Filling Your Holes

Hurricane Katrina has destroyed the city of New Orleans. The water there has 100 times the amount of toxins - many of which are fecal in nature - and the rivers that run through the city streets are littered with debris and corpses. But we can't calm down just yet. It's far from over. Right now we're looking just at the rescue efforts, feeding and sheltering the people who lived through it all. Neighboring states are taking kids from LA, MS, and AL into their homes and school districts. Somehow, people are giving.
Some people are giving a tsunami's-worth of lip service about who screwed up, or how much they are giving to the relief efforts. I've heard that this sports team's owner gave a million, while the company I attend is giving about the same. Just give, and do so without the need to tell everyone how Christ-like your $20 was. People who share the news are probably dropping twice that much each week on coffee and R&B CDs. "Celebrities" are stepping up to ease the suffering by telling everyone else how much they need to give. People in my office are being extra-friendly, as if we all lived through it together and can use this as a Healing Time, okey dokey, smokey artichokey?
You gotta take a look at your Giving Hole. This is the hole that you also Get through. Money will come back to you. Goods will come back to you. Create an opening in your life with the intent of filling somebody else's Getting Hole, and your Getting Hole will be overflowing with goodness. If you constantly draw attention to your Hole, everyone will expect something from it. The Universe can see your Hole under all that ego. Make sure it's pretty enough to be looking into.

Red Cross: Always a good way to go in these situations, but I'm not sure how they disseminate the resources.
WorldVision: Based in Federal Way, this is also a world-wide charitable organization.
Habitat For Humanity: This group will be a key rebuilder of homes when that time comes. Away from Natural Disasters, HfH builds homes for low-income families to get a start in a community. We're all just a couple of bad decisions away from being out on our asses. If you can't see it in yourself to swing your boat around and pick up somebody who's gone overboard, enjoy the icebergs.
FEMA: JOKING! If you see a director of FEMA, kick them squarely in the throat. They held diesel fuel reserves away from New Orleans officials once the Coast Guard notified local officials of it (generator power), they cut local emergency communication lines and set up their own (county Sheriff reconnected them and placed armed guards around switchboxes), and they waited until Katrina hit the coast to tell people to evacuate. Government officials F'ed around and it led to many avoidable tragedies, including not filling school buses with citizens and heading out of town, and Tim McGraw on prime time TV.

Even with all of this going on, people continue to open their homes to the refugees. Bad comedy is still being churned out. Teenagers are still talking on cell phones will driving SUVs. Drugs are still illegal, and now would be a good time to chill out and smell some colors. Everything is back to normal. Sorry.

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Give a little bit

As I sit writing this, I have returned from Sunny Northern California to Sunny Washington, seemingly a million miles away from the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina.

Mother Nature is a wild woman, not a bitch. She does as she sees fit. And this has happened to America the way it has happened to hundreds of other nations and islands, and millions of other people.

If you have followed the story at all, you know that New Orleans is basically No Man's Land now. It is looted, empty, rotting, soaked, and all but a ghost town. People were taking food, ice, water, and clothing. No problems there, I can understand the need and the gravity of the situation.

But Plasma TV's? Computers? Now we have official criminal acts happening. Disgusting, bottom-rung people. The stories coming from Bayou country are deeply disturbing. People being raped, beaten, car-jacked, mugged. Suicides. Starving people. No medical supplies. No medical attention. Food, shelter, sympathy, and humanity all look to be in short supply. And they can no longer help themselves.

Some day, in this state, we will have our own disaster. Maybe not in our lifetimes. But maybe. And we will depend upon each other to get through it, we'll depend upon people we don't know, people we've never met, who may even live a door or two away. And it's not until the bad things happen and you have a moment to be who you really are that your Character shows.

Honestly, we haven't seen enough of the good that is going on in New Orleans, but there has to be SOME. Right? There's a ton of bad news comin' up the wire. There must be some good in all of this without Leonardo DiCaprio opening his yap on Prime Time TV. We have to get some love and supplies to the area so we can stop Tim McGraw from singing; these people have had enough for one life time.

Give what you can at WorldVision or the Salvation Army. No matter how nice a person on the phone or street looks, people working to help this disaster relief are far too busy to be calling you for donations. Just about anything helps, and the money I'm sending to them will be better spent than whatever I was going to do with it. What comes around, goes around. And hopefully that will come back to benefit me and my community in the future.

Hopefully in the form of neighbors who will take aim and fire shots into the first shitpile looting my place after the first Dolphin War.


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Juxtaposin'

New Orleans is evacuated for hurricane Katrina.

The MTV Video Music Awards still has yet to be rained out, or even so much as yelled at for its opulence. The band or singer in the video is given a trophy if the video they were lip-synching one of their songs in is deemed the best in its category. The very thing that makes a band most-famous (Lip Synching) among the teens (legally protected as "people") most likely to spend their parent's money on the computer that downloads the song By Those One Guy-uhs, is then ridiculed for using a backing track in live performances.

The band is out of their element in a live show. The band can only rock in a very small room with a bare lightbulb suspended from the ceiling, or staring directly into a camera from a stark white room, or in the cul-de-sassy surrounded by roughly 58 metric tons of phat ass and/or costume jew'ry teefus. Green Day, the band, was awarded a trophy for Best Direction of their video "Tolerable Rock Tune 55." They also picked up awards for Editing and Cinematography. The bassist, Mike Dirnt, which if you say it loud enough sounds like a car wreck or the last two notes of a good rock song (MIKE Dirnt), has a lazy eye. What graphing did he cinemato? Is Billie Joe's editing ability rivaled only by Tony "Free Cheese" Moser's?

A lot of bands have been influenced by Green Day. Good or bad, you decide. At least we're not sitting here saying "A lot of bands have been influenced by Hootie And The Blowfish." Not even HATB were that influenced by HATB.

Kanye West is talented. Ludacris is good at marketing. Jamie Foxx loves everything that Jamie Foxx does. Paris Hilton is still Biblically clueless, talentless, and fooling everyone that she is clueless, which is her talent. Hillary Duff is irrelevant, but she doesn't know that. Clay Aiken is where? Lindsay Lohan had her boobs removed, but she doesn't know that.

And now gas prices are going up AGAIN because Hurricane MaryKate is drilling America's choad, and that choad holds black gold. What can you do?

Well, for one, fill up, and take the F off. The price is what they suggest you pay, IF you pay. Hey, download your gas and get the F out of there.

Goodbye, New Orleans. Thanks for the beads.
And goodbye, MTV. Thanks for not giving Suge Knight's security detail to Carson Daly.

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Relief, Reality, Retroaction

As egotistical as it may sound, Saturday night's HAX Premiere Party was kick-ass. I found myself sweating every time a new sketch started, and many times I felt like a teenage girl before her first big date. About to go throw-up, I mean.

The responses to the Premiere ranged from "mildly offended" to "calling the cops." The average responses were "Wow," "Hilairous," "Good work," and "Very impressive." It was a point of pride that our comic friends were laughing, too, as they know Funny. I can't thank everyone enough for coming and sharing that night with us. That was really a cool expereince to put together for everyone who showed up.

I got to meet some really interesting, highly-touted people, too. CEOs, industry leaders, artisans, musicians, a cheesemaker, and a guy who drop-kicked himself down the stairs entering the building. We have really attractive attendees, that's for sure. What did it take to get all of this together? Well...

Killorn O'Neill deserves the majority of the credit for Saturday's just-waxed smoothness. She worked her ass off, creating the artwork, fliers, posters, DVD graphics, and a t-shirt that will soon be available and will kick your fantasy/sci-fi loving ass. She attacts the most lovingly-eccentric people into her life, and I can't say enough about how she pulled this thing together. When you see her, give a tip of the hat, won't you?


Working with everyone on this project was a big growth experience for me. I have had to learn how to communicate all over again, even if I feel like I'm stating the obvious. Sometimes you have to tell something to someone one more time just so YOU know that THEY know exaclty what you're talking about, Moser.

I also realized that I am far more protective of HAX within the group, than when someone tries to bash it from outside. My fear of ever being the one who let the group down came true, in some ways, with the radio fiasco last week. I don't want to be the weak spot in the fence, letting the ego ooze out and stick-ify everything. Accountability to each other and to the 5th Member that is HAX was very important. I didn't want to let anybody down by not keeping my S together. But I don't think about that stuff. My focus is more on keeping my mind open to methods of securing a beer sponsorship. We are the Vulcan Enterprises of Miller Lite in Fremont.

So as I sit here, work-immersed, I am listening to projects being "managed," calls being "conferenced," and raise requests being "laughed at." The reality we created this past Staurday Night is what I'll be doing more of in the future, and almost exclusively within a year. To pull something like that together, and light the fuse on the rocket, takes teamwork, focus, and dedication. Again, thank you for being a part of it, if you showed. I promise to have a more entertaining blog once the invoices are paid.

BTW, Football is back. If you didn't realize that, I'll have to ask you to stop reading until February.

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Oops, I Did It For The First Time Again.

So in the past week I have managed to anger an on-line comedy 'zine and morning radio DJ. The responses by each were, in my opinion, a bit more than necessary, but hey, everyone's entitled to their opinion. Of course, I'd rather have GOOD publicity. I feel a bit bad that I didn't do more for the HAX entity on the radio deal, and that I may have crunched on a friend for vouching for me. Apologies to Nick. Best of luck with the show, man, seriously.

The beneficial sitch here is that the show I was on is almost impossible to listen to. The people who will see the humor in HAX weren't listening to the show where belching on-air is seen as "the hook." Aspire higher. It comes around.

Moral of the story is this:
If you put yourself out there, regardless of your intention, you will be critiqued, mocked, ridiculed, and needled, not to mentioned bothered, shit on, and booed.
Before jumping off the bridge, consider the source of the criticism. Sometimes you make a mistake, and classy people see the mistake and say "Wup, that bombed." Some folks immediately jump on the flub and make it bigger than it is. Why would somebody work so hard to tear someone else down?
Same reason people have done it from the beginning of time.

Because High School is just that important.

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Oops, I Did It For The First Time

Apparently SheckyMagazine had an issue with what I posted in relation to a recent Seattle paper’s profile of Ron Reid, and the ensuing though mild FireStorm that SheckyMag sparked. Anyway, I guess it all comes back to, what I said in my comment, which was removed by SheckyMag’s administrators: Having an opinion of someone else doesn’t mean it has to affect that person. And I meant no disrespect to the Shecky staff in my posting. Just offering a comment in the Comments section.

Shecky’s opinion of me is as such:
I am libelous, and posting anonymously.
My Blogger profile name is “comicstripped,” and it links directly to my Blogger profile, which proudly posts my birth name, “Wild Heffron Pescatelli-Phan, III.” But since my mom has such a bad accent from being an immigrant, and my family grew up so poor, we could only afford Geoff Lott.

As for libel, I did opine that much of the material performed by comics on the first two seasons of Last Comic Standing was not very original. Some of it was very unique, but since I didn't say who I didn't love, I won't say who I liked. I also mentioned that nobody had any particular problem with those comics as People, except for Rich Vos, who is short. One is opinion, the other is understatement, which is also a pun. YAY! Extra life. I may have missed something in retelling this tale, as I have a life and minutiae tends to fade.

Anybody who knows me knows that I am far from the guy who snaps and starts giving everyone the throat-slashing symbol for not finding me palatable. But it would be just dumb of me to not step out my front door to find out who is calling me names. My humor, however, is indeed geared towards understatement and mild-roasting. But I’m rarely malicious. And my “libelous” or “defamatory” or “opinionated” was no more heated than the use of the word “stunk” that started it all. I did spell Peter Greyy’s last name with as many as 87 “y”s, however, and for that I fall now upon my keyboard. To some people, being called "funny" is libelous.

My opinion of SheckyMagazine, since they wanted to have a go, is as follows:
They are defending the comedy community (LCS) against the comedy community (Ron Reid), which makes them both oddly divisive and Butt-insky's.
They understand that comedy, in all it’s forms, is only good and progressive when it is Politically Correct and not bothering anybody.
They insinuate that people are libelous, while they themselves prefer to appear atop the regal Comedy Steed, defending sensitive comics everywhere from people who do, watch, write, and have a passion for stand-up comedy.

I honestly have no clue what I said that was libelous, and my anonymity can only be decrypted by the most skilled of those who are able to click a link. It all started with an opinion of an opinion of an opinion and so-on, and now they are in the parking lot waiting for me to come outside with Rich Vos on the Motorola. Oh man, I hope I didn’t hurt the feelings of people who could give a shit if I’m alive.

I wonder if they put up with this shit in the improv community…



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To Be, Or Not To Be. It's Not A Question.

Earlier this week I read this blog entry by Peter Greyy. Peter is an Entertainer; a comic, a writer, a musically active DJ, and fount, a FOUNT I say, of Pop Culture knowledge. It's not trivia with Peter, it's Life. And it's one of the reasons I respect and darn near love the guy.

Peter is as welcoming, honest, and good-natured as anyone I've ever met. He is nice, and not the bad kind of Nice. He's not "I wonder what this talk about StinkFinger is"-nice. He's a great guy. The blog he wrote detailed the straight dope about a kid who came into the comedy clubs in Seattle with a chip on his shoulder and the other chips in his mouth, and then asked if he could have some chips for free. Read Peter's stuff, btw, it's very well written and organized, unlike my trail-mix ideas that come tumbling from my rucksack mind on this blog. Quick synopsis of the blog, for which I am eternally grateful that Peter wrote because it's a story that makes me laugh, kind of like "Where The Red Fern Grows" or "The Story Of O:"
Kid shows up in the comedy clubs, and just starts hanging around, going up when he can, not doing well ever, and then, on the final night, within minutes of each even, figuratively shits himself, but not before literally vomiting on himself.

Not that night, but I had seen his act. I interacted with him. I could barely understand a word he said. I've seen him nod out, face on the table, in the back of clubs. He told street jokes, he told foul jokes, he rarely got laughs. It was what was for his trip through the clubs. But don't cry for him, Rodger Lizzaololola. I feel bad that the kid didn't find the same spark in comedy that other comics I've met and become integrated with have found. Comedy is undeniable in the soul of the comic. Most of us have always been witty, sarcastic, funny, dark, twisted, much the way some people are tall, thin, plum-colored, foul-smelling, or skid-marked. Funny is a trait, and the more people I meet I believe that Funny is in the wiring.

That wiring can't ever be shorted out. Some guys are all-Funny. Some comics cross Funny wires with Smarts wires. Some cross Funny with Hyper. But the wires gotta be there. It can be muted, or there's not as many outlets for it, or the wattage attenuates if the circuit isn't kept clean and free of interference. But some people just don't have Stage Funny. And Stage Funny is miles away from "hanging over your desk, hey, have ya heard this one about Michael Jackson, Larry the Cable Guy, and Mother Teresa's tampon?" (punchline, btw: Sorry Mike, but me and the old gal are gonna feed these hotwings to the hungry, Get 'er doodles.) The kid in Peter's blog Did Not Have It. And anybody who thinks everyone should be super nice and coddle anybody who Does Not Have It, well, they Do Not Get It.

How else can I say this. The guy just won't make it in comedy. Most people won't. That's what makes comics different and unique, the way that Walter Payton was unique, the way Roger Clemens is unique, the way that Rosa Parks is unique. There's something else "in there" that certain people in society have, and others don't. If you've ever looked at paintings by different artists, you may have seen one and said "Wow, I get it. Okay, yeah, it's not a Thing, it's mostly just red and upside down it looks like an eye or Cousin Oliver, but I get it." The other painting just made you go "F*ck this a-hole. What a masturbatory waste of time. Trees can't crap rainbow turds to be eaten by Willard Scott, no matter how hard I wish. At least the bar's free."

At first, after reading Peter's blog, I had to stop laughing. Then I felt some empathy for the kid because he was hoping comedy would just fall into his lap. Instead, it was just a cocktail of HandiSnaks and Robitussin that expired when Lewinsky was a cigar cutter. After that, I just felt like, eh, sorry kid, it's not your thing. Stand-up comedy is one of a very limited number of things I am passionate about in my life. Stand-up is NOT the person on stage, it is an Entity. Baseball is not the players, it's the Game and the parking and the smell of Mexican steroids wafting from the first baseman after the Winstrol was muled into New Mexico by a Venezuelan prospect. Football is not Terrell Owens, it is the legends and the fans and living until you're 57. Comedy is not the Comic, but the Comic can't help but do their best to be Comedy.

The good news is that the kid will soon return to the clubs with a new focus and drive to get on stage. When that happens, I hope I'm wearing Kevlar.

I just spent 40 minutes saying this:
You can't win 'em all.
I'm a turd.
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Pre-Weekend Wrap-up

Let's see here, what to do this weekend...

Well, PosterMidget has come through and is printing up all kinds of posters for the HAX-TV Premiere Night Happygasm... you'll be there. I got that to do tonight.

THE Marc Maron is supposedly at Giggles Comedy Club, but I'm not sure who exactly will Terry that I used the word "supposedly." I hope Maron's there, because he is a phenomenal comic, in the sense that he can make you laugh by talking about the everyday things and how they affect him.

Frankly, I hope he's there because I could stand me some Maron. Mishna Wolff, his wife, is gonna be there, too, and she's a great comic, as well. So it's a good weekend of comedy here in Seattle. I have no idea who is at the Comedy Underground, but only because I can't remember, not out of any spite.

If you go to a comedy show and see a comic who is non-white, you can count on a few things being said while that performer is performing:
Funny ways parents of other cultures talk, financial problems based on skin color, financial problems while young, silly and/or crazy food eaten by their famiry WHOOPS- famiLy, a scenario in which a stereotype of their culture comes back to haunt them, and the use of words "White People," "Caucasians," and whatever derogatory term is used for their ethnicity.
Those are the basis of most non-white comics' material. It is the sticky rice, the collard greens, the frijoles, if you will. And I think that you, as a comedy-goer, deserve better.

So as I sign off with my blonde hair and blue eyes, I will say this:
Stereotypes are not assigned, they are earned by mentioning the observation of repetitive actions of large numbers of people that look like you do. To break them, we have to stop eating dogs, stop having sex with fat white women to cover rent, stop not doing anything, and stop trying to blow things up because we're mad at the court. From here on, we're all one big happy family, so look out Gay People!

I'm Geoff Lott, and you can hands-free eat my ass.
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I'm Too Busy, Spank Your Own Self

I haven't written in a while, very busy with the HAX-TV Premiere night, comedy, and acting like work matters. I'm enjoying the weather, a recent run of strong sets, and learning all that it takes to get a production like the HAX-TV Premiere Night Extravagasm fired up.

I know I said I would try to make every blog count, but I ain't got the cheese today, dear moppets. I have too much else going on to talk about how www.tonx.org was voted as Seattle's best blog (read it for yourself. Totally the best blog about Coffee Shop Life that you'll ever rezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....). And I'm far too busy to discuss the fact that bitter old queens don't make for very fun people to be around, especially when they need constant dabbing and changing of their ego diapers. Check my schedule and you'll see that I have NO TIME, sorry, to tell you that we can help the police in our neighborhoods by handling our own business like adults, who have guns, or attack cobras. And wow, it would be impossible for me to fit in the fact that recruiting a squirrel army is harder than you'd think, especially when it comes to organizing meetings, filling out paper-work, or even telling them apart without itty bitty fur-sticking nametags.

In the meantime, get your plans together for the HAX-TV Premiere Special Blowout Of Your FunnyBones And Pants. Hit the Media page, get ready for the Advertising blitz, and start conditioning your laughter holes.

And quit telling me what to do. I'll get my army together if I have to give every last nut.

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The Church Of Wit and The Guiding Light Of Funny

Interminable story-telling.
Need for attention.
"Look at me!"
"Keep doing that!"
More stories nobody cares about.
Bitterness.
Mindless drinking.
I'M NOT LOOKING AT YOU, so shut up.
It's not about you.

Life will be around to write your check when it gets done with the those who have died from ethnic cleansing, drunken drivers crossing the median, and being born with a bad heart before ever having a name.

I don't like telling people what to do without it being solicited, but the way you take yourself so seriously is the funniest thing you've ever done. I see why you play your Game For One. It's the only way you can never lose.

What am I thinking? You always beat yourself!
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Bob, Tony, And Cake I'll Eat, Too

Anyone who takes themself seriously should be forced to watch every Ethan Hawke movie on a 6-day reel. Because on the 7th day, they are going to be strapped into a seat listening to Alanis until they either grow a vagina or theirs grows a skin flap.
And that only kind of was intended for the person who restricted my access to a doorless hallway full of pictures while the FedEx guy peeled off with BOXES, the number two method of potential scary time, and wasn't even questioned.

"Well, he's the FuxEd guy, I mean... HE HAS A CLIPBOARD." You can't argue with that logic.
Oh dear, if anyone needs me I'll be "in my place." (braaaap) Gotta make sure people like me don't go wreckin' the Alan Jackson displays.

Now... BIG Thank You to the Bob Rivers crew for having me on this morning. I get a little nervous about radio because it's a small crowd and they all know each other. But I let go of the fear because I'm a comic and can make the best of a bad situation. I once gave a 45minute Excel presentation and was getting laughs, so radio's no sweat. Some people go on and eat it, but I got a total of 3, count 'em, 3 bells this morning, including a DOUBLE-DINGER. So while I got one bell, then got no bells for a few minutes, I made up for it with...
oh hell, who gives a rip? The point is that I had fun and hope to be back with the Bob Rivers gang again in the future. Those guys are great! Sadly, they compete with my other favorite morning show of MadFab and Maynardo but like my grampa used to say, "Some days, it's all you can do just to get the body in the trunk." Got that right.

Giggles, Tonight, 8:30 and 10pm. 206-526-JOKE for reservations

Tomorrow is the party for Tony "SteakLimbs" Moser who is a phenomenal video editor and a grade-A SakeBomber. He likes it hot. We're kickballing until our balls get kicked to kingdom come, granted that Killoojy O'Handwrappascar will be plying us with wrapped weiners and a tapped pony keg. Standard rules, no skirts on the ball field, 3rd inning is In Your Cups inning, where the infield has to play while holding their Solo, both teams. 5th inning, if we're still alive, is Double in The Gap, where we chug at 2nd before advancing.

That's the kind of intensity I like to see at the Cobra-Kai dojo.
www.haxtv.com
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Like A Hickey

Whaddayoo mean you ain't seen The HAX-TV Promo Reel yet? It's never going to work without YOU!!!

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Buttons, Knobs, and Globes

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.

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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.
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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.

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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.
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the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
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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.

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Customary Disservice

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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.

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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.

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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.


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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."
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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.

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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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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.

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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!

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Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
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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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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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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.


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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.

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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.
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When in doubt, shut up.
When in the right, speak up.
When in Bothell, shoot up.
When near my cube, smell my braap.
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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 ..."

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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.
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Watch your Blogs.



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Now THIS Is More Like It

A little news for the ladies on this Hump Day.
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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.
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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.
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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.

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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...
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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.
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Consider that button Push-ed.

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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.
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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.
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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.


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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.

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!

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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.
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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.
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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.

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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.


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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.

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)

Views
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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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.

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