way.
A few times while blog-a-blog-blog-blogging away here I've used the term "perspective." I refer to it's importance as a tool that helps you appreciate what you have, see, or are experiencing. Perspective, which I guess could go Snap-On (not an endorsement) with "Juxtaposition." It's the Bizzarro world you are living in, the Parallel Universe where the Atkins Diet is a fast and Carson Daly was dumpster-jobbed at birth.
Why are Perspective and Juxtaposition important? First off, they'll be tabbed P&J from here on out. Second, P&J are important to help me appreciate what I have going. The ability to see the FlipSide is invaluable to me in many situations. If I'm down to my last $5,000 in checking, fretting, sweating, well heck, I COULD be down to my last $4,000... or $209. Or -$209 AFTER the payday loan. So I should appreciate and take care of what I have, because it could be worse.
This is a good thing to have in a relationship, too. I know a guy who is married, and, more or less, is a neanderthal with a driver's license. Let's call him Larry. I dated a gal who is a friend of his, and she once said "You're really kind of sensitive sometimes." But she didn't mean it like I get my feelings hurt easily. She meant it like "you can be a puss... sometimes." She clarified that for me right after the first comment. I cocked my head and said, with a smile, mind you, "Sometimes, yes, I can be. Sorry bitch. I can Larry it up for you, bitch, if you f*cking want me to." She got the point, but I had to point it out for her, because she had no perspective of chivalry. Gosh, ask permission before putting in the thumb and all good deeds hit pot-bottom.
Moderately autobiographical, some embellishment, you know what I'm getting at. Things could be worse. Things could be better. So what will I gravitate to? I'm trying to stay as positive as I can, ignoring the fire but letting the heat push me forward to cooler times, and laying off the flammable underwear. But still, there are times when being brutally honest and forthcoming is expected and rewarded, and I'll take those opportunities on with all the gusto of a fourth date, and we all know what happens on the fourth date. All I'm saying... BBQ Sauce.
Y'ever realize that the kid in the corner yelling about how he's leaving and doesn't want to be looked just wants attention, then you realize it's not a kid at all, but a full grown adult and you stop caring what they're yelling about and instead just go about your business and then you realize, WOW, you're really better off ignoring all the yelling in the corners? Yeah, me neither.
That's my time everyone, thanks for stopping by. This microphone smells like streetjokes.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Headline Monday
All Thanks Be To The Highest of Love And Creation!!!
"Everybody Loves Raymond" is going off the air. Did anybody even watch that sack of shit show? I watched a total of 3 minutes in the 28 years it's been on TV. Unfunny is unfunny, which is exactly what unchallenged America loves.
Comedy Recap:
Telling young teens the truth is always a good way to start a set
Television Recap:
Next week's Season Finales of "Housewives" and "Grey's Anatomy" to be uninterrupted by phone calls and bathroom breaks
Chappelle Speaks!:
From his South Africa retreat, Chappelle gives remarks on stress, drive, money, and how he'll surely have enough material for a few more episodes
Chivalry Is Alive, Women Don't Get It:
Chivalry is always in style, as is being respectful - Perspective is the polishing rag of human interaction
How To Screw A Waiter:
...who is trying to screw your date
News to follow. Good Monday Morning, Monkies!
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
"Everybody Loves Raymond" is going off the air. Did anybody even watch that sack of shit show? I watched a total of 3 minutes in the 28 years it's been on TV. Unfunny is unfunny, which is exactly what unchallenged America loves.
Comedy Recap:
Telling young teens the truth is always a good way to start a set
Television Recap:
Next week's Season Finales of "Housewives" and "Grey's Anatomy" to be uninterrupted by phone calls and bathroom breaks
Chappelle Speaks!:
From his South Africa retreat, Chappelle gives remarks on stress, drive, money, and how he'll surely have enough material for a few more episodes
Chivalry Is Alive, Women Don't Get It:
Chivalry is always in style, as is being respectful - Perspective is the polishing rag of human interaction
How To Screw A Waiter:
...who is trying to screw your date
News to follow. Good Monday Morning, Monkies!
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, May 11, 2005
He's Tired, Bitch!
Well... those waiting for another season of The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central gonna have to wait until Dave gets out the bin.
Poor foo' done gone and exhausted himself. The third season is only 4-5 taped sketches old, and ran into a ton of issues. The gang there was citing problems with creativity, illness, partying, and people constantly asking "Hey man, where the hell that Season 3 at?"
In the meantime, HAX-TV has reportedly been poised to usurp the throne of sketchy comedy shows. So heads up... Late June? I won't know until the last guest leaves the fundraising party tonight at Pegasus Pizza, thrown by Captain Morgan and Tylenol PM.
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Poor foo' done gone and exhausted himself. The third season is only 4-5 taped sketches old, and ran into a ton of issues. The gang there was citing problems with creativity, illness, partying, and people constantly asking "Hey man, where the hell that Season 3 at?"
In the meantime, HAX-TV has reportedly been poised to usurp the throne of sketchy comedy shows. So heads up... Late June? I won't know until the last guest leaves the fundraising party tonight at Pegasus Pizza, thrown by Captain Morgan and Tylenol PM.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Blog
I'm not quite sure what to write about today.
Nothing stands out much in my mind as to what may be exciting or provocative, other than Oprah Winfrey being on the cover of every friggin' issue of her magazine. Just laying about in her own O-ness, being the O, live the O. Get O-ver yourself. Opers needs a writer, a good one, a Judy Gold or a Sarah Silverman. Well, to stay current, I'd have to nominate Killorn, who is a great writer, but her frequency is spottier than an anorexic's cycle. Oprah's really in love with being Oprah, and her efforts on the show has been pared down to the unwitty comment in that "yeahyounumsayngurrrl?"-corner-mouthed voice to get a laugh, and giving things to crying women. I guess she's worked hard to make hers the number one talk show in America. She found Dr. Phil, also, and hey, that's unforgivable.
Yeah, not much to talk about, other than wrapping up the purchase of a condo. First-time homebuyer here, a bit nervewracking but overall I think I'm keeping it together. I haven't cried thsi afternoon, fer-instance. The thought of investing in a something is cool, but the montly payments are going to jump up and bite me ass-wise. Oh well, at least I'll be able to paint the colors into my world as I see fit. Good bye off-white, hello Viking Mural. I will finally be able to resurrect my talents as the #8-rated Van Mural Artist on the West Coast. Vikings? Got 'em. Serpents? Don't insult me. Carson Daly getting Hot Carl'ed by Emmanuel Lewis in a HoneyBucket at KUBE Summer Jam? Can you stammer out "STANDARD?" I have to get some homeowner's insurance, ASAP.
I'm clueless as to where I should start here. I started writing some new material that I'm looking forward to honing. It's got some opinion, some goof, some weird, some titillation, mmmmm, I said it... It's going to have to get worked out on stage and on paper, but at first glance it's some of my best work yet. Not saying much for a guy who opened his sets early in 2004 by singing the Quizno's Subs screechy theme song made famous by the furry tumor pups.
I learned a valuable lesson yesterday as El Naranjo Blobbo celebrated having 50 million customers yelling into phones. The lesson?
Never reward monetarily what can be rewarded with free pizza. Cash comes and goes, but having the Hot Pocket studs from Network Security pawing at a deep-dish supreme, now that's forever. One of their ilk ate an entire box of Cheez-its in one day, washed down with Mountain Dew. So, not LESS genetic engineering, MORE. Put an enzyme in the foods purchased mostly by the trash sectors of society, an enzyme that, when a certain amount is ingested over a one month period, automatically sterilizes the ingestor. Whatever they eat most, give it a shot of something to kill reproduction. You could do with with Mt. Dew, Ripple chips, any flavor of Rind, PBR, Malt Liquor, and of course, boogers.
I guess I should just wrap this up and stop staring at the keyboard.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Nothing stands out much in my mind as to what may be exciting or provocative, other than Oprah Winfrey being on the cover of every friggin' issue of her magazine. Just laying about in her own O-ness, being the O, live the O. Get O-ver yourself. Opers needs a writer, a good one, a Judy Gold or a Sarah Silverman. Well, to stay current, I'd have to nominate Killorn, who is a great writer, but her frequency is spottier than an anorexic's cycle. Oprah's really in love with being Oprah, and her efforts on the show has been pared down to the unwitty comment in that "yeahyounumsayngurrrl?"-corner-mouthed voice to get a laugh, and giving things to crying women. I guess she's worked hard to make hers the number one talk show in America. She found Dr. Phil, also, and hey, that's unforgivable.
Yeah, not much to talk about, other than wrapping up the purchase of a condo. First-time homebuyer here, a bit nervewracking but overall I think I'm keeping it together. I haven't cried thsi afternoon, fer-instance. The thought of investing in a something is cool, but the montly payments are going to jump up and bite me ass-wise. Oh well, at least I'll be able to paint the colors into my world as I see fit. Good bye off-white, hello Viking Mural. I will finally be able to resurrect my talents as the #8-rated Van Mural Artist on the West Coast. Vikings? Got 'em. Serpents? Don't insult me. Carson Daly getting Hot Carl'ed by Emmanuel Lewis in a HoneyBucket at KUBE Summer Jam? Can you stammer out "STANDARD?" I have to get some homeowner's insurance, ASAP.
I'm clueless as to where I should start here. I started writing some new material that I'm looking forward to honing. It's got some opinion, some goof, some weird, some titillation, mmmmm, I said it... It's going to have to get worked out on stage and on paper, but at first glance it's some of my best work yet. Not saying much for a guy who opened his sets early in 2004 by singing the Quizno's Subs screechy theme song made famous by the furry tumor pups.
I learned a valuable lesson yesterday as El Naranjo Blobbo celebrated having 50 million customers yelling into phones. The lesson?
Never reward monetarily what can be rewarded with free pizza. Cash comes and goes, but having the Hot Pocket studs from Network Security pawing at a deep-dish supreme, now that's forever. One of their ilk ate an entire box of Cheez-its in one day, washed down with Mountain Dew. So, not LESS genetic engineering, MORE. Put an enzyme in the foods purchased mostly by the trash sectors of society, an enzyme that, when a certain amount is ingested over a one month period, automatically sterilizes the ingestor. Whatever they eat most, give it a shot of something to kill reproduction. You could do with with Mt. Dew, Ripple chips, any flavor of Rind, PBR, Malt Liquor, and of course, boogers.
I guess I should just wrap this up and stop staring at the keyboard.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Tony Danza, The Mayor Of Spokane, And Car Batteries
What are...
What are things that are falling over, gay, or dead, Alex?
Tony Danza's go-kart flipped while taping a segment for his show, produced by "Slow Learner" studios. Check it out HEEEEEEEEEEEERE.
I'll write more when I have time. For now, the Mayor of Spokane wants to cruise me 0n-line. I've seen Spokane, and there's a reason it's called "Washington' balloon knot."
===============
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What are things that are falling over, gay, or dead, Alex?
Tony Danza's go-kart flipped while taping a segment for his show, produced by "Slow Learner" studios. Check it out HEEEEEEEEEEEERE.
I'll write more when I have time. For now, the Mayor of Spokane wants to cruise me 0n-line. I've seen Spokane, and there's a reason it's called "Washington' balloon knot."
===============
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My Blog About My Dad
Monday, May 09, 2005
Mondayne
Hey, how's it going?
Good, good.
This weekend was all over the place. My girlyfriend and I saw "Sahara" starring Penelope Cruz, Steven Zahn, and Matthew McConaghey's (spelling? like it matters) body. Thrill-a-minute, but a few scenes did test my "Willing Suspension of Disbelief." When I write my first action movie, it's going to be rife with henchmen stopping just short of peering around a corner, as their henchmates call them over to check something out.
Alicia and I killed time by checking out the Barnes & Noble store. Yeah, I'm pretty white sometimes. But anywho, we're checking it out and I realized how little I know about investing. I'm 31, and my nature has always been to save as much as I can, then use it to pay for a vacation or some sort of box-set. I have to change that. It's basically a change in values, wanting to be totally out of debt, operating "in the black" (which I rented on Saturday, WOW), and financially secure MORE than I want some sort of impulse-purchase. I doubt I'll be miserly, but I sure as hell don't need to go buy a new car when fencing a few hot rides will do just fine.
I want to be a millionaire. I know there are many people who say "money isn't everything." No, it's not. It IS, however, a tool with which to build and leverage certain opportunities in life with. I want to travel the world at some point, and last I checked, that's not totally free for non-military personnel, or "Civs" as we're called. I'd like a nice set of tools to use to create business and career opps for myself. If you can't say something nice, suck it dry.
I wrote a bunch of new jokes this weekend, too. Stuff has really come to me easily, from Special Effects in movies to Greeting Cards to my involvement with a religious sect in my younger days. Now I'm in the exhilirating mode of finding elements within them to riff from and write within parameters of. It's the most challenging part of writing for me, because I usually let it flow when I talk through a bit outloud in my living room. To sit and pull it out and stick it on paper can be weird. But I need to get back to what I know is my strongest talent: cold-cocking dickwads who step to me wrong. Also, last night I said Tom Hanks when I meant to say Tom Cruise, because my tongue wants me to stop getting laughs.
As the NBA Playoffs, Round 2: Revenge of The Fans kicks off this week, we get to hear the hyperbole of professional athletes, basketballers this time, talking about competition at this level. My favorite, that I've heard twice already, is "This is gonna be a war." Yes, it is. Just like the Vietnam War but with millionaires who leave the "battlefield" in $150 shoes and sleep in 4-star hotels and get pulled out of the "shit" in their Benzo SLk-350 and don't die, that kind of war. Yeah. Just like a war. Gawd, what an asshole. "Rasheed Wallace drives the lane... BOOOOOM... and trips the Bouncing Betty. What's left of his upper body will go to the line." Iraq War veterans vs. NBA Egos, next on ESPN-Mexico.
I gotta go do some stuff. Have a good Monday.
============-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Good, good.
This weekend was all over the place. My girlyfriend and I saw "Sahara" starring Penelope Cruz, Steven Zahn, and Matthew McConaghey's (spelling? like it matters) body. Thrill-a-minute, but a few scenes did test my "Willing Suspension of Disbelief." When I write my first action movie, it's going to be rife with henchmen stopping just short of peering around a corner, as their henchmates call them over to check something out.
Alicia and I killed time by checking out the Barnes & Noble store. Yeah, I'm pretty white sometimes. But anywho, we're checking it out and I realized how little I know about investing. I'm 31, and my nature has always been to save as much as I can, then use it to pay for a vacation or some sort of box-set. I have to change that. It's basically a change in values, wanting to be totally out of debt, operating "in the black" (which I rented on Saturday, WOW), and financially secure MORE than I want some sort of impulse-purchase. I doubt I'll be miserly, but I sure as hell don't need to go buy a new car when fencing a few hot rides will do just fine.
I want to be a millionaire. I know there are many people who say "money isn't everything." No, it's not. It IS, however, a tool with which to build and leverage certain opportunities in life with. I want to travel the world at some point, and last I checked, that's not totally free for non-military personnel, or "Civs" as we're called. I'd like a nice set of tools to use to create business and career opps for myself. If you can't say something nice, suck it dry.
I wrote a bunch of new jokes this weekend, too. Stuff has really come to me easily, from Special Effects in movies to Greeting Cards to my involvement with a religious sect in my younger days. Now I'm in the exhilirating mode of finding elements within them to riff from and write within parameters of. It's the most challenging part of writing for me, because I usually let it flow when I talk through a bit outloud in my living room. To sit and pull it out and stick it on paper can be weird. But I need to get back to what I know is my strongest talent: cold-cocking dickwads who step to me wrong. Also, last night I said Tom Hanks when I meant to say Tom Cruise, because my tongue wants me to stop getting laughs.
As the NBA Playoffs, Round 2: Revenge of The Fans kicks off this week, we get to hear the hyperbole of professional athletes, basketballers this time, talking about competition at this level. My favorite, that I've heard twice already, is "This is gonna be a war." Yes, it is. Just like the Vietnam War but with millionaires who leave the "battlefield" in $150 shoes and sleep in 4-star hotels and get pulled out of the "shit" in their Benzo SLk-350 and don't die, that kind of war. Yeah. Just like a war. Gawd, what an asshole. "Rasheed Wallace drives the lane... BOOOOOM... and trips the Bouncing Betty. What's left of his upper body will go to the line." Iraq War veterans vs. NBA Egos, next on ESPN-Mexico.
I gotta go do some stuff. Have a good Monday.
============-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Happy Mother's Day
I wanted to wish the Mom's of the world "Happy Mother's Day." You shouldn't have to cram all the attention into one day. For that matter, none of us should. Let's spread out some joy and/or chunky peanut butter of kindness over the toaster waffle of this great nation of ours in the next year.
Happy Mother's Day!
Pam, Stacy, Babs, Sue, Sunny, Amy, Judy, Judy, Judy, Sandie, Sonya (soon), Katie Amer, Karen, Marilyn, Jean, Weece, Michelle, Joanne, Wendy, Nancy, Sandy, Maggie, Chrissy, Kim, Melody, and to your mom, too, unless she's a harpy.
Aaaaaaand, in parting, any attempts by Killroy O'Hooterhan to blog a Mother's Day tome at this hour would be contrived. Michelle's on her way, and it's enough that you've cleaned the extra bedroom and flushed your body of toxins and meat, both of which are euphemisms I use for Tony "Born With A Tail" Moser.
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Happy Mother's Day!
Pam, Stacy, Babs, Sue, Sunny, Amy, Judy, Judy, Judy, Sandie, Sonya (soon), Katie Amer, Karen, Marilyn, Jean, Weece, Michelle, Joanne, Wendy, Nancy, Sandy, Maggie, Chrissy, Kim, Melody, and to your mom, too, unless she's a harpy.
Aaaaaaand, in parting, any attempts by Killroy O'Hooterhan to blog a Mother's Day tome at this hour would be contrived. Michelle's on her way, and it's enough that you've cleaned the extra bedroom and flushed your body of toxins and meat, both of which are euphemisms I use for Tony "Born With A Tail" Moser.
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Friday, May 06, 2005
9 Months, And This Is How You Thank Her?
For those of you who were wondering what you forgot, here are a few reminders:
Backseat: The BABY! OH CRAP!
Home: Lunch, meds, flush
Work: Lunch, vodka, pants
Weekend: Mother's Day!
This year is going to be a different Mother's Day for my family. If you've read here before, my family's New Normal is completely different than anybody thought it would be a year ago, let alone two years ago. The past 2 years, in fact, feel much like a giant transition. A lot of changes, a lot of growth, and frankly I'm ready to see if the wings can take the beating once we're out of the cocoon.
My mom has been rather heroic this past year. In the wake of losing the man she married, she found a deeper love for her husband. She has honored the commitment to my dad that she made nearly 35 years ago: In sickness and in health. Instead of spending more time traveling the world with my dad, she travels 15 minutes every day to spend time with him in scenic South King County! She has taken on the finances of health care, house payments, pension plans, and long-term care for her husband. Of course, it would be great if it never needed to go like this. I usually blur my eyes with tears when I think of how my kids will not get to meet their grandfather, the way I never met my dad's dad, or how the day I get married will be different for all involved. But my mom has found some peace, and more strength in it all. It is our "new normal."
My dad has always loved her. She's a strong woman, and has always had a compassion for people who work through adversity, often helping them through spiritual guidance and favors above and beyond the call of friendship. The love and outpouring of friendship my family has received in the past year is a testament to how they've lived and treated others.
Usually I see Holidays as reasons for a fancier-than-tuna wrap dinner opportunity, or an extra weekend night to do comedy and sleep in. Why should I have to save all my jingoism for Arbor Day when I can go dress in a Bunny Suit TODAY and have most kick-ass Flag Day of all time? So, with Sunday being Mother's Day, I am reminded to not wait for just one day to come around to take Mom to Applebee's and spring for some sort of cobbler. Make your mom a cobbler whenever you feel like it. Call her. Take her to lunch next week. And apologize for that thing in Junior High, you know what I mean, the one with the hole in your jeans.
To the Amers, , Myers, Cedar Downs Andersons, Holmes, Falks, Sweigers, Fredricksons, Ms. Lemmel, Mastersons, the MVP family and everyone else who has given of themselves in the past year, you helped us get through the toughest, earliest stages of our New Normal.
Never will I be able to thank you enough for the love you have shown my family in the past year. I feel in your debt. Thank you.
For what it's worth, and because I can say it, there have been a few people who have backed away from my family in the past year, and these are people who my parents had been quite close with for the better part of two decades. For whatever reasons they are not around anymore, that's really too bad. My dad knows who his friends are, and often wonders why he doesn't see those people any more.
So as Mother's Day plans are made all over the nation, don't let one day sum up all that your mom means to you. Spread it over the year, so you won't have to drop big dough on one gift.
==--==--==
Side Note:
For what it's worth... Gene Simmons is a Republican. His tongue, presumably, is still Libertarian, and surely HIV-positive.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Backseat: The BABY! OH CRAP!
Home: Lunch, meds, flush
Work: Lunch, vodka, pants
Weekend: Mother's Day!
This year is going to be a different Mother's Day for my family. If you've read here before, my family's New Normal is completely different than anybody thought it would be a year ago, let alone two years ago. The past 2 years, in fact, feel much like a giant transition. A lot of changes, a lot of growth, and frankly I'm ready to see if the wings can take the beating once we're out of the cocoon.
My mom has been rather heroic this past year. In the wake of losing the man she married, she found a deeper love for her husband. She has honored the commitment to my dad that she made nearly 35 years ago: In sickness and in health. Instead of spending more time traveling the world with my dad, she travels 15 minutes every day to spend time with him in scenic South King County! She has taken on the finances of health care, house payments, pension plans, and long-term care for her husband. Of course, it would be great if it never needed to go like this. I usually blur my eyes with tears when I think of how my kids will not get to meet their grandfather, the way I never met my dad's dad, or how the day I get married will be different for all involved. But my mom has found some peace, and more strength in it all. It is our "new normal."
My dad has always loved her. She's a strong woman, and has always had a compassion for people who work through adversity, often helping them through spiritual guidance and favors above and beyond the call of friendship. The love and outpouring of friendship my family has received in the past year is a testament to how they've lived and treated others.
Usually I see Holidays as reasons for a fancier-than-tuna wrap dinner opportunity, or an extra weekend night to do comedy and sleep in. Why should I have to save all my jingoism for Arbor Day when I can go dress in a Bunny Suit TODAY and have most kick-ass Flag Day of all time? So, with Sunday being Mother's Day, I am reminded to not wait for just one day to come around to take Mom to Applebee's and spring for some sort of cobbler. Make your mom a cobbler whenever you feel like it. Call her. Take her to lunch next week. And apologize for that thing in Junior High, you know what I mean, the one with the hole in your jeans.
To the Amers, , Myers, Cedar Downs Andersons, Holmes, Falks, Sweigers, Fredricksons, Ms. Lemmel, Mastersons, the MVP family and everyone else who has given of themselves in the past year, you helped us get through the toughest, earliest stages of our New Normal.
Never will I be able to thank you enough for the love you have shown my family in the past year. I feel in your debt. Thank you.
For what it's worth, and because I can say it, there have been a few people who have backed away from my family in the past year, and these are people who my parents had been quite close with for the better part of two decades. For whatever reasons they are not around anymore, that's really too bad. My dad knows who his friends are, and often wonders why he doesn't see those people any more.
So as Mother's Day plans are made all over the nation, don't let one day sum up all that your mom means to you. Spread it over the year, so you won't have to drop big dough on one gift.
==--==--==
Side Note:
For what it's worth... Gene Simmons is a Republican. His tongue, presumably, is still Libertarian, and surely HIV-positive.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, May 05, 2005
5-5-5-CINCO DE MAYO!!!
It's 05/05/05, the only time in our lives it will be such a date. This calls for a celebration. I'd say "meet me at the local" but all these other folks are celebrating Cinco De Mayo today. Cinco De Mayo is, of course, the Mexican Independence Day, as they fought and won their independence from the oppression of France.
Wow... even Mexico beat the French. Snnrf.
And what better way to celebrate the struggle and bloodshed, the ending ofan era and the beginning of the proud nation of Mexico than with their own time-honored tradition of Half-Priced Coronas?! ARRIBA! I awoke this morning to find somebody had left some nachos out to welcome me to this great day. What, no chicle?
I have far too much to do to type right now. I was up until 3am doing some worky work, which is a hysterical, sad juxtaposition compared to where I was this time last year. I was up at 3, probably telling my neighbors "no, YOU BE QUIET! QUIT YELLING OFF YOUR BALCONY! (firing my cap pistol into the air)" I'm-a catch a quick nap, then get some coffee, then tip tequila until I can understand just what the ese is so great about liquid cheese that we can't stop importing it.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRIB...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wow... even Mexico beat the French. Snnrf.
And what better way to celebrate the struggle and bloodshed, the ending ofan era and the beginning of the proud nation of Mexico than with their own time-honored tradition of Half-Priced Coronas?! ARRIBA! I awoke this morning to find somebody had left some nachos out to welcome me to this great day. What, no chicle?
I have far too much to do to type right now. I was up until 3am doing some worky work, which is a hysterical, sad juxtaposition compared to where I was this time last year. I was up at 3, probably telling my neighbors "no, YOU BE QUIET! QUIT YELLING OFF YOUR BALCONY! (firing my cap pistol into the air)" I'm-a catch a quick nap, then get some coffee, then tip tequila until I can understand just what the ese is so great about liquid cheese that we can't stop importing it.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRIB...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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