Well CRAP, I Guess I'm a Nice Guy

We're gonna elect a new president tomorrow. Like it or not.
Along with that is a bevy of local votes that will determine everything from the cost of imported milk to legalizing prostitution, or "Consulting."

Many people have asked me recently, "Sir... was that you?"
Sorry. Dairy issues.

I have ideas on the Issues. And here I will pontificate on them...
IN PUBLIC.

First, I must go throw laundry in. I AM ON A SCHEDULE.

I am a good guy. When you're a "good guy," and genuinely so, which I really try to act like I am, people can sense it. You know who can sense it? People who are more open to the auras and energies of other people. And you know who they are?
Crazies.
Not the jarred-poop-collecting crazies (some of it their own).
Not the squalor-induced craziness crazies.
Not the GOD WARRIOR crazies, hello Margeurite Perrin. Who wouldn't want to sit down in a praise service next to this angel in support hosiery?

JEEEEEEZUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUS!

See, when you're a good guy, and told you are by a number of people under various levels of medical supervision, they feel they have a safe place to talk about what's on their mind. And what's on their mind revolves around three things.

1. The "government" (always mentioned with quotation fingers)
   
2. The Shadow Government (always mentioned by pointing to the "SG" tattoo on their palm)
3. Health-related issues, usually ear canals or bowel obstructions caused by antibiotics

The old saying "Nice Guys Finish Last" is because a nice guy stopped for a glass of water while helping his cousin move a cartload of figs, and the water vendor started in about how the sun god Zoalu was taking away his daughter's desire to work through the night as a plow-puller. The Nice Guy's cousin made it on to the market over the next 2 hours, while the vendor never stopped fucking talking about his daughter's ailments, which, these days, would be attributed to syphillis, if not "too much mung." And the Nice Guy, no matter how far away he inched from the conversation, nor tried to return to reading his Entertainment Weekly, if only to get ideas for his next haircut - because he LOVES Daniel Craig's crop - well the Nice Guy just couldn't get away from it. Because the vendor needed to talk.

And to kvetch about the whole thing must fashion a few layers off the niceness, right? My intent is always pure; I enjoy the stories of others, sometimes watching as they go high into the wall and just keep the throttle open while the tires blow and the flames fly high. And right when I think to myself "What am I getting out of this?" I have to remind myself that I can read Mickey Rourke's comeback story anytime. What I get out of it is what you're reading.

So while I have to search for Daniel Craig pics to take to a barber instead of just taking the coffee-shop's EW with me, I am only minorly annoyed at the extra work. I could have found those pics by now.

But it's not every day that somebody wants to bet you their van, parked RIGHT THERE SAME SPOT EVERY DAY, that by this time next week, we'll be under Martial Law. Try for THAT at your Star'sBucks.

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Call Me. I dare you...

I'm pissed. And when I'm pissed, I'm motivated. So shut the fuck up and read a second.

Mobile phones are now the lifeline of people with somewhat of a life. A leash, a tether to things you MIGHT need to know, but probably don't. There's nothing I have yet to hear shouted into a cell-phone that needed to be said at that moment. NOTHING.

That means nobody important is talking on the thing.
Not the President.
Not the Commander of the Bomb Squad.
Not the guy who makes love to the girl who makes your latte.
And no... not even you. Sorry, you're not important, either. At least not important enough to be stammering directions to a shabbily-attended party down... down by... go... go 2 blocks ARE YOU THERE... go 2 blocks...

No, not an exact science. It's a large system of invisible rays of sound and radio and gamma, boncing on our ears and brains. And yet I cannot stop phutzing with my phone on a reg'lar. I look at thinking that something may have happened, as if a message from (IMPORTANT PERSON) will have finally come in, and I can finally rest in the knowledge that my ship has come in. That means I can turn around to the lady behind me yelling into her phone and take it out of her hand and throw it against the wall.
These phones are proof of evolution, that we have evolved... just not that far.

I set the ringer to something that I know I will hear in case somebody calls me. And then... EVERYTHING sounds like a horse whinny.

I set it to vibrate, then my pants always feel more lively. And right now there just ain't THAT MUCH going on that I need to know what's going on. If something was going on, I would be in the middle of it. But nothing's goin' on, and I'd bet your behymen that it WON'T be going on while I'm hearing a one-sided barrage of whatever that Armenian dude was blarrrrriddidiaiddian into what's left of my ear drum. Close the borders.

If you really want to put your phone or earpiece to good use, take photos of people sneering at you while you yammer on about, what? Can... go ahead... yeah, so... I knooooow... The par.... The party? Fuck you and your phone.

Cell phones should only have minutes equal to your credit score... PER YEAR.
After that, $2 a minute. If you really wanted to talk to somebody, they would be RIGHT THERE WITH YOU on the other massage table, getting yelled at in Austrian. Something about a hot griddle and a naughty spietzle.

Otherwise, it, the F, can wait.

Mom, sorry about the F words.

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Customary Disservice A-GAIN

Just had the new home phone in LA turned on the other day.
310 area code, via Time-Warner Cable.

As of today, I've had no calls from those who know my number, and 2 calls from telemarketers.

www.DoNotCall.gov

Some may say "Hey, that's taking jobs away from people who need those jobs!"

I say, "Hey, aim higher than trying to sell me a set of knives over the phone."

And "Eat me with your eyes open."

Then end.

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Gassed Prices

How much cheaper would gas be, were it not for NASCAR?

Do we need 500 miles at Daytona? What can't be solved in 250, or just 125?

When one begins to break down the amount of fuel used to transport the professional athletes around the country, it makes you realize that you may be some sort of homosexual, boy, and ya best start looking at nekkid wuman.

Just sayin'.

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No, Not In My MySpace Space

Ty Willingham is a ridiculous tiny coach and should be fired.

Well, they finally did it to themselves.

More Money and Power make people more of who they really are. If you're a little paranoid about a little power and money, a lot will drive you further behind the fortress of cereal boxes you built at breakfast. You'd be alone, mind you, as paranoia's accusatory onslaught carries all the charm of a mosquito buzzing in your ear while your grandmother screams "HUH? HUH?" and you repeat your answer until she asks ANOTHER question, and all you can think of is how you can't wait to fake-Gay-Out yourself into banishment and away from this lovely - but stone deaf - woman's underbaked hams. You suffer because, dag-nabbit, they DESERVE your attention. And cards played right, you're getting the LP collection upon her passing, now 19 years overdue.

MySpace, a FOX/Murdoch-owned entity, has created a way to simultaneously look Safe AND Paranoid. If you have a Space account and tried to log in this morning you may have been greeted with a Verification window. It's an application that generates random numbers and letters in varied order and linear formation so that you have to take a typing test in order to log in and see who called you Gay. Or Republican.

You know that first time you did a mountain of cocaine and then over the next few months you were Super Positive that the monkey in the rhododendron was, in fact, a CIA operative? And then, to make sure she couldn't get in when you were gone, you stopped leaving the house? And THEN, to make sure she couldn't get in when you were home, you duct-taped the doors shut? Well that's what MySpace did.

Instead of investing in security WITHIN the network, they threw up a giant snorfling gate and said "TRY TO CROSS." And no matter what combo you entered, whether is was Correct, Right, or Perfect, you and your desire to be looked-at wasn't getting in. And I thought to myself:

"Well, they finally did it. They went ahead and hit critical mass of management, and locked us all out. Awesome." I was happy about it. It wasn't like having a withdrawal, no shakes or bugs. Just a feeling of relief that they'd put themselves out of our misery. MySpace, for all it's influence and ability to connect people, is really now aimed at people younger than myself, hornier than myself, and drunker than myself. FINE, that's why I'm getting more into FaceBook, anyway.

So, soon I'll dump the MySpace Account, as soon as I figure out the FaceBook a bit more. And when I do, you will all follow me to FaceBook.
Why?
What are you looking for? What do I have that you need?
Before you say another word, you'll need to know my secret phrase.

Which is?

"GET UNDER THE COFFEE TABLE, THE GRIDDLE IS HOT"

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For UW Fans Only

Ty Willingham is the current head football coach at the University of Washington. The legacy of UW football is one of tough linemen, stout defense, and class, not to mention winning. Willingham, at this moment, has a record of 11-31. 11 Wins. 31 Losses. If you finished 11 of 42 assignments on time at your job, you would have been fired at the 20-miss mark.

And yet Ty won't step down, and the Athletic Director won't fire him, because of some type of "commitment." This is a business. If you are this bad, your position needs to be handled by somebody else. The Dawgs are being embarrassed on a weekly basis, not by the other teams who trounce them, but by the coach and the staff that fails them. Jake Locker could have gone ANYWHERE in the nation to play QB. He chose the UW. And he's come up short because these coaches cannot properly implement the plan around the main cog. So where does that leave us?

Well, Ty Willingham is nothing if not staunch. He's stubborn. He's stone-faced and tries to remain positive about all of this, making excuses for how this one got away. Every friggin' week. SCREW THAT. I want a coach that screams about how his defensive coordinator isn't coaching downward to make sure that LBs and Safeties aren't taking bad angles on ball carriers breaking into the secondary... AGAIN. And a line coach that demands we get at least 2 guys over 290lbs with suspect police involvement in their past. And yet Ty sits there and challenges everyone outside the program to figure out what's wrong. He has no answers. It's NOT WORKING OUT, TYRONE.

He needs to step down. This is not "quitting," mind you. If it was 3 games into a season and they'd lost 3 in a row, that's quitting. But he's lost 8 in a row, and is facing the meat of the Pac-10 schedule here. And he has the fates and attitudes of 100 UW football players on his desk every day. And he has cut a lot of ties to Husky greats because he doesn't rally the past into the present. That's affecting the future, also, because great potential recruits are dropping visits to the UW in favor of rival schools in the Pac-10, and elsewhere.

So if the UW is concerned about the future and present of UW Football, they need to fire Ty. Ty's not going to quit. He's only going to drive further the plow through the minds of these players about what it takes to win a game, and the deeper and longer that rut, the harder it will be to fill it back in. FIRE TY WILLINGHAM. Yesterday.



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Register, THEN Vote

Remember, you have to be registered as a local citizen in order to vote in the upcoming elections.

This is not a concert where you show up, flash an ID and get a stamp to Vote however you like on Nov. 4th.

Just a reminder, friendly-style.



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John, John, John...

I'm not sure if I love him for this, or just feel like sighing.


While my vote is still for sale... er... undecided... er... not yet cast...
I would like to point out that I've heard far more rhetoric leveled against Barack Obama in the vein of his Race, and not his Record. Neither of these candidates has wowed me, though the composure Obama has shown is a nice change to flustered mutterings and catch-phrases.

This "Joe The Plumber" guy that was so popular last night, btw, was investigated a bit to find out who he is, what he does, and where he buys his leg snares.
Turns out... hmm... Guy has never cast a vote in his home state. Interesting. And I assume he's at least 23 years old, from the pictures, so that means he's missed one Presidential "election" already. So, hey, please... get out and vote.

If for no other reason, than to vote opposite of the neighbor you dislike most. Don't let that 4-car havin', 1-car workin', stray dog-apoptin', good ol' gal with more kids than teeth decide which part of her health plan is paid for by your tax dollar in the next four years.

BIRTH CONTROL IN FOOD SOLD AT WAL*MART IN 2009!

I'm Geoff Lott, and I don't approve this message. I ADORE IT.


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When In Doubt

Move.
I suppose that's the best advice I have heard all morning. I think I hit some kind of lull in the past 18 hours or so. I did a lot of work yesterday, writing, job-applying, networking, comedy-traveling around Hollywood, etc. And right now I think my brain is a bit fried.

But the antsiness of my bodular system is overriding the drained brain-pan, so I should get out for a run or something.

Also, this place needs seriously more interior lighting. Seriously. More.

And if anybody knows where the screws to the bistro table are, please tell me. It would be nice to have that back in commission.

More boredom later.

Check out http://CulverCityChowdown.blogspot.com and CLICK ON THE AD-LINKS to the Upper RIGHT!!!!!!! It's my wife's blog about our chowing around the new homebase here, and ad-clicks = $!

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"BABY MAMA" is A Crowning Achievement

Last night I got home to find my wife having ordered a movie OnDemand, as it was a relatively slow evening in the later hours. I had gone out to a show to see a buddy of mine here, and met with other Seattle-ite comics, whom I think are more than ready to make funny here in LA. That's for another time.

So, Wife ordered "Baby Mama," starring the foolproof duo of Tina Fey and Amy Poehler (Pee-oh-el-ee-r, I think. No, "Peeler," okay). Synopsis of the movie is that Kate Holbrook (Tina's character) is ready to have a baby, but can't, because she's got a problem with having a baby. I don't want to give too much away here. (She may have been born a dude, they don't really explore that much in the film, but it would have made Tina Fey even hotter). So she enlists Angie Ostrowski (Amy Poehler's character) to carry the baby inside her (Angie's) uterine walls, played by Utris Jackson (former all-conference forward at North Texas A&M, 1993). In some circles this is called "Surrogate Mothering" or "The Rosie O'Donnell Method."

I, frankly, barf OnDemand when I smell a romantic comedy. Or anything "precious" in a movie, where it's obvious they're pulling at your heartstrings instead of being able to close a scene properly. This is not a romantic comedy, if that's what you're looking for. There's a romantic element to it, where Greg Kinnear is totally puttin' it to Kate in the movie (Kinnear is great in everything, btw). But really, the movie steers more towards COMEDY. And I know comedy.

So what did I think?

This movie is awesome. I laughed really heartily, out-loud, gut-busting at a LOT of stuff. Angie Ostrowski is a manic, immature, goofball with no business carrying a flu virus let alone a fetus. Kate Holbrook is a manic, anal retentive, do-gooder with a heart of organic tofu that demands a lot more out of Angie as the host-ut'ris. It's like "The Odd Couple," with spotting! The movie tells the story of these women with hopes and dreams, their polar-opposite personalities and common goals dancing around each other like a Polka in a Mosh Pit. HILARIOUS movie. Seriously. Amy Poehler's great, Steve Martin is again a subtle master, and you just get way more than you deposited. Like getting triplets when all you expected was dinner!

Truly, "Baby Mama" is now OnDemand. On DVD soon, if not already. Totally worth it.
I'm not lying or being snarky, I swear. SEE THIS MOVIE.

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Feels Like I'm Losing It Sometimes

Lately, without a dayjob and getting every other thing in order in life...

such as registering a car in a new state, getting smog-checked, taking a driver's test, handling insurance, handling renter's insurance, calling after jobs, handling investments, etc...

I have to spend a lot of time on the phone. Supposedly that is to make life more convenient. But I have a network or a phone or a connection or a bunch of people on the other end that are seriously malfunctioning. And that lack of ability to communicate with one's mouth and brain in full connection is incredibly widespread, and causing me to understand how our economy could very well be undermined by people who finance their clothing.

When I think of having to call an institution about an account change or anything that will cause me to change anything at all... which means i have to talk to a person!!!!!!!... I cringe. I don't want to hunch up, but I do. It's a gut reaction, as my gut churns while I think of the menu I have to negotiate (these will soon be a thing of the past, BTW, if we really want to stimulate the economy), leading me to a complete stranger. So every call is another communication style to learn and adapt to. And if the person on the other end of the phone is pissed off or underpaid or self-righteous, I'm in for an overly long call. Just read my previous entry on Lingo.com. That company can suck it with their eyes open.

I am who I am, a good guy who is doing the best he can to get in and get moving in his career, meet people, and be the kind of guy I would want to hang out with. There's no horn-tooting there, I have had to TRY very hard to make that happen every friggin' time I leave the house. It gets easier and easier each time because I have a clean slate of interaction where ever I go now. Nobody knows me. So I can joke around and chat it up and be as cordial as I want to be. Maybe I'm the only person in that person's day who didn't tell them they should go back to furrier school. I am who I am. And if you hung out with me for a while and had some beer, I think you, too, would like me. If you replenished the beer, that, too, would be nice of you, but no pressure.

LA is bigger than Seattle. It sprawls. It's got more of everybody, every color, every background. So by sheer numbers of people, there are more people doing dumb things and rude things and dipshit things, and those always stand out. Example... Stopping at a red light doesn't make nearly the impact as running a red light and T-boning a car ALSO running that red and making a left in front of the hitter. It's rampant here. I don't even chance that water. And these people aren't ever going anywhere. If it were that important, they'd have left their shit-tents much earlier.

So today, I'll chalk it up to heat and frustration and get it out of my system. Writing and a good hard workout later. I am going to a church service tonight, also, overdue for us. I knew it was bad a few weeks ago when we attended a church service and all I could think was "this pastor can't preach for shit. This guy's awful. I've heard more passion in a Little League dugout." Then his pushy wife went up and had the full-pew press about getting people to attend, you BETTER attend, DON'T THINK ABOUT NOT ATTENDING, YOU SINNERS, for some Halloween thing she wanted to do. And I sat there and judged them like they were dancing their way across the floor for my amusement. So I need something bigger than Me right now to focus on.

Today I walked by 17 people. I counted them, because I wanted to do an experiment on how people react to strangers on the street. Of the 17, 14 were wearing sunglasses. Of those 17, 2 were on bikes. Of the 17, 4 of them and I traded "Hello"s or "good morning"s. All 4 of them were white. The other 13 were all non-white. No eye contact, no recognition. Just a fact, that's how it went for me this morning. But, hey, I'm not shutting off or down. Next time, however, maybe I shouldn't dress as a cop.

On the bright side, it's nearly 80 degrees already, no clouds in the sky. I got calls to make.

Hello, Xanax?

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Open Letter to the Los Angeles Metro Idiots

I'm smart.
Not just book-smart or college-smart or know-my-way-'round-a-new-Trader-Joe's-smart.

Low-140's IQ smart as of last year.

And I cannot, for the life of my neighbor's parakeet, figure out the LA Bus System. Their website has a tool, probably named Davin and Devid or something dumb for a white guy, that uses an application to reference a route database. It should... SHOULD... show you what bus to take from point A to point B.

Likely designed by a white guy because an East Indian or Asian Citizen would not have left the flaws and bugs in the web-app that this one has. Because they, unlike crackaz, are working OVERTIME to get things right and done. Sportscenter doesn't carry cricket highlights, is most likely why.

I can't tell what goes where. The maps, yeah, for-get!-it. So not only are the buses here a "Who's Who" in Illegals, Lurkers, Pervs, and Gangsta-wanna-be's... NOW I HAVE TO FEEL THAT THESE F*CKS ARE SMARTER THAN I!

That, I will not ride for. I'm buying a bike, a lock, bear spray, and a komodo dragon.
The next sound you hear will be me, bus-farting.
I'll get my space.

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Shooting The Shots

Fantastic. I was invited to take on a role in a movie called "The Consultants," a feature film being produced by 21st Street Films. No word yet on release dates. BUT, I was excited to try this out because
A) Trying new things leads to growth of the persona, personality, wessonality, and sometimes, crippling embarrassment. Trying new things also has led to many a disease, explosion, and sometimes a dis-ease where one experiences a cripplingly embarrassing explosion (hello street-vendor sushi!).
AND...
B) I'm here to do that Show Business stuff.

It's great to be among highly creative, motivated people. It puts a little extra ZIP in the step, realizing that this flowing river isn't slowing for anybody. Get in your tube, drop in, and enjoy it. I'll make sure everyone who reads this blog on the regular knows when "The Consultants," also starring Geoff Lott as "Tommy," will be released. I am NOT in the trailer, my friend Tony Moser is, however. And he's pretty good.

The real lesson here is about sacrifice. I sacrificed a full day of watching Football, including the 3rd team from Washington State to get their asses handed to them on the grid-iron this weekend. But I got to spend 8 hours around a top-notch independent-style filming movie crew, meet great folks, and build my experiences up.

So when you come home and there's a cleaned-up house, a ready dinner, and tired loved one waiting for you, guess what ya do?
YOU SCOOP THE CAT'S BOX-LEAVINGS WITHOUT QUESTION, AND A HEAPIN' HOT MOUND OF GLEE, that's what you do. Because Acting is Real Reacting to Imaginary Situations. But chores, and cat's doo, are very, very real.

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Culture Schlock

In the past few days the average temperature in LA has been 87 degrees in a freezer. It's hot. It's not an Equatorial-nation swelter, it's just a heat that says "It's my job, don't bother me." The slowing-you-down kind of heat. And it's October. I'm not used to this. Normally by now I'd be scrounging for some sort of herbal anti-depressant and sleeping deeply at night. But lately, nope, it's just too frigging hot.
And Awesome.
Last night, and some of today, it rained. Just a smattering of rain, the kind LA natives probably think is a sign of the apocalypse. But for Seattlers, t'weren't nothin'. It was welcomed.

Now, RIGHT NOW, assholes across the alley from our bedroom are tearing down the party scene of a soiree at an art gallery, to which we were NOT invitees. Thus, assholes. People here work the alleyways. A lot of non-white people stroll the 'ways peering into the recycling bins to see if there's any glass or aluminum beer/energy drink/coffee cans to turn in for money. One lady who frequents the block wears jewelry on her route, or "day job." Nice touch, a little hoop action while peering into gar-bazh buckets. I am planning on rigging a bat on a string under the lid of ours, because it's private property and they shouldn't be pokin' around. Plus it's almost Halloween.
By the way... Pico Party Rentals can eat a hot plate of caca, hombre.

But, I digress...

Tuesday night I went to the H'wood Improv to meet a comic who is a friend-of-a-friend. When they say "It's all about who you know," that's only 95% true. The other 5% is luck, talent, and emotional preparedness. I say this because I've been blessed with incredibly helpful people who have "sent the elevator back" to get me. Now it's up to me to push those buttons and fig're out which floors I am getting off at. BUT, I digress...

Tuesday, I chat briefly with the intended meet-up, and think I may go home soon after, as he's off to another show uptown. Then I figure, no, I've invested too much already for one contact, let's chat. I meet another guy named Chris Millhouse, funny comic and show producer around here. We talk, he tells me about another room to work my way into. Very cool of Chris. Then... I see a line growing outside. On a Tuesday night. For COMEDY. So I check the line up.

Dave Attell.

Christopher Titus.

Two of my main influences, the latter being a major influence on my story-length material about real life, the former being simply one of the funniest jokemasters ever. I offer, from Dave Attell...
"I watched the Presidential Debates with the sound off, and it looked like a snowman yelling at a pharoah. Why is Frosty yelling at King Tut, Jr.?"

Also that same night I run into Iliza Schlesinger, winner of the most-recent season of Last Comic Standing. We talked a bit, as we both know Jeff "Jackpot" Dye and Marcus from the comedy circles. Iliza is really a cool person who loves comedy and what she's doing. Again, it's another situation of people helping out. I really hope I get to the point where I can help people on their way up.

Surreal, and yet it is Now. It IS.

And so, on Sunday, I'm off to downtown LA to shoot scenes for a feature-length film about corporate douchebaggery, trudging, and malaise. I've been in town a month, and got a part because a friend helped me out, my work was noticed, and I can DO THIS, yo.

When it comes time for you to take a swing at your dream, get both cheeks into it. The payoff, well hell, sometimes that's just a Tuesday.

Funniest thing about LA is that the entertainment industry is the ONLY industry in the world where discrimination and prostitution are legal, daily occurrences. You can be excluded because you are not the right ethnicity, age, body type, gender, or general look. You can have sex for money and as long as somebody films it, it's protected under the Constitution. Hmm. Observed.

I'll write more about Bob another time.

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Bend The Economy Over

Oh snap, CHECK IT.

We're in a recession, and I'm not sure what that means, other than the fact that we don't manufacture anything (other than war, debt, bad TV, and 1-handed MySpace Photos), we have too-low tariffs on some items with other nations who we buy stuff from and that keeps our money flowing OUTward and they're not buying anything of ours, and we, as a nation, seem to need everything NOW NOW NOW NYESTERDAY.
And we want it cheap.
And we want it perfect.
And we want it because we think we need it.

I used to be this way. Emotionally I still get like that, everytime I see a 23 year old driving an Infiniti G37 or a guy with a full head of hair and it's poorly styled. I WANT WANT WANT IT. But won't it feel better when I can pay for it with cash, and not have the debt of it hanging over every conversation with my wife? GEEEEEEESSHSHSHSHAAAAAAAAAASSHSHSHHSAAAAAAAA!

Unemployment's high right now, too. People gotta make money, yo.
But we've outsourced most of the jobs that deal with most of the English-speaking people in this country, jobs going to people who are following a script and frustrating the bejeezus out of us when we just need to change... our... mailing... address... WHY DO YOU NEED MY SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER????
And those jobs went there because Americans are the most-expensive, most self-entitled, rudest people on a planet full of seriously horrible bands and Dick Cheney supporters.

The right answer is to raise tariffs, buy within America, hire more American workers to field the front-line complaints of other Americans, pay workers well, treat workers well, and generate spending from the bottom-up, NOT with the fetid "TrickleDown" Economics of the Reagan Era.

But the real answer is that a guy kissing my ass in a Bangladesh call center beats listening to an undereducated pro-wrestling fan "Uhh" and "like, like uhh" their way through hanging up on me. Too many people's parents have been too kind to them, and haven't instilled enough of a work ethic in most of these kids. Why work when you can get the same amount of $ a week from welfare? Then complain about how the system ain't helpin'!

I'll take Ramu over Trevor any day, unless Trevor can finish a sentence without saying "like" six times. Then again, perhaps "sir" is Bengali for "like." What do I know? I'm just an abused American who wants his IRA back.

Screw it, I'm financing my plugs.

Sexy is officially BACK.

My Opinion of Lingo VOIP

I have an opinion, and in America, it's okay to share those things.
I will not say anything here that is not true.

For the past month I have tried to cancel my Lingo.com VOIP phone account/number. It was our home phone we used in Kirkland, and we no longer need it. Been almost a month now since we used it.

Prior to cancellation, there were frequent times the router would turn off, though plugged in and should have been working. Technology 1, Lotts 0. Then it would click back on like I had not just caught it napping under the rhodies. During the time, the broadband router it ran through was supplying plenty o' internet use, so that connection was fine.

Trying to cancel my account with Lingo has been a restless dream, though not a total nightmare. First line of defense, per usual these days, is a non-English-as-first-language Customer Service Representative. I've called a number of times, and 50% of the time they cannot hear me (there are swarms of voices behind them) or they are having problems with their "system." Shiva forbid you write something down.

So finally I get through and need to cancel this account, which they wouldn't let me do a MONTH ago because I was supposed to call in and have it cancelled, though I handled everything they needed via email.

Finally, I called in and got through, because we haven't used this thing in over a month during our relocation. Option 5 takes you to somebody to verify your information, after being on-hold for a few minutes, then another few minutes on hold to talk to the Cancellation Department...
WHAT?
You have an option to CANCEL which doesn't take you to THE Cancellation Department?
Hospitals are known for this, also. You come in and they ask you if you'd like to see a doctor. Then send you to a doctor.

SO I cancel this thing, and the girl helping me is not very enthusiastic (understandable) nor educated (unconfirmed). Her attitude was on-par with working a 2nd shift at Taco Bell on her due date, BUT I DIGRESSETH...

And then, to get $ back for the month we didn't use after trying to cancel and their problems keeping me from being able to talk to a robot wearing a human suit...
I GO ON HOLD FOR ANOTHER 6 MINUTES, then get disconnected.

Now, I'm not sure how F'ed up Lingo works for other people.
But let's recount...

1. In-house technical issues.
2. Communication issues between customers and the white people that work there.
3. Cancellation Department located in the 2nd circle of Discouraging Careers, 3 doors on the left from the vending machines.
4. Attitude, Attitude, Attitude.
5. The Billing Department is either so busy that they can't handle call volumes (you pay poorly, you get the poorly-abled), or their department is so hated that they can't handle the hate-call volumes.

I, personally, wouldn't ever use Lingo again. You can if you want to, but really, just give me the $20 a month and I'll ass-cram it for you. Go otherwheres.




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A Drug Test

Most places you work will require you to take a test to see if you have any drugs in your system. Not sure if that's because you look like you prob'ly do, they like seeing you hoop-jump, they be lookin' fo' somebody to smoke wit', or to see if you break the law or not.

BUT, if you work a job that taxes are taken out of the paycheck from, YOUR PAYCHECKUS...
AND, some of that money goes into the public coffers to be doled out to people on public assistance, welfare, or in line for the Gubment's teet...
THEN, it should be required of the second-hand recipient of your effort's wages to take a drug test in order to pick up a check.

Or am I high?

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Lotts Angeles II

Absolute craziness.

We quit jobs, rented our condo out, and moved. 2 states and 1400 miles away. The only thing that’s the same is the time zone. It’s safe to say that cultures are clashing outside our door in Culver City.

Moving to Los Angeles is about energy, opportunity, and adventure. I had this feeling hit me when we really thought about this move, a feeling while sitting at my desk at my job that felt like a comfortable jacket. A jacket I could wear daily. Even when it went out of style. And that feeling of comfort drove our decisions. That Seattle is a place of finite opportunity for a writer/comic/actor to make a living as any of those is an understatement. I know only a couple of comics in Seattle who only do stand-up, but they are well-known, well-respected, and could close any room in the country. But it will be years before I’m there, and I don’t have years to make things come true. I have what feels like a few months.

And that’s what I need. Drive. Deadline. Accleration. I had coffee with a friend yesterday who has been here 5 years. He’s connected. He’s knowledgeable. He’s funny. He’s sincere, and sincerely a great guy. Two hours with him put me probably 18 months ahead of schedule in LA. Irons are just going into the fire, but I cannot wait to start pounding for the craft, whatever it is.

But why do it? Why shake up my comfort level, and that of my wife, especially? I have never felt more selfish, more unhinged, nor less in-control than through all of this. But what I think I’ve lost control of is “Life.” I know that Life, to progress on a larger level, a more evolved level, is about taking care of others. But this, this seems like it's squirming in my grasp.

CHECK OUT MY BIG THROBBING EGO.

Like I have any control over that? Ten years ago I was, on this day, getting released from Harborview, a week after getting admitted, a few hours after getting slammed into by a drug addict on a financed Harley-Davidson. My left leg in bandages and stitches, wrapped around bruises and shattered bones, encasing a titanium rod, 9 screws, and a small plate. That’s what I get for crossing the street at 10 in the morning on a clear, gorgeous September day.

What I feel I’ve lost control of I haven’t ever had in my grasp. Life is that fishbowl we don’t know we’re in. Life is just part of the gig. But what I DO have control over, I’m figuring out and really trying to apply, are the following things:

• My reactions to situations in Life
• How I treat people, all people, in any situation
• What I do with my free time
• What I do with my Gifts
• What I say to people, and how I say it
• How I treat myself in the wake of disappointment, or achievements
• When and where and how loudly I break wind (I don’t “pass gas,” I blow heartily)
• How I give thanks and praise and worship the God that put me here with these Gifts

That’s all mine. I can only control that. I can’t control the guy with the attitude at the Culver City Target. Hell, if I were 38 and working there, I wouldn’t want to see ANYBODY, let alone some white boy returning an unused camping mattress.

I can’t control the people whistling at my wife as we walk down the street. I deplore their decorum, though I appreciate their taste in women. Still, they should be sat down and given a stern talking to with a ball-peen hammer and a socket wrench.

And those things all constitute My Piece of Life. A dear friend and Mentor told me that in LA, “It’s not that they think you’re not a fish in the pond; they don’t even want you to think you’re a fish!” Funny thing is…

I didn’t move to LA to “make it” in LA.
I moved to LA to “make it” everywhere else. And I can’t think of anything else I’d rather be doing with my life.

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Lotts Angeles - Getting There Is 90% Of the Battle

When I figured out that YES, if I really wanted to make anything out of my wiring for comedy and entertainment, I needed to get to Los Angeles, I talked seriously with my wife about it. It's often weird to think that people make a lot of money while making other people laugh. But at the same time, a lot of money is made by people who make other people cry, or make their food, or make their favorite pets into eternal doorstops. I'm wired for comedy. Thank God. My taxidermy did NOT turn out well. Then again, if you bring me pieces of a cat, I'm not giving you back a whole Seal Point. And NO, you cannot have a refund. YES, I'm talking to you.
Lesson 1: What is for you, will find you.
Be it Love, Luck, Money, Mansions, Heartache, Honky Tonk, or a mis-guided drunken dope-addict on a Harley-Davidson... if it's yours, you'll get it.

So my wife did the right thing with all this LA mess:
SHE CALLED MY BLUFF. Next thing we know, we're renting out our condo and packing boxes and looking at the opportunities that await us in LA, and laughing. Because that's what you do when you've lost your friggin' mind.

Lesson 2: What you don't know, you don't know; embrace that void.
I knew that what was waiting for me was better than what I'd been doing. But I don't know how it's all going to fall into place, though I know that it WILL. Dear Killorn, she said it best when she said "Dude, you can't keep doing that in an elevator full of people. Not funny." She also said, "You two, no, I don't worry about you. I know you'll land on your feet."

I didn't know I was that guy. I haven't ever taken stock of myself as that kind of guy who lands on his feet. But you know what? I'm not ready to expound on the emotional and personal growth I've experienced. I'm still too much in love with the Life and Wife I have been blessed with.

We are in so far over our heads with love of good people, we may never surface.
And if you wish me ill, that's okay, too. I've already forgotten your face.

Let me give you the story of the TRIP. Because it's worth it.

We made it to LA in 3 days. Got in on Thursday night, crashed at the Best Western in Sherman Oaks, the only one around with Room Service supplied by the Denny's in the parking lot. Let's backtrack...

Leg 1, lots of Leg.
The best part of the first leg was seeing my one-legged (temporarily) best friend Russ, his fab wife Katie, and their kids in Vancouver, WA for a bit. The kids got tired, the boogers ran dry, and they succumbed to nap time. Us? We had Grant's Pass to get to.

We drove down I-5 to Grant's Pass on Tuesday, stayed at the Motel Del Rogue. There's little else to mention. I'm convinced that Oregon exists only because, without it, Washington would have been too large. But the Motel Del Rogue, yes. Go there, when you're in the area, and get room #8. It overlooks the slowly-moving Rogue River, and the people are nice as all get-out. Also, mangy cats abound, fertile, all of them I'm sure. Bring your leg snares. The night was highlighted by splitting mini-bottles of Cabernet, eating Cheez-Its, and trying to get the sound of the road out of our heads.

Day 2 found us stopping for the equivalent of a slow roll in Redding, CA, where you don't live... you just "end up" there. It was 95 with no breeze nor outlook. High-tailed it to San Fran from there.
Prior to arriving, we made a swing-over to Santa Rosa to a place called Zazu, which is where Alicia and I had dinner the night we got engaged. It's a roadside 15-table res-toe-rawnt that'll kiss your knees weak with grub if you take a moment and let it happen to you. Go. The exec chef, Duskie Estes, learned under Tom Douglas, and we talked Seattle and fusion cuisine a moment when I went to check on the cat in the car. Great place. Get the Carmody Grilled Cheese and Spicy Tomato Soup for an appetizer. You will be sorry, and not my friend, if you don't. We made it to Redwood City that night, late, and crashed hard. I cannot thank Sally enough for again letting my weary bones drop in her guest room. The world needs more people like her!

Day 3 was The Big Drive, from Redwood City to LA or BUST. We swung over 92 to Half Moon Bay for a very overrated breakfast. It's a town with secrets. It's a place where you live a nice little quiet life after getting teenage pregnant by an aggressive jock, and end up a cop's wife... or switch those roles. Weird little town. Too, too quiet. Nice people though. Weak breakfast.

Took the 1 down the coast, adding 90min to the overall trip, but saving stress and desolation found on the 101 or the 5. Carmel-by-the-Sea was great. We stopped to check it out, and were stared at like MENSA members at the VMAs. Shorts? On a WEEKDAY? I could hear their whispas.
Deals on handbags were found. I got a coffee. Gorgeous, pricey little shopping berg. Back on the ro-ad.

At one point, having seen all the outcroppings and water we could bear, and needing to fill on gas with no stations noted on the GPS for another 40mi, we took a left onto Nacimiento-Fergusson Road. Remember it. Google it. Find videos of it. Because it will haunt you. I just found out it's where this year's Red Bull Motorcycle rally is held. 17 miles of straight-up switchbacks, then downward switchbacks, blind corners, and talking animals/hallucinations. This is a satellite image of the road. It's not as kind as it looks.

The great part is that your butt cheeks? MASSIVE WORK-OUT.
The drive is terrifying, and yet life-affirming. Honking around blind corners, chewing gum being worked to keep from screaming. Topped off by getting crapped out into the ass-end of... YOU GUESSED IT... a military base! Live maneuvers were postponed while the 1997 Civic went all-4-cylinders wide-open across the range. We saw NOTHING. Truly. And officially. This tank is in the middle of nothing on the base.
OH RIGHT, getting gas...

Here's where it got weird. About 8 miles on, we find a "town" that has one gas pump, one grade of gas, and two buildings. One's the mini-mart/gas-station. The other one is for sale. It's hot, still, and nearly silent. We got 2 gallons of gas and peeled out. Lola showed her discontent by sleeping.

From there we decided it would be better to see Santa Barbara on our own terms, so we coasted in for a bite. It put us out of our intended destination another hour or so, but after that much time in the car, what's another hour or three? Sometimes, the best thing before driving all that way is a cold beer. It was lovely, confusing, and heavily Hispanic before you get to the water. Just saying, it was. And is. So don't act surprised with your windows down.

So, there you go. We made it. Flying would have robbed us of all those moments, nay, HOURS of wondering what the hell we were doing.
We are LIVING. That's what. And we're here. Step 1, complete.
Safe. Sound. And the cat has had NO accidents.
It's no accident, that in-shoe-pooping.

I'll tell you more about our new home from where we can see the HOLLYWOOD sign in the next blog.
I miss my family. I miss my friends. But I wouldn't trade this for the world.

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On Our Way To Greatness

Wishing dearly that I could pour out a wide swath of dramatic text to encapsulate all that I wish to leave behind in Seattle as we move to Los Angeles... I just cannot do so.

Only because we've been so incredibly blessed with the love and support of so many great people, from family to friends to the local baristas who know us better than some friends know us. Regrets come from what you don't do, usually. At least those that haunt you as you awake, and rise to meet the afternoon.

I have so much more to do and learn about comedy, but perhaps it's really more about the evolution of myself as a person that I'm excited about. Growth and progress make me very, very happy, even if it's not my own. The creativity I express and see in others motivates me. It's that part of being Human, I think, that is the true missing link between us and those couple of cousins we each have... yes, THOSE cousins... wherein our minds realize something New is Good, especially because we can all share in the growth of the Mind.

In other words, Dear Readers, after asking my wife to uproot her life and move to Los Angeles-adjacent - and her calling my bluff - we're going with Intent and Drive. Can't wait to see where we'll be a year from now!

I AM SO FRIGGING TIRED.
We leave in the morning. Grant's Pass, then San Fran, then LA.

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The Man Could Really Play

(pic from www.DMBand.com)

Last night I was watching the news - a rare occasion - and was told by somebody with self-importance far beyond my grasp that LeRoi Moore had died. The stoic, shades-wearing horn man for the Dave Matthews Band passed away from complications in an ATV accident from over a month ago. Totally made me feel like a friend had been taken away.

You may not know him by name. But you probably do by sound.

LeRoi Moore was the sax player for the Dave Matthews Band. His ability to implement one note, slyly under the other members ("Don't Drink The Water"), or to drive a song into an air of hopeful urgency (Grey Street", this version recorded at The Gorge in 2002 - my last DMB show), was unlike any other playing I'd ever heard.

In the 20+ DMB shows I spent time at between 1998 and 2002, the different solos each member would play were always impressive. LeRoi could just lay it out there like a big blanket of sound, taking the nature of his instrument's tones and imparting them like a voice instead of a noise. It could send the strongest march of bumps up my spine, and made millions of hands raise in appreciation.

Thank you LeRoi, for sticking it out through those early gigs that probably were really rough, and giving it the gas on the big nights.

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A Single Focus

"Eat, sleep, and swim."

That's Michael Phelps' secret to success.
Sure, the guy's built like a squid, but he still has to get in the water and make magic happen.
And he does, through focus, and training, and Passion for being the Greatest.

Stay intensely focused on any one thing for a short period of time, ANYTHING... and see how you fare.


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Moving On Up, We Hope

Moving.
Nobody likes doing it. But sometimes, you have to move. You've outgrown the place. You've outlived the place. Your energies stagnate. The bloodstains won't come off the ceiling. And that spot in the living room? PER-MAN-ENT.

We're moving. To Los Angeles, CA. The area around it, not LA-proper. And there just aren't enough hours in these days to go into the whole philosophy of why. Other than that's where I believe many of my dreams will blossom into their next form.

Seattle, my home. A fantastic place to start a career, build an act. But not the place to sustain a career in comedy, unless one is doing cruise ships. I'm not. So I have to go. Seattle comedy has been good to me, and I hope I have, in turn, been at least gentle to it. I only feel like I have hit a consistent stride in the past year or so. Which makes me laugh when I see guys who've been getting on stages for nearly 8 months...
IN A ROW...
"headline" a show. I'm really learning again how to Feature really well, about pace and letting the space between jokes run their own cadence. Let the crowd dictate what I'd like them to. And I have a LOT to learn.

So I don't know that LA will teach me much. I think guys like David Crowe, Brad Upton, Kermet Apio, Joe Vespaziani, and Duane Goad have taught me more than 90% of the guys in LA will. Ron Reid's been nothing but the sherpa I never knew I would need. And I will heed his advice always.
Brousseau teaches me constantly.
What not to wear.
Nor eat.
But he's a helluva man...

Anyway, there'll be more to this soon. For now, it's late, and we're tired, and I'm blogging away so loudly that my wife has closed the door to the Fortress Of Creativity!

Here's what I know, so far:

1. My niece Riley is incredible. I "get it," the baby-having thing.
2. I have work to do on my career as a comedian and writer. And unless thrust into the game, I'll never get to properly play it.
3. Hustle + Talent = Success. If I have a Talent score of 7, I should only need 3 on the Hustle to get my 10 and win Success. But I will need at least a 7 for Hustle in the Beast. Got it.
   
4. I could never do what we're about to go do alone. Some comics mention personal life as a weight holding them down. Instead, my marriage is the cornerstone of the Empire we want to build. I cannot ever thank my wife enough. If you're reading this, I love you. Sorry about the "clown incident" at ROSS.
5. This is irrational, non-sensical, incomprehensible, and dumb. To uproot, rent out, become renters, pay more for rent, leave good-paying jobs, leave friends and family and fair traffic. INSANE.
6. This makes total sense, and without going for it, it will never come to me. I would only end up bitter and guessing. And I'm halfway there now.
   
7. No dream of making one's passion their career will happen without sacrifice, effort, determination, positive thoughts, and luck.
   
8. Fear is a feeling that failure is a possibility, and embarrassment awaits a failure's by-product. Guess what? I'm not scared. I'm excited. I'm angry. I'm motivated.
   
9. I'm a little scared.
10. I have to get more sleep.

What do I know, really? I'm just a guy with a dream of not sitting in a cubicle every day until I decide to retire in a hail of "F*CK Y'ALL" and "EAT SH*T" and "GUESS WHO'S BEEN POOPING IN THE COFFEE MAKER?"

I have a dream of letting my gifts provide me a long, healthy, happy, prosperous career.
Gotta go. Got a dream.


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The Girl In The Window (you will cry if you read this)

I found this lengthy article at the site of one of my favorite writers, DOOCE (caps all mine), and have only been able to read about 2 pages at a time. Please hit the link at the bottom and read Heather Armstrong's comments, also.

It is about a young girl who was emotionally and physically neglected for the first 7 years of her life. The woman who gave birth to her did little else besides basic sustenance, if that, and this poor child had nothing to signal that she was living, alive, and a human, other than her form and a heartbeat.

I am not, but hope to be, a father. And be you a parent or not, this is a story about illness, humanity, compassion, and hope unlike anything I have ever read. It is heartbreaking and soaring. I have to make some stops on the way home, and look like I'm either about to cry, been crying, or Woody Harrelson-high.

What can the human heart endure, and what can't love conquer?

The Girl In The Window

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Lessons In Being An A-Pipe

The Brett Favre saga continues, as he tells the Packers earlier this year that he's leaving them, then tells 'em, "Hey... daddy's thinking he may wanna hit that sweet Green & Gold ass a little more, whaddya say?"

In the meantime, the Packers decided to move on, like any healthy dumpee in a relationship, and go with a younger, thinner, QB who may need some development but is surely the way of the future.

So Brett needs attention. And he's had it for a month now. A lot of it. Overshadowing the entirety of the kickoff of the NFL season. It's not about the Packers, it's about Brett Favre. This is showing a side of Favre I don't like, which is too bad because he's a Hall of Fame lock for sure. But now he will also be remembered for waffling like this.


Another case in point, some Fart-in-Human-Form that I work with. Gawd, this guy...

Sure, he's under pressure from his boss to handle things. We all are. It's called WORK. I have some. I'm not doing it right NOW, but I have some.


See, when a guy decides that his work is of the utmost importance, he narrows his view of the world and sees only his target. And once he begins to swing wildly the arms of panic because somebody said "Uh... we need that sooner," then everyone not in his view gets hit. And until the hitting stops, the work done by everyone else suffers.


The past week has been a suffering at the end of the flail. Every email leads to a 45 minute call across 4 schedules. Every voicemail leads to a 90minute call across 15 schedules. And now... now this fella sends a round of emails to 10 people, and in the amount of time it would take one of above-normal intelligence (and twice-above-normal Handsomeness) to read the thread and make sense of something with a subject line of "Support For Group,"

The DiaperLoad calls me to reiterate what was in his email...
Because I guess I have nothing else to do...
And work only to serve him...
Which means, likely...
He's not married.


So yeah, if you wanna be an A-hole, that's a phenomenal way to do it. Demand, demand, demand, and then when your turn comes up, act like you deserve it.


Oh, and double-clicking your pen (tk-tk... tk-tk-tk-tk...) and bouncing your leg all day are not "activity," they are nervous habits for which you should have a crayon taped to your hand and your ankles duct-taped together. For crying out loud, WHY CAN'T I JUST COME OUT AND SAY THIS???


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The Work Is Out

Interval training.
Tha SHIZZ.

Do you have 90minutes to work out?
NO.
If you do, you have an incredible body, and seriously flabby personality.

You know how that Stop & Go driving burns gas outta yer car, so you don't wanna do that?
That same principle holds true for Interval Training.

High-Intensity Interval Training, or HIIT, or sHIIT, is what you're gonna wanna be doing from now on for your work-'em-out regimen.

What happens is you max out your effort for a short period of time, say for 20 seconds. Then rest for a minute, let your body recover, and then you blast it again. You're shocking your body into action, and it responds by releasing a lot of growth hormone and other stuff I can't spell, all of which lead to your body looking for every available energy source not strapped to a tendon and to a bone. Such as adipose tissue, or "body fat," or "the place where feelings go and people don't." Not saying you have any, just sayin' that IF YOU DID... you're gonna wanna HIIT it.

Again, who would you rather look like?
Wrong picture. Sorry.
ANYwho...

I subscribe to TurbulenceTraining. I bought the program earlier this year, and here's what it's done for me...
1) I'm leaner than I have ever been, dropped about 4% bodyfat in 3 months. Could have done better, but that's my fault with my diet and thinking I could eat cheese without any adverse affects. There's a great nutrition plan included, which I followed for the past 2 weeks and ripped another 3lbs off.
2) My cardiovascular shape is better than ever. I did 7 full-bore hill sprints this morning (12% grade) and jogged the mile home. Sweating? You bet. Dying? Nope.
3) Strong? Uh... MAJORLY. This is both a cardio and anaerobic (muscle-building) program, so you will be getting a full body workout in under an hour. The longest I've spent on a workout here is about 55min. I was screwing around for a good 15 of that, so again, you will do better than I.

So yes, I promote Craig Ballantyne's "TurbulenceTraining" program whole-heartedly. If you want to work out 2 hours a day, 5 days a week, you go ahead. If you have any energy left when you're done, me and the rest of the HIIT'ers will be hanging out with the sexy crew.

By the way, Craig is a devotee of his own program. He looks like this...

I don't.
Yet.


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A Traffic, Oil, And Giant Solution To Problems

My solution to traffic, fender-benders, the insurance industry, road rage, fat-cat oil company profiteers who can't drill in the Mexican Sea Gulf, drunk driving, that dipshit with the loud rap music stereo blasty-boom, people who demand you get out of their way because they are late for a latté, your impending short-comings due to underestimating the intense influence of a red-head, lowered Acuras driven by shit-head kids with no insurance crossing 4 lanes in 1/8 of a mile after merging, and Calvin peeing on a rival car makers.

(ahem)

Oh, and Nick Hogan.

Everybody would be in pods that have giant magnets in the front and back. Front magnets and rear magnets have opposite polarities, but all fronts have the same and and all rears have the same. See, that means you get close to, but not crash into, the other cars.




Then, the entire system runs on tracks that are magnetized, like those tracks that the bullet trains run on in Japan, Germany, and every other country we've kicked the S out of in a war. Losers better their positions, and the winners walk around making movies about our triumphs, that we have to drive to at $4.37 a gallon. Assclowns. And you zip right along, ZOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOP. The track has magnets that switch polarities and zip you along quietly, with the only exhaust coming from Michael Savage.

THEN, you get in your pod, which would be like a comfortable little office or customized bathroom with a TV and WiFi connection and a place to "do business" and a boss-ass system. You punch in where you wanna go, hit the GO button, and you zip into the flow of traffic that is on the rail.

The rail system senses you coming in, and slows a car down a half-mile back, so you get right into where you fit best. NO MERGING. NO ASSFACE DISSING YOU FOR TRYING GET AHEAD OF THEM, HOW DARE YOU, SeatSniffer. And bingo, you're in the flow in a Merge/Purge lane.

Merge/Purge? That's the lane on the far right that goes about 15 M'sPH slower than the rest of traffic. You go there FIRST, then you get into traffic, and the lanes go faster depending on how far you have to go. If you're in it for the long haul, you get way to the left and zoom along at about 70-80 M'sPH. If you're heading to Trader Joe's, you get about 45 M'sPH, while finalizing your shopping list and talking to your therapist.

HANDS FREE, of course.
And I will still miss meetings because I'll leave the house 3/10ths of a second later than I ought to.

NO, this won't work, I know that.
Because we love our cars.
They give us the personality where our Personality should be.

And because people love being Tail-Gated by the... BITCH... who can't drive and talk at the same time and then acts like it's MY fault that she's gonna be late to work at the tanning salon. And it's not. It's her fault she can't keep her GPA up at a Vo-Tech.

And because the guy in the BMW M3 I see every day passing in school zones would have to develop a NEW skill to compensate for a flaccid personality. I wanna gutterball that doosh.

And because we love pulling to a red light, in the right-hand lane, and sitting behind the bootch who ain't seen that it's a RightTurnOnly lane, and there's no cross-traffic, so GO... GO AHEAD... go go go go go go GO GO GO GO GO GO GO... go. Please. Oh CheezIts Crepes, I'm going to push you into traffic. (yes, this happened today).

So anywho, that's just my suggestion. I think we're close to accepting the notions I proposed. However, until we find a way for people to be employed on the magnetic roads thing... I'll be cruising around town in a car not unlike the one seen below.

You know... for personality.

The great minds are all off-center, off-kilter, and need to be that way.

I'm changing the world. YOU change the lightbulbs.

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Extreme Home Foreclosure

Check it...

Some folks in Georgia who had their home rebuilt and lives re-organized by the "Extreme Home Makeover" conglomerate of Sears, KMart, loving neighbors, and Ty Pennington's questionable construction skills, done-gone and got their house in Foreclosure.

See, they leveraged their house, which was fully donated to them after they pleaded for it, so's they could get a loan to start a construction business. $450,000. In a row.

See, when you're given THE... not "a" but THE... second chance of a lifetime to spring-board your entire family into the joys of middle-class living, you sit squarely on that donated, luxurious micro-suede armchair, pack on 14 pounds, and STOP TRYING TO DO THINGS YOUR WAY. It was YOUR WAY that got you into needing your life made-the-hell-over, sweetheart. You get fat, you go to Church, coach some tee-ball, and STOP TRYING TO EXCEL.

So now, these folks have to find a home like the one that was built for their family, specifically. Good luck. My heart goes out to them, because they're going to catch a ration of verbal outrage unseen since Jesse Jackson's home movies. But only up to the level of fairness.

It would be fantastically American to see them drive up to the Foreclosure finalizing in a relatively new, still-being-paid-on truck.

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I'm Here For Comedy

This will fill in more as the days go on.

But I must state it now to you, dear reader, and the Universe, and anybody else who can read and thought this was a blog about boobs or butts...


I am here for Comedy.
I am here to make people laugh.
I am here for the purpose of entertaining people around the ideas of humanity, tragedy, irony, chocolate, and personal growth.
I am here to make the kind of living that talented people and not Jimmy Fallon should make, money, travel, constant creativity.
And I'm blessed with those talents to make it happen. Amen.

I embrace it. Were I wired to be a neurosurgeon, I'd do that. Or a monkey trainer, bingo. But I'm a comedian, I do Comedy. Stand-up, writing, acting. Laughter is the best medicine.

Big Announcement NEXT WEEK.

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*arry's Market's Getting A Phone Call

*arry's Market's getting a phone call today.

I went by there this morning to get a cup of coffee, something I rarely spend money on, but I figured, hey, it's Friday, why not put up with extra weirdness before caffeine hits my veins? What could go wrong?

I head in, and find the tucked-away coffee counter. Realizing that I want something more than just coffee, I head to an aisle for a Balance bar or some-such. *arry's is a traditionally overpriced store, but has indeed dropped prices the past few years after getting their asses handed to them by Whole Foods, QFC, Fred Meyer, and Safeway. QFC is beating them! That's some pricey shopping there.

So I get a little nibblet and head back to the coffee counter.
Nobody is there.
I wait. 30sec. A minute or so. And realize, hey, time is money, and I look around and there's NOBODY wearing an apron and a frown to help me out. NOBODY. I toss the nibblet counter-side and mutter something and bail.

As I get in the car, I hear somebody saying "DO YOU WANT SOMETHING?"
What? In the parking lot? "CAN WE GET YOU SOMETHING?" I'm in the car now, I'm pulling out, and I see a lady from another counter, a *arry's employee, writing something on her hand about 40 feet behind my car. So I roll down my window.
Here's that previously mentioned "weirdness."

I ask "I'm sorry, were you talking to me?"
"Yes, did you want something?"
"I wanted a cup of coffee but there wasn't anybody around."
Through a forced smile that says "I have control issues on sooooo many levels and try to intimidate people", her response is, tersely, "Well she was right there in the café, all we have to do is page her if you still want some coffee!" She looked like she knew something I didn't.
"I'm sorry, I didn't see anybody so I left. Sorry about the excitement."
"OH NOOO," she says, "She was RIGHT THERE" (still grinning) "if you want to come back in."

No. I'm not going back in. I go back in, she gets to put me on lockdown while rifling my pockets for things she thinks I stole. I took nothing, I'm free to leave. But now, I gotta deal with some bootch writing my license plate down.

"That piece of candy I had, I put that on the counter," just stating my own case that I am NOT a criminal, and will not be looked at IN THAT TONE OF VOICE.
"Oh yeah," the hogweed says. "I saw it fall on the floor."

By this point, some young kid at his first job and an immigrant are outside to see what the commotion is about.
There's another problem...
If 3 folks have time to come off the floor... STORE'S GONE TO SH*T.

So I will call *arry's today and let the manager know about my experience.
It's the principle of the thing. I did nothing wrong, other than not know that I had to page somebody to get coffee. And maybe turn the pineapple upside-down cake boxes, you know... upside down.

Also, this is fun, if somebody leaves their shopping cart in a random place in the grocery store for a while, throw some expensive items in it. They get home with $17 worth of saffron, you taught a lesson!


it was MY fault? Impatience, perhaps, but the only crime committed was thinking a floundering

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IgnoRant: My Dwindling Compassion For Dumbasses

A few weeks ago I performed at the Taste Of Tacoma, an outdoor food faire in the heart of Pierce County. For those not in the know, or "out the do' on the kanizzle" as we say in tha streetz, Tacoma is a town better know for its paper-smelting aroma (hot-car broccoli gas), random shootings, faux gang activity, and a nightlife mixture of Blade Runner and the Mos Eisley cantina, but with baby-mama drama. It's all very classay. Yes, "-ay."

To this very moment, I describe the Taste as "the most beautiful, painful, and ignorantly, brazenly sad sea of humanity to ever grace Point Defiance park." Let's run it down:

1. Horrible tattoos? CHECK. My favorites included a guy with two revolvers tattooed at his waistband, as if shoved into his overly-exposed boxers, as well as a scapula-covering black&gray pit bull with the words "Mi Vida" in cursive. Makes it classier, because it was, after all, a woman's shoulder. Every tattoo you should never get, from your girl's name, to your boo's initials TO THE HOOD EMBLEM OF A CHRYSLER, all over the meat casings of these walking billboards for late-term abortion. Explain THAT decision to your kids. What happens when the other guy has a "non-tattoo" gun?
2. Huge dogs with bad reputations? CHIGGIDY. See, you MUST represent. Outdoors, hot hot hot weather, kids running around with corndogs at eye-level to a blood-gurgling land-shark known as a pit bull terrier. How could this go wrong? As long as a few people with crappier lives than you think it's cool, hey, you're validated. I don't blame the dogs. I blame the parents for bringing their kids to a place where people be walkin' they dog at, mang. Yeah. That's what it is. Poor dogs. They don't even wanna be with those people.
3. Inappropriate clothing? CHUNDER! I am a proponent of lettin' it all hang out and being who you are... but if who you are has a fair amount of lust for a red tube-top that makes your backfat look like cleavage, and your heels be all sinking in'a groun'? Girl, you GOTTA get some body shame. That person has no real friends. Her boyfriend, guess what? MOUTH BREATHER!

Behold the phenomenon known as "DoubleBagging."

So, I came away from this place realizing that some zip codes should have birth control pumping through the water supply. Conversely, if somebody is smart enough and has the financial means to be using a Brita or Pur water filter, then they have shown they ought to be procreating. Everyone else, I want to make sure we aren't flooding our schools with more and more...

Wait a second... what am I saying???
What do I think I am going to change with this blog? Do I think people will drive better? Will cinemas get my drift and start showing movies On-Demand instead of whenever THEY feel like it? Are people going to STOP bringing their dogs into the store and holding them up like harlequin masques as if to say, "See? I am loved!" What do I expect of humanity?

Who is to blame for it all? The dumb, that's who.
At a point in the lives of dipshits, dorkwads, numbnuts, nerdjobs, fartkings, f*cktards, shitloaves, Lukas, Nickelback fans, and/or idjits, they made decision after to decision to just be Dumb. To stop thinking and start brain-mashing through MySpace and FaceBook and pop culture, they tuned out the voices of Life and said, YES to the voices of living through their technology.

So when a guy blows his hands off after making a pipe bomb to show off to his friends, I feel nothing. I feel bad for the people who saw it, that's a crappy day at the auto detailer, but Stumps Henderson, man, what sucks most is that he's gonna get some sort of disability payment from the taxpayers. He ought to be getting a hammer on one stump, nail feeder on the other. Or a trowel in one hand, seed dispenser in the other, planting trees in the community.

Part of me is so very fed up with the low-thinkers and the willfully ignorant. But truly, they are needed. Our society, as a whole, deserves to be doing better. But as long as people are fat, dumb, and using government stimulus checks to buy flatscreens while their kid's teeth grow sideways out they heads, we'll trudge along towards our next evolutionary step.

22, Bi-Sexual Female looking to Hook Up! Must luv Catts.

AND I SAY "GOOD!"
I have nothing but the highest hopes for all of us. But let's be honest, folks.
The hierarchy of humanity is a pyramid, not a table. There's less room as we near the top. The problem I see with being up there is there aren't very many people to talk to. And people can see up your organic bamboo-thread jammers.

So, nevermind. The people who I want the most to shake from their sugary cola-swilling trough-like Day Coma aren't reading this anyway. But please, Dear Reader, decide that you would like to be up the pyramid a notch or two, and go there. You deserve it. I want it for you. Your loved ones want it for you. And I'm tired of you looking up my kilt.

By the way. The Taste of Tacoma is malt liquor and breast milk.

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