Communicating And Other Provocations, How NOT To Steal A Sidekick

I am currently paying less for my cellular communication plan than I was in the first few months after I had quit working at Cingular. They set me up... oh, NOW I get it... on some "basic" plan. It didn't include any of the kind of stuff you may need, like the phone actually working. It was my bad, I should have turned it over earlier.

But when I look back at that place, it was like eons ago. And by "eons" I mean "Tabasco-filled hemorrhoids."

I don't have hemorrhoids.

Speaking of searing ass-pain, have you been following THIS STORY? It's what happens when dishonest people do the wrong thing meet up with technology in the hands of the tech-savvy.

To summarize it, Person A lost their CellPhone/Sidekick. Person B found it and claimed it as their own instead of saying "Hey, someone lost this and should get it back." Person B then used it to upload her social life, including a frighteningly grotesque gordo who may be the father of her child (she's 16, he's 20-something), and her brother who is in the military. What unfolds is a step-by-step account of using the antagonist's information and low-class nature against them.
For real entertainment, peek at their MySpace profiles, and look at their "associates."

The police are involved. TV is involved. MySpace is involved. It's captivating, it's voyeuristic, and some dunderheads are going to get some neck-slaps for it!
WHAT MORE COULD YOU WANT?

Ooh! Me, too!
GARÇON! MORE PINOT!


===

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

RETORT!

There are many false claims made against people on a regular basis. Those people, in this case, are me, Geoffrey Brandon Amazing Shaquille Shouldermeat Lott.

I have been called a hack, a loser, a fat-ass, a jerk, and a dork. I have had my sexual orientation questioned... in fack I think all of those came in one post on a message board earlier this year. As a side-note, I have found that when one makes a critical remark about someone else, you must be prepared to deal with any sort of consequences.

And thus I move to the most recent remark made about me... at least that I know of.

In Killorn's recent-ish blog about her new car, she included some pictures of what happens when people speed down side-streets after three-too-many double-martinis. In the background of the picture is Killorn's new ride, a Turbo VW Beetle, 2004 or some-such. Very slick ride, very quick off the line. However, the feature of the article is not the feature of the pictures. Instead, a ferociously unusable 1988 Accord Hatchback, minus the hatch and back, takes center-frame. According to Killorn, the reason her car is unfeatured is as follows...

See? GORGEOUS. Even with Geoff and the Giant Melon Noggin effin it up for the people out in the streets.

Interesting... Now, I'm not POSITIVE that Killorn is blaming me for taking the "tortured trust-fundle-turned-art-student" perspective photo, Juxtaposing the Old and Dead with the New and Vibrant, but if you know Killorn the way most of the guys in Kirkland who drive lowered trucks know Killorn, then she settled her sights on me and fired a shot.

To which I retort as such...
Geoff and the Giant Melon Noggin are seen in the background of the photo leaning into the passenger door of the Turbo VW Beetle. While fleet of foot and thick of loin, not even I had the energy to set the timer and then sprint back to the Beetle to rifle through Killorn's purse, which I was not doing for very long.

So eat a crap taco.

And if I'm way off base here, then that's for Killorn and I to work out. Let this, instead, be a lesson to all readers that when I catch wind of injustice, I'm gonna pounce and go for the throat. And you shall wear the hickey of righteousness.

I am a lot of things, but a bad-picture-snapping-Clone, I am not.
How dare you.


p.s.
Note the last photo in Killorn's post...
Self-taken, with her favorite items:
Laptop, digital camera, hairspray, and wine. All of these eventually end up in her hair.
===========
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Loose Ends

The title of this post is NOT, but could be, the name of a stag film.

When's the last time you heard the term "stag film?"

Oh, Tuesday? Okay. Gotcha.

A lot of things are moving along right now for me. I'm usually a pretty private person, when it comes to my life that is the Daily items. That bothers some people, because when it comes to these blogs, reading up on "the dirt" is always sexier than "oh wow, another opinion." Like I have said...
Opinions are like buttholes.
EVERYBODY has one,
and they're saving it for marriage.

I know, I should write greeting cards.

So I'll indulge you a bit with some dirt. Why not? I'm paying for this, one way or another.

First off, the new season of Last Comic Standing!
This is the season I tried out for in Arizona. I wouldn't trade the experience for anything short of a shot at the showcase night and being on the TV show and winning it all. So far, everyone who has been on it is repped. They have an agent, or are dating someone who is involved with the show, or has been bubbling under. We have yet to get enough of Ty Barnett on that show, but mark my words: Ty will rock this thing.

I am not real close with Ty, but I have worked with him in Seattle on a number of occasions. A very good guy, a really strong and smart comic, and frankly the guy's got what it takes to win this thing. He is likely to get even bigger in the next year, so if you get a chance, GO SEE HIM. He is as original as anybody I have ever seen; what you get on stage is Ty's attitude and perception, not a character that is a mish-mash of other voices. Ty gives you what is inside his head when the premise struck him, it is his voice. It will be really fun to watch Ty go further.

Comedians, bands, movies, etc, attract audiences that they appeal to. That's why a "certain kind of person" likes Nickelback, movies with lots of explosions, and anything with Johnny Knoxville. Same thing with the "Sex & The City" crew. Possibly the worst-acted, most popular TV show of all time. Yet, the characters in the show, The Mom, The Debutante, The Worker, The Goody-Good, all appealed to a certain part of each audience member. Living vicariously through the character, that's what Entertainment is about. I, too, have tied terry-cloth "capes" to my neck and run the length of the block, feeling I was about to fly. Yes, that was last Sunday.

Does anybody want to help me get a job writing greeting cards?

In the meantime, the United States military took out the #2 guy of al-Qaida the other day. I can always tell the pulse of America by checking the Yahoo Photos section under "Popular News" on their home page. Usually it's one of 2 things: Something cute, or a nipple. With all of the macabre pictures in circulation, the top-two pics this morning were three tiger cubs, and two kissing parakeets. Aaaaaww... cute beats dead guy again.

Thank you very much, boo the hacks!

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

My Blog About My Dad

Check Engine. And... A Note To A Friend.

I know.
I KNOW!
Sad, huh?

Yeah, your life. Sad.
Huh? I know it is. You have no drive, nor direction, which is what traffic reporters call "a stalled vehicle." The rest of us have to go around you. The least you could do is catch on fire so we have something to look at while you try and hold everything up.

Don't worry, somebody will be along to get you started again soon. You probably just need an oil change or some new plugs. Check the interior, too. You are likely leaking again. This time of the year does that to some.

You need to lay off the horn, though. That is old news. One note, that's all you got under the hood. One. Note. And it's off-key.

The best part, though, is that you never seem to pay attention to your own warning lights. Gas, oil, temp, battery.

For someone that concerned about paint jobs, it's odd that you can't see your own dings. Maybe best to stay out of the brighter lights, then. That will keep you from ever hearing about them. Or about how much better you could be running, if you would just have that maintenance handled.
===============

Hey, I know you don't always do this, but could you blog something? You're a writer, and a great one at that, so USE IT.
Some folks may see Blogs as superfluous, useless, pointless.

I see mine, and yours, as an outlet, a creation, the End Result of Talent. Why the hell would we read and retain and work on it, if not to share it?
So you can shit on everyone else's work? that would be easier, huh? produce nothing, complain about everything, but then you'd be an asshole like the asshole in that previous thing up theres.

Hurry up widdit. Asshole.
================

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

The Hitchin' Post, Part 2: Eloping Begins To Look Better

Alicia and I have begun to look at venues that think they could adequately host our "to-be-legendary-if-not-causing-new-statutes-to-be-passed" Wedding Reception. I think a better way to say it is that we have begun to look at places that we will not be having the reception. When I was 23 and looking for apartments, anything that had parking close to the door and on-site laundry was worth my pro-rating a security deposit I would never see again. Sometimes, you just have to see how well the seal on the bathroom door would hold, you know, in case a monster made of Grape Jell-O and Old Crow whiskey were to come up out the tub drain. And as a health tip, do NOT drink wine you left in your car trunk for all of August.

Digression, sorry. I beg your pardon.

Yesterday we looked in-depth at one venue. I got to do two of my favorite things: Find new material, and make other people nervous as I glanced around the room before furiously scribbling on a notepad. We attended an Open House, and this is where the good stuff starts happening. Substitute the word "Free" for "Good," and I think you will see why it was smart of me to not where sweatpants to the event. Besides the fact that I do not own a pair, they would have revealed my "excitement" at the amount of gratis items. FREE SHIT, is what I'm talkin'! Gore-met chocolates, the finest cheeses (including goat), a hosted bar, and breads with herbs INSIDE THE BREAD. Also, a gorgonzola/pear-stuffed flank steak roll, served by a man with one hand.

Yes, he had one hand. He, being the guy in charge of the cutting duties of said meat, well, he would have to do SOMETHING to handle those duties, right? It may sound cruel, but if you were a chef and had one hand, wouldn't you think it a wise move to have an Inspector Gadget-like kitchen utensil prosthetic?
BECAUSE THAT GUY DID! Where his hand once was, there was a replaceable chef's knife! He made the best of his situation. He goes on the Hero board.

With my focus on issues such as the number of hands on the service staff, or what kind of free stuff I was NOT getting (skimpy goat cheese balls!), Alicia had the duties of perusing the various weddingly accoutrements. When a couple does this, usually it is by flipping through a picture book of the vendor's work at other weddings, and therefore, we got to see other people's wedding photos. And that's when the REAL judging begins.

But let's not get there just yet. The place we looked at, while lovely, isn't right for what we are planning. One venue's "rustic" is another couple's "chipped paint and easily-clogging toilets." It is now that I must remind each of us, including you, and you, not you, you , the two of you, you're not included, and ... YOU, yes, right there in the silver hot-pants... Know What You Want. That makes the rest of it easier. Decisions can be made much more quickly, and your options magnify themselves when you are fully aware of what you desire.

So, this weekend, we are off to look at more places to not have a reception at. Before I am too hasty, however, I should refer to my list, have my questions ready, and not act until I feel I am leaving with a properly-kissed ass. These people are going to be working hard and I should give each of them a fair shot of impressing me with their assortment of free stuff and knife-handed kitchen commanders.

VIVE LE CHEVRE!

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

My Blog About My Dad

Were We Taken

I am not one much for conspiracy theories. I have never, however, believed that the lives lost on September 11, 2001, were taken solely by the actions of terrorists.

Every move.
Every thought.
Every plan.
Every flight lesson.
Every pass through metal detectors.

All of it done in America, under the noses of our governmental bodies. And they never knew of it. We had no warnings. They were just too smart, too sophisticated. They killed thousands.

Over 3,000 people died.
If you want to wonder how the terrorists did it, WATCH THIS VIDEO.
It runs over one hour. You will be amazed, if not sickened, when you aren't outraged.

At some point, you will probably say...
"There is just no way."

If you have seen the M. Night Shyamamaammalalana film "The Village," you know about paranoia, fear, closing ranks, and how leaders can create it all under the guise of "security." The best defense is a good offense. Go to them before they come to us. That will get pricey. Well, War is good for business. Everyone comes out a hero.

I am pro-America, in spirit, at all times.

When you have time, watch the video. Or don't. Watch something else.
I often wish I had, because I will never be the same after watching it.

God?
Bless America?
Please?
==============
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

The Hitchin' Post , Part 1: Love Comes To Town

If you have been following the pages here you know that I am now engaged to be married. If you’ve been following the archives you know that you are more surprised than a bartender serving a Kennedy a Diet Coke. I have never been anti-Love, I just have not really grasped how it correlates with Marriage. Until a couple years ago.

Alicia and I met through our mutual friend, vodka. Killorn was also there. Killorn and Alicia have known each other through a number of Presidencies, some of them even ASB-style. I had been unattached for a few months when I met Alicia, and Alicia had also been single. It would not have mattered, really, the timing. I would have likely charmed, bribed, led, and/or groped her away from anybody she had been dating. Something clicked. I had to be with her. To allow Killorn her chance to record some of this story as well, I will refrain from too many details of the early days. Look for that entry some time near our 4^th Wedding Anniversary. Encapsulated, Killorn introduced me to Alicia. I could not be cool. I was in Her presence.

A lot of people, since the announcement of the engagement, have asked me “To a woman?” They’ve also asked me how it all went down, because I hang out with guys who run these streets, see? And because I look around this world and see so much that can be cast in a negative light, I want to bring, instead, levity to my space of the InterWeb. The mere appearance of the words “my” and “space” probably just cost me a copyright royalty.

In MySpace… No on can hear you perv.

So here is how this all culminated. Alicia and I have been dating since late September of 2004. We went to Mexico together, if you wanna flash back to those blogs. Last year we went through the moves, her to Fremont, me to Juanita. Late in 2005 I asked her to move in with me. We tend to get along pretty well when we are awake, and I figured since she would be closer to work, I should try and collect a little help for the mortgage. And I love her. So she moved in, officially, around Decemberish. I knew that would buy me a little time.

Then things started getting really serious…
WE BOUGHT FURNITURE.

Pick your chin up, I’m serious. I wasn't kidding around. She found the style of couch she wanted, and Lord knows I needed a new one… literally, it was an old Youth Group rec-room couch. I am sure it was infused with the Lord's blessings, not to mention the echos of fumbling zippers. Anytoots, we got us a great, off-white couch and chair/ottoman set. I AM NOT AFRAID OF COMMITMENT, as long as it comes with a Warranty.

Prior to this, I had made a very key decision: To be Happy. It’s a very simple decision. Instead of waiting until I had X, Y, or Z (they are Icelandic triplets who live across the way when they aren’t modeling the latest in seamless unmentionables), I decided that I Am Happy. Instead of seeing Happiness as Contentment, and therefore, as Resignation To Mediocrity, I saw Happiness as Consistency. It is how I am, and it is to anybody’s credit if they are Happy and go toward their Best Self. Happy is the oil in your crankcase. Desire is the gas. The seats are genuine pleather.

Here I am, happy and focused, and moving forward. Alicia had been really encouraging of my comedy and writing, and not just in a way that is shouted lazily from the other room when I am off to a gig. I shared my goals with her, and we sat and devised a plan for it. I don’t understand why it involves watching her get a hot oil massage by the Florida State linebackers, but a goal is a goal. God Bless.

I wanted to marry Alicia because I love her, and because relationships take the kind of work we cooperate on. The energy I can put into my relationship with Alicia doubles when I am not dodging phone calls from wom..
When I’m focused on just US, that will go a long way. We have not compromised our independence; I still do whatever I want to when she’s not looking. She still gets her breakfast made by a smoking-hot stud in workout pants. (thank you Tyler. Next time, less tumeric in my eggs)

I wanted to do things right, so I knew I was going to have to ask Alicia’s parents for their permission, not to mention the dowry, to marry their daughter. And that’s when things started getting so good, somebody humped a camel.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Kenneth Lay SHould Not Go To Prison

Kenneth Lay, former Enron Top-Turd and current "Legion Of Complete AssTools" Chapter President, was found guilty of wire fraud, conspiracy to commit wire fraud, and homeliness this morning. He will be sentenced at a later date.

I say "No" to the sentencing. Shouldn't have to do jail time. Nope. None.

Enron already stripped pensions of its employees. And a few million, if not hundred million, if not billions, from the Government in something that I cannot find on the internet. (ed.note, there are no returns when searching for the phrase "How much did Enron totally ream the average taxpayer's face, if not their ass, via Government bailouts?" Smells fishy.)

Now Lay is maybe going to a Federal prison, where he will get a place to sleep, a job of some sort, clean clothes, limited opportunities to meet in a conjugal manner (shudder), food, and health care. Odds are he'll write a book about his experiences as the local Chapter President of the"Greed Is My Viagra Brotherhood." Proceeds will pay for his crimes.

OR... and this is just a wild suggestion...

Ken has to get two day jobs working in the food service industry. He can't quit either of them. He uses that money to get a place to live. He has to get a roommate. He cannot drive a car, vote, or get health coverage. He starts from scratch.

OR...

He has to do the jobs the Mexican immigrants are doing in our country. Prison is supposed to be a perspective and a punishment. He should have to face the public every single day for the rest of his life. Among the everyman, the hoi polloi, those he took from with his greed.

Then again, I could be cold here as I declare some people's every day lives as a punishment.

Okay, they get to rape him. Happy now?

BANG, case closed.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

May 24th, 8:17a.m., Juanita Village

Hey... Hey lady, seriously... what are you...
Yeah, you, riding solo in the Lexus 450 MonstroLuxe. The one you're lollygagging down the middle of the parking rows while staring at the chic phone you don't know how to work.

>HONK<

Oh Hi! Now you see me. Can you move to your right a little? The Right. It's the side with the hand that you drink from all night. It's opposite the side that four men have mistakenly put rings on.

You look exasperated at my motioning to you, but I'm not really sure why you're driving down the middle of the aisle here. I understand this is a busy parking area near the Starbucks, it's packed this morning, but I'm on my way out... What are you pointing at?

>HONK<

Move your car. Now. Move it. I swear I will get out of this car and knock your window and ruin the majestic feathery wings flying from your head, you idiot. Move. Now.
What are you pointing at?

Lady, that parking spot is one of 3 that you passed, and you gotta get beyond me, first. Which, if you MOVE THE CORN TO YOUR RIGHT YOU WILL BE ABLE TO DO. If you want a staring contest, you got one. I'm not moving. I'm on my way somewhere, and you're where you need to be. You won't get in until I get out. Same thing with elevators.

You look really exasperated. This is NOTHING. Seriously, I'm trying to get to work, you're working on another divorce. The world will continue turning, and I'm sure we both are cursing each other's existence. I cannot move over any further unless I learn to manipulate solid matter with my mind, but that Whole Foods class is not until NEXT week. This one's up to you.

The guy behind you is honking now.
Now HE is motioning for you to move to your right. The spot you want is now open.
The lady behind me is honking, too. This is awesome.

Oh great, here comes a cop out of Starbucks.
Yes, PLEASE roll down your window and... you're doing it!
Are you going to talk to him?
You ARE talking to him!
He's looking at me... now back to you. Now back at me... he's nodding...

AND NOW THE COP IS TELLING YOU TO MOVE TO THE RIGHT TO PASS MY CAR.

Why isn't he reaching for the pepper spray? What the hell do I pay these guys for? GO FOR THE SPRAY, THROW DOWN WITH THE SPRAY! DROP THE HOT SAUCE ON THIS WALKING REASON FOR A PRE-NUP!

There ya go, now you're doing it. The officer is waving me through, shaking his head. I shrug, he shrugs.
--------
This was my first outside human interaction today.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Blessings On The Well-Heeled Hoof

Some day, when you are engaged to be married, perhaps for the 4th time, you should be praying that you have a friend like Killorn O'Neill.

Let's all get it on the dancefloor that Killorn can sometimes bring the kind of grace to a party that can only be described as "Full Contact," both in word and into-the-curio-cabinet-cross-check. Well that was on hold last night, as the dearest Kilo-G put on an engagement party for my fiancee Alicia and me. It was as moving as it was loving as it was bubbly. In attendance were some of my closest friends and their significant others.

Mike & Lucia. Tara & Cody (Cody can cook, wow, seriously, y'all missed out). Desi & Perryn. Kim. Ali. Geoff & Tasha.

Some of the smartest, funniest, most creative, most life-loving people I've ever met. And they are my friends.

And as glasses were raised to toast the next step of the relationship Alicia and I are always building, I sat in awe of the amount of care that had gone into the table setting, the lighting, the champagne purchase. (side note, we gotta lay off the champers for a while.) Our food was perfect. The conversations were lively. The wine flowed. We poured the "beer of champagnes," and eventually got to the High Life. I thank my lucky stars for them folks.

When pressed for a date, I can drum up when I met these people. But honestly, it feels like I've known them all along. I had the spaces in my life for them and they appeared. I am very blessed.

As Alicia has been welcomed into my family, and I into hers, I have begun to see how great marriage can be. It's a cornerstone, not an anchor. It is a pillar, not an obstruction. And I know it will take a lot of work at times, like when you spend your entire gorgeous Saturday making two trips to the rockery because somebody mis-measured for the walkway.

I am surrounded by some of the best people put on this earth, and I have the dulcet brain warmth of a champagne hangover to prove it.


ADDENDUM!
Monday night's "Girl's Night, Heeeeey!" party at the HQ here had the following items to share:
Almond Flavored Sparkling Wine
M&Ms
Salad Deluxe
Roasted Veggies
Skirt Steak, post 36-hour marinade
and the phrase...
"You mean the doctors like, go UP IN YOUR HOLE?!?!"
===========================
To Come This Week!
The Engagement Story, a.k.a. Lord Of The Rings, With Cheese!
Comic's Trip: My Travelog
Recipes For Disaster: Something to Try Out At Work
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Fuelling My Anger

The reports are that oil prices could soon top $100 per barrell. That is 1,000% growth in about ten years. The oil, mind you, has not changed in quality. It's all about supply and demand. And I am outraged at the sins of our fathers!

...for not investing more in oil, what were they thinking?

Hindsight is always 10w-40.
======================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Headlong Into The Fan

Comedy Blog!

Last night I performed a gig out in a somewhat rural town in East King County. The joint wanted to host a comedy show. Apparently they did NOT want to advertise it. Zero pub, zero media on it. It was a microcosm of bar comedy, but the crowd... well, the 8 people in the room who weren't comedians... they were very nice.

On the way to the gig there were a few wrong turns and nearly-missed streets. We got there about 15min before show time. Did the show, it was what it was, like trying to do comedy in the lunchroom at a plant that makes boxes to hold other boxes. One lady stood at the bar the whole time. Eye-level comedy can be discomforting. I also felt as though I were auditioning for somebody booking a comic for their brother's probation party.

On the way home I nailed every turn, every road, and every green momo-fofo light. And I learned a lesson. I'd like to share it with you now.

When MapQuest is your guide, you may go a bit slower to make sure you find your way to your destination.
When The Knowledge That Your Destination Is A ShitPile is your guide, and said Pile is in your rearview, you can drive perfectly away with your eyes closed before the last cocktail glass hits the pavement, post-window toss.

Sloshing back and forth in the shit-bucket, sorry World, I'm all full up.
Save your lessons and nestle up to my man-flower. Not that you owe me, but for crying out loud, could you not cause ONE F*CKING TRUCK ROLL-OVER in that town after a guy's been out pounding beer in a Kroger parking lot? And not a high schooler this time. One of those burned out guys who tucks his t-shirt into his pleated cargo shorts, tube socks slunched around his ankles, just like his outlook on life after his SECOND mail-order bride left him. Because if that could happen right in the parking lot of that gig next time around, I would really, really think everything is in order and stop winging backhanded compliments at co-workers.
"Shane is a multi-tasker. He can both confuse and bore you in the same sentence."

Thanks for indulging me there. You know how you feel after a 20-min nap? Take an Old Testament-styled shit after that nap, and THAT is how I be feeling.

Thank you, I'll be here all night.
In your liquor cabinet.
===========================
Oh, one more thing, hun.
I'll be posting more "Jokes That Barely Work," as well as a Cruise Journal, and the story of my engagement, from Ring Shopping to Proposal. Gonna be good times.

Thanks for reading. Love ya.
===========================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Joke That Never Worked # 1: Gay Friends

The following material never does well on stage.

Is Gay The New Black?

For a while, people would say things like "I have a friend who's black," or "I work with a lot of
black people," like we were supposed to spread the word to the streets, or it would up their coolness.
Hey guys, guys? I heard that Matt over in Finance knows a black guy. Holler.
Right? Holler?

It's the Political Correctness movement, that's what did it to us. I have friends, some of whom were born with darker pigment. But they're all good guys, even the Mexicans.
It's not MexiCAN'T… it's MexiWON'T, that's what I've learned. MUY MACHO!

We have to include EVERYONE in EVERYTHING, or else we appear to be insensitive. And some of us aren't insensitive, we just usually spend our inner-city time buying drugs, not hugs.
But now, it's all changing. Everyone had the black friend, and now, everyone's getting a gay friend. They want the fashion tips, the grooming, the off-beat androgyny that stirs up emotions inside, so much that you just lay in bed stairing at the ceiling, confused, throbbing, listening to ABBA, wearing hotpants that were a gift from… well, none of your business MISTER MAN!

The women's gay male companion has been around for centuries, thank you Liza Minelli's husbands. But now straight guys, or "Heteros" as I call me, are getting street cred with the old fashionable "I have a black friend," but replace "black" with "gay," and "Friend" with "We were at the river in a canoe, and there was some gin, and well, nevermind! Until after this Cosmo." I don't drink Cosmos, but I have had a cosmo to drink. It did little more than kidney-punch me, when it wasn't busy making me look "open for business."

And I understand the grooming and the fashionable dress and the presenting one's self to society in a way that is classy and proper. But guys are shaving their arms now, and the eyebrow waxing... It's not manly. They look like the third henchman in that one Bruce Willis movie. And the arm shave, come on. No straight man should shave his arms, unless he was in a bad fondue accident, and if you're a guy who does the fondue, you're probably gay, so shave away. Wow, I came full circle on that one, which for $50 I will do at your party on Saturday.

People aren't novelties to be collected. Unless we're talking about Angelina Jolie's so called "adoptions." Why is Paris Hilton carrying around an ape born to a lab-chimp that was injected with crack... oh, that's Nicole Ritchie, sorry. She's not gay, I don't think.

People love to say they have a gay friend, though. It's all the rave. In fact, Gay is The New Black. As in Fashion, so in Friends. Ya work with 'em, ya love 'em.
(if you're offended by any of this material, please understand that there's a reason I don't do this on stage. It's not funny, as much as it is an observation of how people be talkin' and conductin' themselves. Don't call Jesse Jackson or Rosie O'Donnell, not yet.)
============
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

The Beginning Of The Empire

The past weekend was a culmination of not only a few weeks of planning, but a few years of my life.
My girlfriend Alicia and I headed to Northern California's Wine Country, heretofore referred-to as "Napa" because it's shorter. The trip was Alicia's birthday gift from an adoring boyfriend, and I'm really happy he sprung for it. Napa is known for it's wineries, Mona Lisa-beautiful scenery, and white people. Any time we were not admiring scenery, it was for a very good reason: The winery did not have outdoor tastings.

While the wine, scenery, and grapey buzz of the weekend were all very nice, this blog isn't a travelblog (to follow). It's for a much more important reason. See, I did something to Alicia that I have never done to a woman before.

And I wouldn't suggest any man do what I did if that man is still "just kind of dating around," or is "not over that rogue 3rd-grade boner," or sees Casual Friday as "the other day of the week to wear sweatpants to work."

I asked Alicia to Marry Me.
AND SHE SAID YES!!!

I am engaged!
She is My Fianceé!

I am excited, happy, blessed, and fearless.
She is beautiful, wonderful, perfect for me, and amazing.

For now, this is all I can share.
Stay tuned for "How It Happened!"
=============================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Imitation Immigrants

A friend of mine...
Well, "friend" to the extent that he doesn't drive me to start my five-day waiting period...

We were talking about the immigration hub-bub that's been clogging our streets and leaving our Mexican restaurants slower than usual as of late. We talked about the jobs they immigrants worked, where they lived, the money they made, and the Pros y Cons of the whole situation.

He said "well, we're all immigrants, except for the Native Americans."
To which I replied, "No, we're not all... okay, we're gonna have to move because I had some dairy product last night, sorry about that, wow, go go go..."

Then I re-started with, "No, we're not all immigrants. I'm not. I was born in America. I'm a Native American. I have single citizenship. I speak one language. I try to remember to vote but I just can't bear the thought that they don't have some bribes to get me to go in there. The Northern Europeans were here prior to Columbus, like 500 years earlier, and turned around because they thought the place blew. There were people here already, sure, but all of those first, say... 20 generations, assuming 25 years per generation... they're all dead. It's all new people now. Native American, Chinese, Japanese, African-American, Hispanic, Latin, Caucasian, Other, those are just check-boxes for you to fill-in so marketers know what kind of porn you dig, or what kind of person signs their name with a Winky Face ;^]
So NO, I don't buy that we're all immigrants. I didn't come from anywhere. And with the grace of God, I'm not going anywhere."

To which he replied, "Huh? I was MySpacing a sec there. Something something, Chinese porn?"

This is, of course, just how I see things. The Truth on this matter is subjectivo. Immigrants are working a lot of jobs that most Americans, i.e. White People, would say "don't pay me no f*ckin' money, not enough to finish this barbed wire arm-band tattoo, so I ain't gon' work it!" Then a racial epithet and PITOO with the tobacco spit.

You wanna work? Work. You don't? Fine. They're not all gems. Somedays all I want to do is mow lawns, rake bark, and actually see something get done. Fewer meetings, fewer mission statements, fewer re-orgs. But, after all, I have a degree in History. I'm underqualified for landscaping.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Searing Gas Pain.

8 miles. 40 minutes.

That's the distance from my home to my work, and the time it took me to cover that in a car this morning. I left the house at 8:13. I swung into a parking spot at 8:53.

My clock clicked off 20 minutes in just the first 2.4 miles. I could have jogged it faster. I went through I was only at one stop-light prior the majority of the wait. I traveled 1.3 miles, then hit the slog. .5miles later I was at the back of a 1.1mile-long line to a stoplight near the on-ramp of Southbound I-405. 90% of the traffic at that light gets onto I-405. The rest of us who travel through, and don't work in Bellevue or, (gross) Factoria get to sit and wait, when we're not sitting.

Every now and then a few lead-footed commuters would fly by in the left-hand turn lane, using it for travel. This is dangerous because some folks use it for travel to the left-turn light, some are on-coming to turn left across the exodus line and into a business, and some use it to get past the exodus so they can drop their kids off a daycare.

So here's the dilemma. There's no carpool lane, so making friends isn't going to help at this point. The trip to the main release point of the exodus is as long as the rest of the trip, yet only 25% of the total travel distance. All roads out of the Juanita Beach area are clogged like this on a daily basis from 7:30 to 9:30... yeah, I'm sometimes late to work, even when I'm not hungover.

With gas prices what they are, my question is this:

Who is responsible for the career of Nickelback, and why aren't they being attacked with a sleeping bag-full of terribly upset pit vipers as we speak?

America is all about Having Options, and Waiting in Lines for Them. Then again, in other countries, I could have been stacked in with 90 other people on a flat-bed rail car hoping to get work 80miles away. Carpool lanes, only in America.

Please, Dolphin Army, attack! ATTACK NOW WHILE WE SLUMBER AT WORK! Because I needs me a day off.


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

My Blog About My Dad

Jokes That Are Stage-Death: Pro-Logue

In my comedy act I have worked out quite a few bits that never seem to do as well as I believe they should. I speak not of the jokes that are guaranteed groaners, by which I mean "gross out material/potty humor,"and anything derivative of those genres. I'm talking about bits that, when I wrote them I knew they they had shed their cocoons and were ready to start beating their wings. Maybe they needed a little more time as a pupa.

I once took such a huge pupa I changed colors!
That was easier than your mom on a three-day weekend.

Psssh, it's CAKE, my friends... CAKE.

I can't say I believe whole-heartedly in everything I bring to the stage. But I work from the 80-20 rule when it comes to matieral. 80% of the audience will get it, while the other 20% will be broken up into 10% who REALLY get the joke, and 10% are only laughing because I stopped talking. That majority percentile, the 80%, which on an average night in Seattle is about 8 people... which is for another blog on why comedy isn't as hip as music in this city... that big group has to "go with me" from the get-go on a bit. And if you don't have attention early, you may as well be trying to get your money back from the hooker who could only muster a golden shower when you paid for a Rusty Trombone AND the... FOCUS, Lott...

Forthcoming will be a number of blogs that are the bits I wrote, best I can remember them. They will include, but not be limited to:
Gay Friends
Rubber Band Bracelets
Drugs Should Be Illegal
Sometimes, Death Means God Cares
Self-Deprecation

And Many More!
They appear, at first glance, hacky. But hey, these bits have developed over years of re-writing and untreated psychological abuse. You can expect the best.

More to cheese, please... Take care.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Humor Strike Show TONIGHT!

About a month ago I got the idea to throw together a fundraiser in the guise of a Comedy Show to benefit BoomTown Cafe. After some hand-wringing and street-peeing (totally involuntary, officers), the show is upon us! It is called Humor Strike! I think that's because Killorn, the designer of the ads for it, likes the word STRIKE! She's very much a puncher.

BoomTown Cafe provides low-income citizens and families a place to eat that is like a diner, not a soup kitchen. In exchange for a hot meal in a clean and dignified setting, the diner themself must pay a small fee, or work 15-30min for their meal. Working for your keep can add a lot to a person's self-worth.

BoomTown is trying to re-open its doors, after losing most of their government funding in the past year the way that most non-profits have. Tax breaks, budget cuts, war chest, whatever it is, the need to help people never gets a break. We create our own. A lot of small waves create a large ocean. The same holds true for when I eat popcorn and then sleep in a tent with other people. Sorry guys.

Please check out their website at the address below. If you can, please give, and spread the word?

www.BoomTownCafe.org

Was it me, or was Azteca like EXTRA slow on Monday?

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Mario Williams ... Huh...

If you needed 4 different tools, and could get one tool that would do all the jobs, you'd buy that tool, right?

Now let's say you had one job, and one tool could probably do that job really well. But the job is going to be tougher than any other jobs it's been asked to accomplish. Tool 1 and Tool 2 do NOT perform the same functions, mind you. You can have one or the other.

I would go for Tool 1. In this case, it's Reggie Bush, Heisman Trophy Winner, stellar college running back out of the University of Southern California. He can run, catch, return, and fly with the best of them. He's a 4 Tool Machine. At 6-feet, and 200lbs of wrought-iron wrapped around mercury heated to a sizzling 1,000 degrees. 1,000 Degrees of Awesome, that is. Check out someof his highlights on-line. You'll see. He's been compared to Gale Sayers. If you're not sure who that is, go Here, Now.

Tool 2 on the board is Mario Williams, a Defensive End out of South Carolina. Monster-sized. 6'7", 290. And yoked. The guy's huge. And fast. Huge and Fast. And Muscular. Even if he went to college to be an All-America French Horn polisher, he'd still be Scary. The guy's got freakish talent, speed, strength, and attitude. This guy worked as a Subway Sandwich artist throughout college. Tell me that's not cool.

Now, the Houston Texans have already decided that they're going to suck for a long time. They chose Mario Williams with the first pick of the NFL Draft, which, as I write this, is about 5 Grey Goose away. This is the day that hundreds of college football players dream of: Being drafted, making millions, and seeing their lifelong dream of making their ex-girlfriends jealous come to fruition.

When you're the worst team in the NFL, record-wise, and by "record" I mean "Ability to do anything other than find the field," you get the first pick in the NFL draft. Everyone knew it was the Texans choice to pick Reggie Bush. Then they wanted to "keep it interesting" by talking up Mario Williams this past week. Well, when you need to fix a lot of things, you need a lot of tools.

Long story short, take a multi-talented, 1-in-100,000 team player whenever you can. And never, ever objectify people.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Fossil Fuels

More later, of course, but let me say this.

The more I see the way the world is going, the more I wish I would have invested in oil a long time ago. Not only does it continuously rake in huge profits off of the everyday workin' person in America, but it makes the every-day person SO ANGRY! GRRRR!!!

The other day I saw a woman washing her car at a gas station with the squeege near the pump. This was after her tirade about how high gas prices had gone (up 4-cents a gallon just on Thursday), and how we should "blow up the whole 3rd World!"

Either she didn't get it that 3rd World countries really have f*ck-all to do with gas prices, or she wasn't fully aware of the implications on further generations by this era's fat, rich, old white guys, much like those who had divorced her numerous times, slowly finding a way to make gas unloveable... all while trying to drive the price of biodiesel through the roof.

OR she did understand the implications and was just a giant bigot when she wasn't busy being a ghoulish gasbag. For the sake of Monoxide, SHE WAS WASHING HER CAR WITH A SQUEEGE.
The topper was hearing her say "Well I am NOT using their car wash!"
Right on. Way to stick it to the man, and make the water dirtier for anybody else who wanted to wash their windows after waiting for you to finish detailing your Ford Five-Hundred for 8minutes... while their engine idled behind you in line.

Nothing would have made me happier than to have been able to say, with all honesty and truth, "Thanks for shopping."

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Smoke Out

As a recovering smoker (ten years), I'd have to say that Seattle's smoking ban has helped me immensely. I wanted to quit for quite some time. I rarely smoked at home, and went through MAYBE 2 packs a week, including sharing among friends. Smoking and Me went together like Booze and Me. Or so I thought. Not smoking is one of the best decisions I was ever forced into by the Dark Lizard Gentry of... okay... sorry guys...

I've said too much.

I still drink. But not as much. Maybe I'm mellowing out a bit. I'm 32 with a mortgage, which makes me better than your average renter. I have more to lose, financially, so I don’t spend all night sitting in a bar talking it up with people. It helps that so many people are catastrophically, not to mention anatomically, BORING, which births me back into the evening and right on home to catch my TiVo. I don't have TiVo. No smoking. Not as much (frequent) drinking. But plenty of opinion on the smoking ban.

A lot of people use that "I only smoke when I drink" line to throw you off the scent that they are smokers. If you smoke on a regular basis, even if it's just the weekends, you're a smoker. Also, I'd like to suggest you look into your binge-drinking. Anything, not "Everything," in moderation, you lushy whore drunken lip-locking lush. You don't have to do Heroin "In moderation" to know why it's called "Heaven's Handjob." Pick your poison and take it easy on your bod. Before you know it the holidays will be here and you'll need a little extra stash around. This is what they mean when they say "the addiction starts in the family."

When I smoked I didn't want to be judged by my habit, but I'm sure I was, and that is WRONG to do. People are so uneducated on how to properly judge others. Judging others on their behavior is a terrible thing to do. When I judge, I judge on the by-products of a person's behavior! You can run around and call me dirty names, go for it! But if the by-product of your behavior is that you do it audibly, and the words offend me, I'm going to mount your face with my just-finished-5 Rounds-of-KaBong Fuy Knee Strikes-ManAss. If your kid wants to walk around all night and try to break into my yard, hey, Kids Will Kids! But I am NOT paying to have your carpets cleaned when they come home with 1.5 feet, and I have .5 foot in one of my spring-traps. For every action there is an Equal but Opposite and Annoying Whiner taking it Personally.

Do as you will. There are consequences. Your consequences should really only affect you, but they don’t always do that, huh? That's where Road Rage comes from. That's where Rage comes from, now that you mention it while rubbing my exposed thigh. Smokers want to smoke. It's what smokers do. It's not illegal. They take the brunt of the physical damage. HOWEVER, when I smoked I knew I wasn't warming a ReNuzit; I was throwing some stink to the wind and that byproduct may offend people. If people get offended by smoking, for any reason, then they have as much right to react to it as the smoker has to put on their big-boy underwear and ACCEPT THE REACTION. Nobody is forcing you to smoke... except your need for nicotine fueled by a lifetime of commercial imagery being force-fed into your frontal cortex, your rebellious nature, and not knowing what else to do with $6. And Frank. When he says smoke, you f*ckin' burn one, pronto.

What I'm saying is that Opinions are Like Assholes: Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for marriage. BOOOOOOO!


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

My Blog About My Dad

What Took Him So Long?

Hey everybody who's hoping to have President Bush impeached, take heed. Read and heed. Heed it up like you've never heeded anything, let alone "up"wardly. It's a whole PANTSLOAD of "heeding" up in this kiddie pool.

Neil Young - Canadian, I believe - has recorded a song that calls for the impeachment of President George W. Bush. Well that oughtta do it. The final lean-and-squeeze to extricate the metaphorical whitehead from the carbuncle of the American Presidential system.

I'm pretty sure that every President has been targeted for impeachment.
I'm pretty sure America has been at war since before "I Traveled 183 Days With Scurvy And All I Got Was This Lousy Undergarment!" nightshirts made it back to Europe over 300 years back. Officially, America is but 320 years old. But the destruction of the White man is forever! We have THAT to hold on to, eh?
So if every President's an asshole, and every year we get into a new war (including the ones that don't get the press coverage), why is this any different?

In my honest opinion, we feel more strongly about this stuff because The Public has demanded that the governing bodies be more up-front about the goings-on of the Nation. And they are telling us what's going on, in as truthful a manner as they can. And to quote Jack Nicholson in the movie "A Few Good Men;" I don't know what kind of Panama hump-hump bar you learned to speak English in, but sell crazy somewhere else. We're all full-up here.

Paraphrasing, obviously. But remember, Opinions Are Like Assholes. Everyone's got one, and everyone's saving it for Marriage.

=========
Bad side, good side:
America is kind of in the shitter: At least people are talking about politics
Talking about politics is as much fun as talking about rectal surgery: Rectal Surgery can save your life
Your rectum is broken/diseased/home to many a festering virus: But now, the diagnosis will help you live longer
You have to live longer... on Earth: Earth is quickly gaining popularity as "Most Liveable Planet For Humans"
Sometimes people "spin" a story to look better than it really is: You can use your deductive reasoning to figure it out for yourself
There are as many half-truths as there are cable channels: You don't have to pay attention to the negative propaganda
You will end up a crack-pot street-corner screaming wild-eyed wonk: You don't have to worry about a mortgage or bills
You lack the initiative to handle the life of a responsible adult: You are "chasing your dreams"
Your dreams died and you're dragging their corpses around: No dream dies if you believe in it
You're walking around with your eyes closed to reality: All you're missing is Life
You're missing Life: ... yeah, but in America, where it's kind of in the shitter.

Impeach all comics still doing Neil Young impressions!
===
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Don't give your child the middle name...

of "Ray."

It means they're going to end up dying in prison.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

It Is A Good Friday

Since it's Good Friday, this is a good time to share what I know about it. It's not much, but if you want more theology and Holy Day smarts, you've come to the wrong place. I'll happily prepare a report of it for you, however. My going rate is $500/hour, with a set-up fee of $500. Get on board NOW.

Good Friday is the Christian holy day that marks the day of the Crucifixion of Jesus at Calvary. Some people say "Cavalry," but that's a military horse brigade, and the coordination of a horse army crucifixion is a little too much to wrap my head around. If you've seen, or even heard of, "The Passion Of The Christ," which I haven't, you'll understand why people believe so strongly in this day. It ended a week of spiritual, physical, and mental preparation by Jesus. He was betrayed by a long-haired conspirator for 30 pieces of silver, a man who led the authorities to Jesus' quarters. That man… Ted Nugent.

NO! It was actually another hard-core metal act, Judas. It was this day on which Christ was crucified and buried in the tomb. Three days later (Easter Sunday) he had risen from death, having atoned for the Sins of Man and ascended to Heaven. Accepting Jesus as your soul's Savior, believing he was sent by God, and treating others with dignity and respect is your jumping-off point to a happier life.

I'll admit, it takes a lot of faith and looking at it from the proper angle to accept the story. Believe what you want. That's your call. But here's what I believe:

Treating others as you want to be treated is the pivot point for your entire life. You don't need religion of any kind to be a kind person. To give, to sacrifice of yourself from time to time costs nearly nothing. Do good. To believe that one man was sent here by God to teach us to care for each other, to care for our communities, to drive out the corrupt and pointless is to believe that EACH OF US were sent here for the same reason. We can care about each other, treat each other well, and believe that we're here for a purpose. No, it's not a "rough and tumble" way to live. Lots of people live "rough and tumble," never takin' shit off nobody. They look so happy.

Now let's say you get to the end of life, you never followed nobody's rules, man. You weren't gonna let no Jesus talk get in the way of you living life the way you wanted to live. You did what you wanted, when you wanted, how you wanted. If somebody didn't like it, well they could KISS YOUR ASS. Yeah, man. That's how you lived. And then you're dead. Yes, even you. But you did it your way, yeah. You stepped up and kicked ass and stomped on those smaller than yourself and never did nothing to better yourself, because hey, the world wasn't gonna give YOU a break, so why do the world a favor? Oh, you had chances, but you skipped them. Do for YOU, take care of YOU first. Yeah. The world can kiss your ass for ever. [holding aloft two middle fingers] And then ya die.

As people stand over a body in the casket, assuming you didn't die in custody, and a few of them will say "HOLY SHIT, I thought this was the buffet. How'd this get in here? Who is this guy? Go through his pockets."

Some of them will say "Well at least he's not talking anymore."

And many will say "Well, that's it. Man, what a life he led. He set his own rules. He didn’t go around rummaging through the pockets of his spirit to give back to nobody. He played it low-key and cool. He didn't give what he had, because he worked hard for that shit. He taught me a lot about how to act, and he probably didn't even know it...
Man, what a dick. Died owing me $200 for that coffee table he Jimi Hendrix'ed at my mom's birthday party last year. Go through his pockets. I'm gonna grab a beer and move on his sister, [middle finger in the face of the deceased], so laters."

Maybe it seems like I'm passing judgment. I'm not, mostly because this is, what science refers to as, "A fictional scenario." But if it struck a chord with you that made you angry, is that a bad thing? I know that I have plenty to work on in my life and how I treat people on a daily basis. I can't make anybody do anything, all I can say is this:

Don't die a dick.

God Bless You, and Have a Blessed Easter.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

NOTICE!

Last night my girlfriend's car was vandalized in the parking lot of our condo complex.

Somebody is going to get their asses handed to them.


That is all.
===========================
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Further Proof That America, And Not Its Government, Rules

Just finished watching another episode of Extreme Home Makeovers. If you're unfamiliar with it, the show is on ABC on Sunday nights.

What they do is accept submissions from families in need, from all over the country. The family usually is not just a "little sister's pregnant, mom's in the clink, dad's wearing mom's underpants" kind of "in need." We're talking people with serious illnesses or disabilities who don't have what they need to have their lives be made as normal as possible. Check it out Here.

I have watched probably 20 episodes over the past year, which makes at least 27 times that I've nearly cried. Once when the Seahawks won the NFC Championship, then three drunken and profanity-fueled times during the Super Bowl. Again when I was wishing I could have fully shared the Super Bowl with my dad. Then another time that involved some hard gas and a very stubborn bowl of oatmeal. I gave it 36 hours, then went in after it. ANYway...

I don't usually shill for things I get no recoupment from, but there is some poignancy to the subject matter of this posting. I've blathered long enough, so here you go.

FEMA needs to stop their operation and hand everything over to Ty Pennington. Funnel the money, the work, the hours, the goods and services all to ABC, let Ty take it on from there. It's as obvious as the now-unused trailers sitting in Louisiana and Mississippi that FEMA is incapable of doing simple things like watching the Weather Channel or Administrating the Management of Emergencies, Federally. The EH group gets a job, plans it, rolls in, and gets an entirely new house built and furnished. Them last two are done in ONE WEEK.

No magical debit cash cards that go to, surprise, people who LIE TO GET FREE MONEY! (gasp, I'm astounded, really? People lie? Who could've seen that coming? Oh right, it's FEMA.)
No trailers waiting around filling with hot and stink instead of people.
Putting volunteers and community-minded people to work for the good of their neighbors.
Making me cry.

Now think what they could do with TAXPAYER'S MONEY, and I don't mean the funds we've given to the coffers since Hurricane Katrina, 9-11, and everyone who accidentally watched more than 30 seconds of "Joey." Tragic.

FEMA:
F*cking Everyone Massively Affected
Forgetting Everything Marginally Affective
Forgetting Even Marginal Assignments
Funding Every Marginal Annoyance
Funneling Every Monetary Allotment
Funding Eternal Munificent Abscondence

I could go on for quite a while, but I won't, you're welcome. Besides, I had to go to the thesaurus for that last one, and a little pee was made.

We take care of each other better than Big Government does. Let's continue doing that. In the meantime...

Send Ty and the gang to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. ASAFP.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

From time to time...

I step back and look at my life and say...

I am very blessed.

For whatever reasons (family, friends, creativity, God), for however long, I am happy and blessed.

That's all. Thank you for stopping by. I am humbled and inspired that anybody reads this, and a hundred times-more that you would come back. I hope you enjoy reading even half as much as I enjoy writing.

Thank you.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Yo, Dawg. Fo sho, you gotsta stay relevant!

Earlier today Marshall "Skittle" Mathers filed for divorce from his baby mama, Kim "Brown LipLiner" Whocares. They re-married three months ago.

Is it a calculated move by Reese's Piece to stay in the public eye, so that he doesn't get forgotten about while emerging rapping people like "The Contest!" and/or "T.O." step to the forefrizzle? Or is this really what it appears to be, a giant "and this effects anybody how?"

Because I sure as shit can't figure it out, with JellyBean being into black dudes.
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Five Months More

Tis now and for ten fortnights into current time
a season of bloom and forthward growing
as movement crawls and beards on chins sprout
and all the traffic processions are slowing
Baseball Season.
Five months more.

Take me to the ball game
So I may sit nearest nature's freak.
Asexual behemoth, bejerseyed and hot-dog killing
besmudged scorecard, cholesterol at a peak
Baseball Season.
Five months more.

Eighty-one to see, contested home
Contested away, eighty-one more
Pillar of the community. endorsing as a family man
To swing, to catch, then throw out of the hotel, a whore.
Baseball Season.
Five months more.

A time of year, bittersweet in weather fair
Fans in legion flood and swell the roads and bars
In cars, in jackets, in their sweatpants of class
Clogging traffic, take not transit but largest cars
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.

And now, the sun warms the green and clay
Line-up cards, pine tar, and tobacco spit
Out come the names and skills of training
For what it's worth, I give not a shit.
Baseball Fans.
Five months more.




Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

For The Record

Tonight I record my first Comedy CD.

Half of my brain is trying to get together this slick, tight set that has a perfect flow and no slow spots. Inside that half is more of my brain that wants to do nothing that may offend people.

The OTHER half of my circuits are telling me to just let it happen. I know where to start, and how to start the show tonight, and then let it kind of happen from there. That's when I do my best, anyway. And I'm not paying a professional crew to come tape me, so I may as well let it rip. I honestly doubt anybody will be offended. At least by me.

=========================
Oh.
My.
Gawd.
This work thing is killing me.
At my last job I wrote, sometimes at length, about the numerous co-workers who deserved to be shared with the world. Remember "No Makeup Sandie?" She had a breast reduction at some point. It was the one thing she could have done to make herself even LESS attractive. But she nailed it.
Her happiness and constant laughter inspired me, much like people are inspired when they're fired from the Post Office.

I wouldn't get violent in the work place. I don't have the temper nor the time management to properly plan it. But work, sheesh... I like my job, don't get me wrong.
What I don't like are a certain group of people. I call them, with sarcasm, "The Dynamo Club." The dead-eyed stare of somebody who not only doesn't realize that This Doesn't Matter, they barely know that they drove to work today. I wish they could take a second and see themselves I see them, and they will, if ever they find my sketchbook. (My favorite is "Brenda DuckWalk," she likes cableknits!)

It is a gift to put off any kind of Up energy to the world around you. Life has other ideas, sometimes. Diarrhea can put a stain on your day. Head aches are a pain in my ass. Hangovers make me wanna drink. Underage Drinking makes me miss Jr. High. So really, Life will always give you PLENTY of reasons to walk around looking like you're just running through the script for "Walk to Kitchen, Water In Cup, Drink" in your processor. I've been there. I got out.

This, again, is Perspective. It is how we know Black From White. Drunk From Sober. Flaccid From Semi-Flaccid. These people are necessary, and I don't know what I'd do without them.
Oh yes I do...
I'd be boring.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Brad Pitt Angelina Jolie Sex Nude Sexing

As we all know, Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt had unprotected sex and now she’s carrying his baby. Apparently Brad couldn’t seed the Aniston fields while married. I can’t quite remember what the Pitt-Aniston disconnect was on the baby front, mostly because it’s none the dook of my business and it would probably make me feel dirty and horny at the same time, were I to sit and ponder those two gorgeous creatures engaged in a little Side-Saddle with a Reach-Around Bean-Fiddlin’. Anyway, Brad and Jen never got it together on the baby front. But everything happens for a reason. And that reason is about to be splorched-forth unto the Earth.

Angelina Jolie is hot. She’s not good-looking. She’s not attractive. Pretty is too minute for her. She’s incredible. Like if you tried to describe her, people who had never rotted their brain with a Hollywood product, be it movies or whatever Jonathan Antin puts in his forehead, would say “I deny that a person of such described beauty exists. But if they did, I would want to Feedbag them before a solid session of Wheelbarrowing.” I’ve seen her naked in a movie here or there. Truly a gorgeous woman. She’s the kind of hot that wouldn’t anger you if it were on your new couch, and she was passed out on it in her own urine and vomit. There would be no poo, because hotness that hot doesn’t poo, it expends every last calorie fueling the hot. And whatever style she wears her Hair Down-There in would be considered Fantastic, no matter if it stretched hip to baby-widened hip.

Brad Pitt is also hot. And I say this as a straight guy, Pitt is genetically blessed in the physicality department. He works out, sure, but he’s got good genetics, too. He’s also one of the better comedic actors who is often overlooked (see “13 Monkeys” or the subtleties of Tyler Durden) because, well, he is hot. Funny and hot rarely go together, although funny can make someone hot. Hot cannot make someone truly funny. He’s both. How hot is Pitt? Well, about 6 months ago he BARE-BONED ANGELINA JOLIE, if that’s any sort of indication. Then again, she blew Billy Bob Thornton, everyone’s favorite “High School Janitor-type.” But he couldn’t blow the kind of super-wad that it would take to match hotness to Jolie’s ova, which Pitt had packed away in a climate-controlled testicle-oid for just such an occasion.

Now we come to the baby situation. Jolie’s got a couple of adopted kids, a son and a daughter. Son Maddox is about 5, a Cambodian orphan. Daughter Zahara is about 2, born in Ethiopia, and orphaned after her parents died from AIDS. Africa is really in bad shape, people. So let’s band together and not go there. That’s what Bono is for. Digression! Apologies… So she’s got a couple of imports, showing not only that she has a heart for the world’s needy (see her long list of humanitarian efforts, like putting Thornton’s penis inside of her mouth), but also that she can out-accessorize anybody on the planet. So now she’s gone and trumped even herself by deciding to allow her uterus to carry the child of The Brad Pitt, which is NOT but could be a good nickname for her vagina, which is probably actually named Vagelina Jolie. Reaching, I know. Focus.

She HAS kids. She’s GOING TO have another one, which will officially be sent to Earth to destroy Kevin Federline’s son. But I have questions about it all.

For example, will the hotness amplify on the Jolie-Pitt child, but the child comes out with a professional athlete’s vocabulary? Or will it be the case of magnets with like-polarities, the child birthed as a gaze-averting abomination of nature, complete with a spiked tail, transparent skin, and red beak capable of breaking through a grown-man’s sternum… yet has a flawless mind that can solve every socio-economic problem known to humans long before it takes its first steps, granted that it is not whisked away at birth by the people at Weekly World News, sent by the parents of Jon-Benet Ramsey?

AND…

Will Angelina Jolie go through natural childbirth or go C-section and not risk blowing out her probably flawless and magnolia-scented Brad Pit?

I have to go with Natural, only because she’s a worldly woman. I mean natural as in drug-free, no make-up, hip-fracturing, squatting in a hut with an Aborigine woman chanting over the recently-dispersed amniotic fluid cupped in the hollowed-out shell of a turtle, 57 hours of labor, ass-ripping natural birthing of the Child Jolie-Pitt. Visceral. Animalistic. And somehow that would Up her hotness. She grapefruit-spooned her “Billy Bob” tattoo off, for the sake of Clooney, people!

As for the looks, I think the kid will be gorgeous, and probably go to Cambridge to study zymogenetics and hate everything about Hollywood. Or become a chef in a small Portugal fishing village, cooking meals and sharing the secret recipe of a magical healing pie that was never shown or taught to the child… they just somehow always knew it.

Yeah, so that’s what I was wondering.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Out Of Office

I'm stuck at my desk at work.
Stuck. On many levels. I don't think I can take it. I'm sober, which is a good thing for everyone involved. I need to get up and get away from this stuff, I can't geek out to any more queries, LEFT OUTER JOINS, or nerd speak.
I can't...
I won't.

I'm trying to look on the bright side of everything lately. I see a downer, and immediately go to the flip-side of it, which can be uplifting. Let's try it a bit.

• My job is boring. But, at least I have a job.
• I have to go to work five days a week to make money. But at least I'm making money.
• I work with a guy who looks like the human form of a fart. At least he's not farting.
• He's farting in meetings again. At least the meeting will be over soon.
• The meeting is running long because he won't shut up. But his experience may teach a lesson.
• He keeps trying to be funny and it's not funny. Funny is subjective, so let his humor roam.
• Why is he greeting people with "Wasssuuup?" His attempts at being hip are dated, but honest.
• I can't breathe, this is too much between his coffee breath and lactose intolerance. This will give you perspective to appreciate fresh air!
• Okay, that's it, I am now going to return fire. At least the stomach percolation will subside.
• Damn, I pushed too hard and now I'm touching cotton back here. I have given everyone a story to tell, AND the meeting is adjourned!

A pantsload to go with me, but at least I get to leave work! I can't believe it came to this but I needed SOMETHING. You can fake a seizure only so many times.

Look for my Cruise Diary in the coming weeks!

If anybody needs me I'll be in the can with a spatula.

==========

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

For My Grampa

My grandfather, William "Red" Rider, or "Bill" to his friends, and "Rider" to my gramma, his wife of 57 years, Sunny, has passed away. He went Home last Friday night following a stroke, his second, which occurred last Sunday evening. I was out of the country at the time, and didn't find out until late last night. I feel as though somebody has punched me in the gut. As usual, I hope to publish something here that when you're finished, you'll say "That was worth reading."

To see some pictures and read a bit more about him, please visit the MEM page for him Here.
==========
Poppy was one of the original Funny People in my life. He was a kidder, a teaser, and a giant of a man. He loved us grandkids just as big. He stood about 6'2" or so, lanky, and always giggling about something else that he thought was funny. He would ask me "Hey Geoffer, what's your favorite cartoon?" and I'd say "Super Heroes" or some such. His standard answer... "Nope, can't like it." Then he'd giggle about getting one over on me. Anything I liked, "nope, can't like it." It never stopped, and it is how I bond with people today: Humor.

I usually saw Gramma and Poppy in the Summer, as they would come out to visit for a couple of weeks. We always had fun, going to movies and toy stores, up to Mt. Rainier, into Seattle, and tons of other stuff I still do for fun from time to time. They lived in Michigan, where my mom grew up, and eventually brought my cousins out with them as they got older. Grams and Poppy were my conduit to the rest of my Michigan family.

Change jingled in his pocket when he strolled about; he never walked anywhere, he was always moseying. That change was fed into many video games by many of his grandchildren, 9 in all, plus 3 great-grandkids. Or as Poppy would say "I don't know what makes 'em so great, eh Heh heh heh." He always had a few quarters to keep us entertained.

He had a distinct smell, aftershave that I never smelled on anyone else as I was growing up. It wasn't until I was 13 that I found the bottle. Old Spice. To this moment and forever I will associate The Spice with Grampa Rider. He smelled good.

He was a stock car racer back before it was regulated, marketed, and commercial. He loved watching the races and taught me a little about what the drivers were actually doing, and going through, in a race. This was back before stock car racing became a punchline, and was pursued with a real passion. He loved cars and the auto industry, as anybody could see in his now epic collection of free t-shirts from auto parts stores, towing companies, and motor oil offers in the greater Kent County area.

As a Poppy, he was a teacher and a friend, keeping an eye on us and making sure we got along. He loved to kid us, called us "Looney Tunes," and was never cross with us unless we deserved it. I didn't see him nearly as much as I would like to have. His passing has given me another perspective of Living, of Family, and of Legacy.

Love ya, Poppy.

All love and prayers to my Gramma, Mom, Aunt Sandy, Aunt Sue, Sonya, Jenni, Amy, Brad, Katie (you owe me $10 from that one thing), Machelle, Chris, and Rich. Miss you guys.


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

My Blog About My Dad

Cruisin'

This evening I embark on a vacation with my lovely A-list Girlfriend. We're heading to Miami, then on to a cruise ship, and then circling the Carribean for the next week or so! I'm pretty excited for a couple reasons.

First off, I got my ass waxed. I figured it would make me sleeker when trying to outswim the land excursion "guides" who will be trying to gyp me for an extra couple bucks in tips. I know, why swim away from the land guides? Because they are ON LAND, that's why.

Second, after the past few weeks of mundane blathering that has been my life (losing weight, exercising more, saving $) I am beyond ready to take the hell off. A-List and I both and each need a vacation. What better way to do that than get on a boat in the middle of the Carribean? For a week. Together. No where to, you know... go.

Third, I need a rush of someplace new. I believe that a person gets better when they force themselves into new places and experiences BEFORE Life does it to them... yes TO, not FOR. A-List was awarded this trip for her hard work last year, and I'm lucky to be her man, AND hotstacking that pleasure with being the guest she chose to take on the trip! She rules.

Fourth, my old place of employment can now download a picture of my ass and then eat that picture. That has nothing to do with the vacation, but it was fun.

Fifth, I have been coming across more and more passages and articles about the importance of Happiness in life. You can choose to be happy, because of, or in spite of, your circumstances. For too long I lived with the "I'll be happier when..." and that When never fills to the top. It just keeps wallowing between Content and Blah. So I am Happy. The rest of it I will create.

Sixth, some nerd-load at work today tried to be nice to me. First time he ever has done so. He usually barely recognizes my existence. Today he did so, in his "I'm gonna try to be nicer to people" way, by seeing me and saying "Well HEY Tom, I haven't seen you in a while!" Sidestepping the fact that I was sitting 2 chairs away from him 5 minutes earlier in a department meeting, MY NAME IS NOT TOM. I said "Hey CrapSock, it's Geoff." He said, "Oh why did I call you Tom?" I bit my tongue, then he tried to save the moment with "I guess you look like a Tom." Toms have a look?
Apparently... and where that look lacks minorly in SEXY, it makes up for in HUNKY and BRUTISH. I'm devastating.

Seventh, I've dropped 12 lard-bricks this year so far. 6lbs a month of useless fat. My BF% has dropped, I can see an Ab!, and I plan to get in good enough shape where people demand I take my shirt off, but not in a gay way, even if it is in the window of "Jack Banana's Leather Strap Rodeo Roadhouse." Just because, dammit, I'm looking better.

Eight, because I invented motherf*cking INWARD SINGING, that's why!

Ninth, because I'm apparently the only comic in Seattle who blogs. Nobody has anything to write? Well then, I guess I'm the mumbling, disinterested voice of our scene, then. You can't write ANYTHING? Famous isn't waiting for you, GET ON IT.

Tenth, and finally, I'm excited because I get to go with someone I love, who loves me, and because we're ready to get away from everything and just enjoy each other's company. I'll bring ya back some rum or something, because you drink a lot and show your boobies.

Adios, Muchachos. Adios.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

For The Competitive Romantic In All Of Us

Recently I was paid a few very high compliments by comics and crowd members. It's nice to have a perspective from the outside that what I'm doing stands out a bit, or in the very least, is getting the job done well.
"The job," of course, is being really good with a cheese grater and a Shop-Vac (tkm) when some flunky Security Guard wants to ask questions of my friends, like why they were peeking in windows while dressed as Danny Partridge.

Honestly though, a bit of poignancy in the race to the top, from the husband of my favorite blogger, Dooce. Read it HERE...
=======
Also, this week being The Love Week... f*cking Hallmark & Jewelry stores, forcing a holiday upon us with all the commercialism normally reserved for the religious holidays... I found this story from Anderson Cooper on CNN.com.
In the story, he restates scientific findings that confirm what I've suspected all along.
Love Is A Drug. Between the paranoia, hanging out with people you dislike, the bloody noses, and paying for it from time to time, it's quite a lot like the Booger Sugar.

Love Is A Many Splendored... Mental Illness?
--
Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

A Call To Humor!

The fact that more people aren't more into Emo Philips is a testament to the education system of this nation, much like the second season of "Joey" and 99% of MTV.

Below are three Emo mini-performances from the ComedySpeak website. Go to Paul Currington's column (link on the right) to see Russ Amer, circa 2001, with a special guest at the Comedy Underground!


Enjoy Your Emo-ment.
Don't Wear Fur!
The Joke's On Germany
Music Teacher




Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Hey Canada, Here's Your Nickelback!

I thought I was going to write a satire piece on the band Nickelback, touting their song writing and fashion and sound while being tongue-in-cheek about it, but I can't. And I have to get these words out or they will continue to gnaw at my optical nerves when they are not busy gnawing at my weiner ligaments.

A couple years ago we saw the glorious end of the band "Creed," who is now some other puss-rock band with a different lead singer who also happens to sound like farting into a coffee can. Creed was a band that came from Christian-rock roots, and even worse, Canada. Canada is not known for its rocking. If you start to say "What about Rush?" I will be elbow-deep in your ass before you get to the R.

Creed was not ever a good band. They were barely tolerable by rock standards. But somebody bought into them. Probably Dave Matthews Band fans who needed something edgier, but couldn't quite handle the deep lyrics of 3 Doors Down, who will be flayed later. Creed slid off the charts when their lead singer, Scott Stapp, decided to pursue other careers, like drunken slob, and/or yelling "I'M SCOTT STAAAAPP!" while being tazered by airport officials. Can we take you high-ah? No. Now finish detailing my car.

3 Doors Down and Creed were shat-forth around the same time. 3 Doors Down has gone on to record pretty much nothing but songs to be played at teen weddings in the Southern states. Perfect, since it was 3DD's music playing a few months prior to the wedding that night at the quarry, when a young tire technician met a tube-top full of daddy issues in a pool of beer. Much like the old saying about the 90 year old man who was asked how things were going, after losing control of his bowels and his ability to get an erection, "I'm not sure what it's called, but it sure ain't living." The flaccid shit-flood that is 3DD, it ain't music.

And now Nickelback... wow.
They answer the question "What would Michael Bolton sound like if he had an electric guitar, a smoking habit, and testicles?"
They answer the question "What should I listen to while I sit in my mini-truck outside the house of the girl I'm stalking?"
They answer the question "What would a band sound like if Metallica had sex with a caribou that just got t-boned by a tourist bus chock-full of under-medicated schizophrenics?"

From the overwrought vocals of the Lead Singer, "Chad The Disgusting" (again with the name, Chad is not the name of a rocking frontman, unless it's Chad Roberts) to the formulaic power ballad guitars of Dipass McSorley and Butt-Finger Groatman, Nickelback is officially on their way to the county fair circuit. Every song sounds the same, every song talks about the same crap, and after a while a person cannot be THAT negative and THAT sad about a life that never happened. These guys sound like a High School Funeral.

Canada has done a great disservice to the world by allowing that band to leave the borders. But then again, sometimes you're not "Presenting" something as much as you are "Kicking it the F out of the lean-to." I guess I would be less aggressive towards this band if they began slipping "Sorry, We're Under Contract" notices inside of every CD they press. Until that day, I shall think of Nickelback while doing shirtless push-ups in my basement, listening to Pantera, finishing my "Iron Maidin" tattoo... oh CRAP...

First person to vomit on Chad Kroeger gets $10, AMERICAN.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

It's Like, You Know, Uh...

One major event prior to the Super Bowl is "Media Day," where 20 players from each team sit and take question after question from reporters. These reporters are sent to the event from around the world. I asked myself this...

How must it feel to a guy holding a recorder, pen, and notepad, not to mention his degree in Journalism or English, to have to spend a week trying to interview grown men who are fumbling their way through their native tongue?

Last season, in a 30-second span of one interview with Terrell Owens, I counted 8 "you know"s, and 23 "Uh"s.

Football - 31
Education - 0


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Assumption Of The Throne

Lately I have read a lot of words, heard a lot of words, and have yet to discount a lot of words, about me, my feelings, my future in comedy, and my own ideas on the injustices in the world. I usually don't tell people these kinds of things, but with all of the statements about my emotional state, the most important thing I can do at the moment is give thee a clearing-up of the sky in which I fly gracefully. It is here now that I tell you, dear reader, what I am talkin' about. Please pass this on to Arnold Jackson at your earliest convenience.

I normally have only 2 emotional gears; Rage, and Drunken Rage. But lately I've felt everything from disbelief to no-f*cking-way. I've also experienced "that guy is what happens when a bad idea has sex with a fart" as well as "and that lady smells it." Another emotion I got hit with was "ennui." It wasn't quite "languid," but overall I was okay with it.

Then I got a few messages from friends telling me that other people have been talking some sauce about the Geofferee, and frankly, that's just telling me that the bulls have taken their dumps. Here are some feelings and things I am not, regardless of what people are saying, blogging, or being retarded about:

Gay, nor any of its euphemisms.
Hateful, no matter how easy it can be.
Hopeful, no matter how little it's brought me.
Lazy, even though I'd like not do a damn thing for an entire 2 hours and just sleeeeeeeeeeep. Scared, even though Silent is often mistaken for Speechless.
Black.
Distraught, at least not about anything other than the Super Bowl.
Far-Right wing, even though a lot of the Left is beginning to represent poorly.
Doubtful, no matter how much crap it's delivered to me.
Bored, even though I'd rather not be at "work."
Presumptive, even though I have a good idea of what's coming.
Violent, and that's considering that a couple mouths could use a good punching.
Confined, but I could use a little more room to move.
Content, since it's more accurate that I am Happy.
Understood, since everyone's entitled to their opinion, especially when they're counter-arguing.
Argumentative, since I can see most everyone's point, until they can't admit the truth.
Pleased, since so many "bloggers" have nothing to say.
And lastly, I am not,
As Concerned as you think I am.

Drunk, now THAT I totally is.


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Larry The Cable, And Really Cool, Guy

This past weekend I had the opportunity, which later turned into the privilege, to meet Dan Whitney. You may know Dan by his stage/marketing/phenomenon-name, "Larry The Cable Guy." Larry's opening act, PJ Walsh, once stayed with another friend of mine, Dave Dennison, and layed some great tix and passes on Dave as a return favor. Cool move #1.

So we go to the show, at the Paramount Theater, a place known not only for its beautiful interior, but also for a noticeable lack of spitoons. However, the crowd filed in. More on them another time. The seats were kick-ass.

Long story - short, for the moment. Here are some highlights, for me, from the evening:

1. Seeing that a stand-up comedy act can sell out 6 shows in a major theater in a major city.
2. Seeing inside PJ's Tour Bus. It's nicer than where you or I live. It's a good sign that comedy is thriving, if you're working for it.
3. After his set, "Larry" was in his dressing room, and remarked that he "felt okay about it but there were some slow spots, and [he is] working on that 20 minutes, so... anyway..." Even the most arguably-popular stand-up in America, a millionaire, a Star, sees his own room for improvement.
4. He is truly one of the nicest guys in comedy. He is a country boy. His act is less bigoted than the majority of guys I've seen, many of them top-tier comics.
5. About 15 minutes into his set, he turns to a lady in the crowd, near the stage, and says "Lady, this is gonna be the dumbest show you ever saw, okay? Good then, we'll keep going." He knows his own act. Deal with it.
6. Years ago he met and did little tours with PJ Walsh. They both worked their way up. Dan takes PJ with him on the road, and takes care of his friends. He also chews long-cut tobacco.

It was a good motivator to get my ass, and my act, in gear, and make my own things happen for the best. And not forget where I came from, because some day I may have to steal their jokes.

Key factors to take with you: Likeability, preparation, slow down just a little more, and do your best to be 100% original. And it wouldn't hurt if you were naturally funny.

==============
For the record, the sheer mention of the movie "Brokeback Mountain" illicited a hearty round of boos from a lot of people in, but not the entire, audience.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad