Holy Holiday Blitz, it's that time of year again. We climb over giftbaskets to find the amber bottles of pain killers, bop-bop-bopping across the linoleum as our rum-buttery fingers sssploork! it into the air. Why does everyone seem to be so down on medicating ourselves? It's been said hundreds of times, even if there was never a mind altering chemical or plant invented or discovered in our history, there'd still be plenty of people spinning around in the front yard claiming that they saw "God, and she looked like Jackson Browne." Do whatever you wanna do, I really don't care. But really it's not in your power to tell others what to do. Deal with you, first, then worry about how little other people think of you.
====
One of the most well-known comics pretty much continued to lose his mind and composure and ran himself out of the Seattle comedy scene. He sponged off a woman for over a year, complained about all he did not have, and continuously made an ass of himself. He ended his last stint by ingratiating himself with the club and organization that helped launch him forward, and he is now back East doing Krishna-knows-what. I wish him well, but he f*cked himself time and again. Laters.
Mitch Hedberg made a recent trip through town and played a theater show. A few months back he blew up at the manager of a local club due to the manager not being forthright about ticket prices and therefore, quite likely, Mitch's pay for the weekend. Mitch stormed off-stage during the first show and did not return for the second. That was documented on his website in an apology to Seattle. So Mitch returned recently with Stephen Lynch as his opener. (Lynch is the boy-next-door guitar-playing funny man with some dark and twisted lyrics. It's funny, but don't confuse it with stand-up, which consists of spoken word and jokes). From an eyewitness account, Lynch had a great set. Mitch hit the stage and... (from my friend's e-mail) "BTW I went to the Moore and saw Mitch Hedberg……….OK he was so wasted it got to the point where he wasn’t funny and was going off on a rage and pretty much had to be cut off. I enjoyed his opener though…"
This is from Mitch's website:
"By the way, I need to do something about what happened in Phoenix. I am well aware I went over the top. I do not want a license to have shows like that but if you have it in your hearts (and you were THERE) can you forgive me for the self-indulgence?"
He goes on to offer a free show in Phoenix if they can arrange it. So there's a pattern of self-defeating behavior
A local performer also had a personality snap in her cerebellum, e-mailing Geoff Brousseau about some imagined slander against her. At the same time she's doing that, she's calling other comics looking for MY phone number, to give me basically the same message she had relayed to Brousseau. So here's a person that most people who claims in her e-mail to "know a lot of people," yet she can't figure out which Geoff is which. Brousseau's the handsome one with the luxurious dark hair, I'm the blonde one who hates women in their late 40's who have never resolved their dad issues, and we both hate cupid stunts.
So far, that's 2 comics crapping on their reputations, and one trying to use shit for Shine-ola. The first comic and I had our own little run-in. Never met Hedberg, but it's sad to think he may very well be out of comedy in a year if he continues down the road he's on. Clubs won't book him if he's freaking out every other show and can't spend one hour a day on the wagon. They'll book him, but his fee will drop considerably. The last performer, who is not funny and will not be called a comic by me, is coming unhinged.
Three comics, three near collapses. I hope that a few others will finally lose their shit and stay off the comedy radar for good. These people are pulling friggin' Kobe Bryant-sized boners out here, just f*cking themselves but good. So if nothing else, I think there are lessons to be learned here. We each carry that shoulder-riding devil, and sometimes it takes us down a few streets with a nudge, a hint, a whisper, or by nearly pulling our friggin' ear off. As adults, we must take note of when the Puckish one is talking loudest, and if you can anticipate when the little hor-ned one will come a-knockin', then congrats, you're way ahead of the games. Still, it's up to each of us to work our crap out, and ridicule those who don't.
Oh, and Tony Moser reminds me of a little something I brought back from Mexico: A Raw Ass.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Thursday, December 16, 2004
Wednesday, December 15, 2004
Holiday Spirits
Whynchoo tell ME what's up? Quit be lookin' at me like you're all THAT. You ain't all THAT, PUNK.
Oh look at MEEEE, I'm intense and serious! OOOOH, I'm better than YOU. Why? 'Cause y'ain't grown up with no cousins? You think I had it better 'cause my cousin's always around? Man, they are CRAZY, you think you're stronger for never knowing your uncles? You are BLIND my friend. Now you just walk around here acting like the uncle you never had to the nephew you never was, and you get off on that. That means YOU are crazy, Mr. RolePlaying whatever.
You ain't no Uncle Superman, bitch! Give me, MMPH, give me that bottle... Look you son of DAMMIT you spilled it! I'm no son of a bit LOOK HOW MUCH YOU SPILLED... you know I only get one chocolate milk a week, dammit. I'm leaving anyway. It's hard for you to be this big an asshole when everyone expects you to stink. You ain't sneakin' up on nobody.
What? Yeah, you do that. You come to my house when I'm home. Good luck getting past the moat. What? Yeah, I'm gonna build one right now, you think I ain't got it to build a OH GOD build a moat? I'll build a moat before OH GRRRGGGGHHFFFF you even wake up from your second wine nap, putz. I'm gonna dig a BLAAARRRRRR I threw up don't worry about that I'm digging a moat, you'll see, I'm BLAAALALALAALAAAARRR it's in my nose MMRRRAAAAAAK oh that BURAAAAAAWWWKKKKKKKK I'm leaving anyway. Whatever.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Oh look at MEEEE, I'm intense and serious! OOOOH, I'm better than YOU. Why? 'Cause y'ain't grown up with no cousins? You think I had it better 'cause my cousin's always around? Man, they are CRAZY, you think you're stronger for never knowing your uncles? You are BLIND my friend. Now you just walk around here acting like the uncle you never had to the nephew you never was, and you get off on that. That means YOU are crazy, Mr. RolePlaying whatever.
You ain't no Uncle Superman, bitch! Give me, MMPH, give me that bottle... Look you son of DAMMIT you spilled it! I'm no son of a bit LOOK HOW MUCH YOU SPILLED... you know I only get one chocolate milk a week, dammit. I'm leaving anyway. It's hard for you to be this big an asshole when everyone expects you to stink. You ain't sneakin' up on nobody.
What? Yeah, you do that. You come to my house when I'm home. Good luck getting past the moat. What? Yeah, I'm gonna build one right now, you think I ain't got it to build a OH GOD build a moat? I'll build a moat before OH GRRRGGGGHHFFFF you even wake up from your second wine nap, putz. I'm gonna dig a BLAAARRRRRR I threw up don't worry about that I'm digging a moat, you'll see, I'm BLAAALALALAALAAAARRR it's in my nose MMRRRAAAAAAK oh that BURAAAAAAWWWKKKKKKKK I'm leaving anyway. Whatever.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So You've Decided To Quit
Wow. I didn't think you and I would be having this conversation, but I guess it's time.
It appears you've quit. You have given us nothing to go on here. You haven't done anything for yourself and ,therefore, nothing for the rest of us. You made a conscious decision to do nothing. I'm sorry, I thought better of you. And I was wrong.
No, really, it's on me, I shouldn't have given you that much credit. It's my fault to hold you to the standards so high. Dammit, see, I am doubting myself again. You appeared to be able to handle it, and my ability to judge a person's aptitude on this equipment has been clouded by altruism and philanthropic endeavors. I once thought you'd be the best person for the job, and I was wrong.
So now what? I hope you have a back-up plan. For crying out loud, remember when we met, that day you were staring at the 2 in the address of the methadone clinic, pudding in your hand? You didn't even have a cup, just that handful of pudding, and I knew, right there, you had the touch to handle... I'm sorry... I'm just upset by this decision of yours. By not deciding, you've decided, and that's... see? I'm really... I can't do this. Okay, friend. Here's your severance gift card. And here's the last of my SunChips. It's harvest Cheddar. Remember our laugh over that? Cheddar can't be harvested! Yeah... Okay then. Off ya go. You be well. Be well.
Okay call security and get that freak off the grounds in 10 seconds or your family dies.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
It appears you've quit. You have given us nothing to go on here. You haven't done anything for yourself and ,therefore, nothing for the rest of us. You made a conscious decision to do nothing. I'm sorry, I thought better of you. And I was wrong.
No, really, it's on me, I shouldn't have given you that much credit. It's my fault to hold you to the standards so high. Dammit, see, I am doubting myself again. You appeared to be able to handle it, and my ability to judge a person's aptitude on this equipment has been clouded by altruism and philanthropic endeavors. I once thought you'd be the best person for the job, and I was wrong.
So now what? I hope you have a back-up plan. For crying out loud, remember when we met, that day you were staring at the 2 in the address of the methadone clinic, pudding in your hand? You didn't even have a cup, just that handful of pudding, and I knew, right there, you had the touch to handle... I'm sorry... I'm just upset by this decision of yours. By not deciding, you've decided, and that's... see? I'm really... I can't do this. Okay, friend. Here's your severance gift card. And here's the last of my SunChips. It's harvest Cheddar. Remember our laugh over that? Cheddar can't be harvested! Yeah... Okay then. Off ya go. You be well. Be well.
Okay call security and get that freak off the grounds in 10 seconds or your family dies.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, December 12, 2004
This Is Majorly Sucking
Right now on Saturday Night Live, there's a shitpile passing for a sketch where these dicklumps are putting "Alexander The Grump" and syphillis-gun Colin Farrell through the paces of a "rhyme run." Lots of rhymes to get laughs instead of actual wit or anything. Lindsay Lohan is on the show, also, and there's not one mention of Colin using a sLohan to getting his nicotine-darkened fingers wet. He's a cad, she's a mess, it's a match made in fan fiction. That show sucks.
Good Bye, First Amendment
In Lancaster, PA a city councilman is trying to rid a farmer's market of a picture of President Bush.
Citing that the close and bitter election has cast sadness throughout all of Lancaster, this commie hemmorhoid believes the city needs a "time of healing." Regardless of how you think Pres. Bush should be removed from office, this City Councilman needs to be removed from his car and beaten crotch-wise. Somebody PLEASE hit that guy with the shovel he used to stack bullshit that first got him elected, PLEEEEEEEEEEEAASE! What's funnier is that this guy's name is "Nelson Polite." Hello Sexually Repressed. That has to be a fake name. Satan's in Lancaster, and he's Yellow Paged under "Polite, Nelson." No spouse.
The poster of the poster is a baker, a business owner. W.'s been good to the small business owner. It's at a "farmer's market," a group that is likely quite liberal, what with the shaping, painting, and selling of all kind o' beads, pots, and knitted clothing. It doesn't matter if it's in the middle of a church-run home for out of work porn starlets, THIS IS STILL AMERICA AND YOU CAN SAY, POST, SING, AND EXPRESS WHATEVER THE HELL YOU LIKE.
As long as it's popular, otherwise, don't bother me. Who knew Republicans would become the new hippies? You can't say shit in this country without someone getting offended. Fine. The worst is that nobody will ever take a moment and reflect on why they were offended. Say something offensive, and the person will likely stomp away to tell the manager of the coffee boutique, who will then ask that you please be nice. Or the offended party will quickly and forcefully reach into their pocket, ball up their fist, and retract it violently, wrapped around a cell phone to call their friend and tell them how they were just, ga-friggin'-sp, offended! HOW DARE THEE!
Get a sense of humor about yourself. You're going to die. No matter how much good you do in life, no matter how many petitions you hold in front of supermarkets, nor how many pockets-worth of coins you toss in the "Save Kids Without Playstations" cannister at the store, YOU WILL BE FORGOTTEN. If you can't laugh at that, we'll see you at the open mic. You have three minutes. Don't f*ck up.
Tony Moser reminds me of a white Derrick Cameron.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Good Bye, First Amendment
In Lancaster, PA a city councilman is trying to rid a farmer's market of a picture of President Bush.
Citing that the close and bitter election has cast sadness throughout all of Lancaster, this commie hemmorhoid believes the city needs a "time of healing." Regardless of how you think Pres. Bush should be removed from office, this City Councilman needs to be removed from his car and beaten crotch-wise. Somebody PLEASE hit that guy with the shovel he used to stack bullshit that first got him elected, PLEEEEEEEEEEEAASE! What's funnier is that this guy's name is "Nelson Polite." Hello Sexually Repressed. That has to be a fake name. Satan's in Lancaster, and he's Yellow Paged under "Polite, Nelson." No spouse.
The poster of the poster is a baker, a business owner. W.'s been good to the small business owner. It's at a "farmer's market," a group that is likely quite liberal, what with the shaping, painting, and selling of all kind o' beads, pots, and knitted clothing. It doesn't matter if it's in the middle of a church-run home for out of work porn starlets, THIS IS STILL AMERICA AND YOU CAN SAY, POST, SING, AND EXPRESS WHATEVER THE HELL YOU LIKE.
As long as it's popular, otherwise, don't bother me. Who knew Republicans would become the new hippies? You can't say shit in this country without someone getting offended. Fine. The worst is that nobody will ever take a moment and reflect on why they were offended. Say something offensive, and the person will likely stomp away to tell the manager of the coffee boutique, who will then ask that you please be nice. Or the offended party will quickly and forcefully reach into their pocket, ball up their fist, and retract it violently, wrapped around a cell phone to call their friend and tell them how they were just, ga-friggin'-sp, offended! HOW DARE THEE!
Get a sense of humor about yourself. You're going to die. No matter how much good you do in life, no matter how many petitions you hold in front of supermarkets, nor how many pockets-worth of coins you toss in the "Save Kids Without Playstations" cannister at the store, YOU WILL BE FORGOTTEN. If you can't laugh at that, we'll see you at the open mic. You have three minutes. Don't f*ck up.
Tony Moser reminds me of a white Derrick Cameron.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, December 10, 2004
Via Con Dios, Cabo. Hi, Seattle, You Bitch.
Not sure if anyone's reading this today.
It's Friday, 12/10/04. I've returned from my vacation to read a blog here and there, caught up on some gossip, and have had the interior of my car defamed, degraded, and metaphorically defecated upon. Being away for a week, I've heard that a few comics have left the area, possibly for good, some have made waves and are doing guest spots this weekend, and some are still boring people with their depressed, repressed, unresolved issues. Yeah, Killorn, I'm talking about you... know who.
There's an old saying from the infamous Cabo San Lucas watering hole "El Squid Roe" that goes like this, "What Happens In Cabo... (everybody screeeeam!) STAYS IN CABO!" I would like some things to stay in Cabo. Like the water puma. The sea cobra. The turtle whistle. DOODLE DOOOO! The trash neighbors. AAAWHA'HA'HAAAAA! The beach dumping. Patrick Swayze. He sucks.
More later. I need a liver-flush tea and shiatsu.
Hey, where's our dawgmanned Governor? Give it up Gregoire, cut your hair above your ears and get on with your golf lessons.
Here's something odd. In checking my website stats, # of hits and what-not, I had over 300 in the past week, which is a lot. Most of them were aimed at my blog, and within that, quite a few searches for Mishna Wolff, the comedian, as well as the close confidant (not sure how attached they are) of comedian Marc Maron. Marc was in town last weekend at Giggles Comedy Club, and I hope, for your sake that you did NOT see him, because the rest of the comedy you see in Seattle will suck sludge in his wake. Mishna's got some great material, as well as a stage presence that is very laissez-faire, like she's bending your ear in front of the organic market. And Marc Maron, well, shit, that's HIM on stage. That's not a character, that's Marc Maron, and that is what most comics strive for, to be themselves on stage.
This weekend, go check out Daniel Tosh at Giggles. Funny? Yes. Off-beat? Uh-huh. Rail-thin? Check. In love with me? A bit, yeah, a bit.
As I return to the drizzle (Snoop-speak for "drippage") and gray skies, I have pants to press, set lists it write, and shows to do. I look forward to seeing y'all soon. Until then, throw $5 or a toy in for Toys For Tots. Just a little something for someone else this time of year.
Tony Moser called, he'd like to come over. I said "no." I'm not zoned for animals.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
It's Friday, 12/10/04. I've returned from my vacation to read a blog here and there, caught up on some gossip, and have had the interior of my car defamed, degraded, and metaphorically defecated upon. Being away for a week, I've heard that a few comics have left the area, possibly for good, some have made waves and are doing guest spots this weekend, and some are still boring people with their depressed, repressed, unresolved issues. Yeah, Killorn, I'm talking about you... know who.
There's an old saying from the infamous Cabo San Lucas watering hole "El Squid Roe" that goes like this, "What Happens In Cabo... (everybody screeeeam!) STAYS IN CABO!" I would like some things to stay in Cabo. Like the water puma. The sea cobra. The turtle whistle. DOODLE DOOOO! The trash neighbors. AAAWHA'HA'HAAAAA! The beach dumping. Patrick Swayze. He sucks.
More later. I need a liver-flush tea and shiatsu.
Hey, where's our dawgmanned Governor? Give it up Gregoire, cut your hair above your ears and get on with your golf lessons.
Here's something odd. In checking my website stats, # of hits and what-not, I had over 300 in the past week, which is a lot. Most of them were aimed at my blog, and within that, quite a few searches for Mishna Wolff, the comedian, as well as the close confidant (not sure how attached they are) of comedian Marc Maron. Marc was in town last weekend at Giggles Comedy Club, and I hope, for your sake that you did NOT see him, because the rest of the comedy you see in Seattle will suck sludge in his wake. Mishna's got some great material, as well as a stage presence that is very laissez-faire, like she's bending your ear in front of the organic market. And Marc Maron, well, shit, that's HIM on stage. That's not a character, that's Marc Maron, and that is what most comics strive for, to be themselves on stage.
This weekend, go check out Daniel Tosh at Giggles. Funny? Yes. Off-beat? Uh-huh. Rail-thin? Check. In love with me? A bit, yeah, a bit.
As I return to the drizzle (Snoop-speak for "drippage") and gray skies, I have pants to press, set lists it write, and shows to do. I look forward to seeing y'all soon. Until then, throw $5 or a toy in for Toys For Tots. Just a little something for someone else this time of year.
Tony Moser called, he'd like to come over. I said "no." I'm not zoned for animals.
=============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, December 06, 2004
Hola America!
Well I sure as hell hope you're enjoying comedy, TV, and your cellphone not ringing. Best I can tell, we're having a liver-flush of a time South of the Border. Mexico, not Portland.
I'm running out of time here in the Cafe Interneto, as the Policia locales are on the trail of a missing marlin statue. You try getting a 7-foot papier mache fish in a cab, see if you don't attract a little attention.
The Ladies are off for massages at 1pm, Shoogs and I are heading to the beach for our daily fitness regime of 8 minutes of swimming followed by looking for the smokes, then it is off to town for some shopping. I kid you not, the girls here are in Catholic Schools, complete with outfits. Tomorrow we snorkel! All of this, and come Friday night, Jefe here gots himself a corporate gig. Oh. Crapolita.
Via Con Dios, Mes Amigos,
ARRIBA
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I'm running out of time here in the Cafe Interneto, as the Policia locales are on the trail of a missing marlin statue. You try getting a 7-foot papier mache fish in a cab, see if you don't attract a little attention.
The Ladies are off for massages at 1pm, Shoogs and I are heading to the beach for our daily fitness regime of 8 minutes of swimming followed by looking for the smokes, then it is off to town for some shopping. I kid you not, the girls here are in Catholic Schools, complete with outfits. Tomorrow we snorkel! All of this, and come Friday night, Jefe here gots himself a corporate gig. Oh. Crapolita.
Via Con Dios, Mes Amigos,
ARRIBA
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
And Away We Go
I'm heading out of town for a week, off to sunny Cabo San Lucas. I'm looking forward to it in ways I can't even explain. Especially since this past week has been worthy of launching myself out of Seattle for some respite from. I have a gig the night after I get back, a paying, fancy, corporate holiday party gig so who knows what I'll be like after a week off-stage? It'll be fun, though. Some jokes you only have to tell once a week to keep them polished, but there is a lot of new stuff that the company wants me to work in to the performance. I'm whoring, a little, but it's also a personal challenge for me that I get to step on stage with material formulated specifically for a company, to hone in on their culture and people, as well as be able to do my own act. It's hard enough writing from thin air sometimes, but tailoring an act around a central theme, in this case, "Clothing For Cats," is a challenge as well as a creativity primer.
I'm trying to not be too exacting in writing lately. Some people can sit and pour over jokes that are written out and refine and juggle them, but I can only take that so far. The funniest and most powerful I've ever felt on stage is when I'm shooting from the hip, letting whatever's inside just come out. There's nothing rehearsed, and the audience knows that, and it is rather exhilirating for everyone in attendance. I can see the words flashing across my mind in slow motion, mileposts I connect with other terms and phrases, like the funniest words stick out and my senses guide me there. Then after my set I usually end up taking the mask off the severed head and see my own face there. Or was that in "Empire?" Maybe "Jedi," but "Empire" is still the best.
You can never really plan for what's going to happen at a comedy show. All you can do, as a comic, is be open to experiencing the middle ground you meet the audience on. Ego often forces a comic to stand in front of a cold room and deliver joke after joke without getting so much as a nose whistle. Ever feel like that? Like you're in line and the brat taking your order is throwing attitude so you're like "F*ck you, here's my order, it's your job to take it" and the whole thing leaves you feeling a little worse? That's what it's like for a comic to bomb and yet keep pushing on with the act. It's okay to break your character and tell the audience to loosen up, to ask what's wrong, to direct the funny back on them instead of on your problems. They need some levity, too, or your nachos are going to be topped with whatever was in the dustpan... if you're lucky.
Stay flexible, that's what I'm saying. Whether on stage or a yoga mat or yet another witness stand, gotta stay flexible. I say this while staunchly defending my position that if you cross a certain decibel level in the work place you should disciplined ass-wise with a proper caning. My hypocrisy is perhaps someone else's opportunity to be flexible.
I am the F*CK out of here. Have a good week. Via con Dios.
==========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I'm trying to not be too exacting in writing lately. Some people can sit and pour over jokes that are written out and refine and juggle them, but I can only take that so far. The funniest and most powerful I've ever felt on stage is when I'm shooting from the hip, letting whatever's inside just come out. There's nothing rehearsed, and the audience knows that, and it is rather exhilirating for everyone in attendance. I can see the words flashing across my mind in slow motion, mileposts I connect with other terms and phrases, like the funniest words stick out and my senses guide me there. Then after my set I usually end up taking the mask off the severed head and see my own face there. Or was that in "Empire?" Maybe "Jedi," but "Empire" is still the best.
You can never really plan for what's going to happen at a comedy show. All you can do, as a comic, is be open to experiencing the middle ground you meet the audience on. Ego often forces a comic to stand in front of a cold room and deliver joke after joke without getting so much as a nose whistle. Ever feel like that? Like you're in line and the brat taking your order is throwing attitude so you're like "F*ck you, here's my order, it's your job to take it" and the whole thing leaves you feeling a little worse? That's what it's like for a comic to bomb and yet keep pushing on with the act. It's okay to break your character and tell the audience to loosen up, to ask what's wrong, to direct the funny back on them instead of on your problems. They need some levity, too, or your nachos are going to be topped with whatever was in the dustpan... if you're lucky.
Stay flexible, that's what I'm saying. Whether on stage or a yoga mat or yet another witness stand, gotta stay flexible. I say this while staunchly defending my position that if you cross a certain decibel level in the work place you should disciplined ass-wise with a proper caning. My hypocrisy is perhaps someone else's opportunity to be flexible.
I am the F*CK out of here. Have a good week. Via con Dios.
==========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
You Really Need To Get Over Yourself
Holy mackarel. Seriously, take some ludes and drop your throttle a little. You've got too much yaw to land that thing, you're going sideways on it there. Ease back. More. Now cruise a little.
Sure enough, we're all flying the best we can around here, but you seem to have to radio to all the other pilots about what you see wrong with their patterns. That's how most pilots come to a stop, quickly, against a mountain. What do you care if I'm barrel-rolling into 15-degree dive and pulling tail-stalls? I'm not on your flight path anyway, Hindenburg, so maintain radio silence instead of sonicating everyone with your banality. I'm switching channels.
I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I've realized that missives directed at nobody in particular are great tools of making people squirm in their seats. I've had people be aksin' me who these are aimed at, "is it so & so?," "it has to be Boogly, right?" Of all the possible targets, people never think they have a bullseye on them. Good, because we shouldn't fret over what other people think of us. Good, because eventually the person handing out bullseyes will be just another dipshit handing out fliers for their crappy one-nighter in Twisp, and we breeze on by. And Bad, because some people have zero sense of self, and the Self is running kid-like around the room, and sooner or later, someone's taking it to a closet and doing a naughty to it. Like giving it the emotional foundation to be a comic. Quel horreur!
I realized that in most of my anonymous directives I am finding a piece of myself that I am fed up with, and this is my way of telling it to sit down and asking for it's house key. It all comes back to releasing fear from my life. Fear of not being funny, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my ability to store fat, fear of ending up Bradley Lewis' roommate (which would congeal the previous fears into one), fear of a government that is running unchecked like an oil light on a '78 Buick. It could seize at any moment, you know?
Comedy is the hardest thing I've ever pursued. It has so many random little awards and disappointments, and losing hurts more than winning feels good. I can have a great 15 minute set, but if 2 jokes bomb then I had only a good 13 minute set, in my mind. Or, I can have a crappy 3 minute set, but if a new joke gets a big laugh and an applause break then I consider it a good set. Backwards? Yes. Rational? Yes, oddly enough. Don't ask why. It's just the order of the comedy universe.
Also, it's nice to be in a position where I don't have to take crappy gigs. Some guys who are "just comics" take every single paying gig they can get their hands on. In the end, they develop an act that caters to the brown and smelly end of the comedic anatomy, instead of the synapse-firing/blood-pushing side. Work your way up and the jokes get harder. The funny is thinner way up there, you have to pace yourself. Shit jokes will get you work, but the work will be shit. Grab a spoon.
And when all is said and done, I've seen Willie Nelson parodies do 10-times better than a clever and solid joke. You never know what people are going to laugh at, especially when they don't even know where they got their jacket. "Found it" = "Hell gig."
What the hell am I talking about? Oh yeah...
...so touch down lightly, refuel, and get someone to de-ice those wings. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that problem and you won't have to pee into a bag. You are in my prayers.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sure enough, we're all flying the best we can around here, but you seem to have to radio to all the other pilots about what you see wrong with their patterns. That's how most pilots come to a stop, quickly, against a mountain. What do you care if I'm barrel-rolling into 15-degree dive and pulling tail-stalls? I'm not on your flight path anyway, Hindenburg, so maintain radio silence instead of sonicating everyone with your banality. I'm switching channels.
I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I've realized that missives directed at nobody in particular are great tools of making people squirm in their seats. I've had people be aksin' me who these are aimed at, "is it so & so?," "it has to be Boogly, right?" Of all the possible targets, people never think they have a bullseye on them. Good, because we shouldn't fret over what other people think of us. Good, because eventually the person handing out bullseyes will be just another dipshit handing out fliers for their crappy one-nighter in Twisp, and we breeze on by. And Bad, because some people have zero sense of self, and the Self is running kid-like around the room, and sooner or later, someone's taking it to a closet and doing a naughty to it. Like giving it the emotional foundation to be a comic. Quel horreur!
I realized that in most of my anonymous directives I am finding a piece of myself that I am fed up with, and this is my way of telling it to sit down and asking for it's house key. It all comes back to releasing fear from my life. Fear of not being funny, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my ability to store fat, fear of ending up Bradley Lewis' roommate (which would congeal the previous fears into one), fear of a government that is running unchecked like an oil light on a '78 Buick. It could seize at any moment, you know?
Comedy is the hardest thing I've ever pursued. It has so many random little awards and disappointments, and losing hurts more than winning feels good. I can have a great 15 minute set, but if 2 jokes bomb then I had only a good 13 minute set, in my mind. Or, I can have a crappy 3 minute set, but if a new joke gets a big laugh and an applause break then I consider it a good set. Backwards? Yes. Rational? Yes, oddly enough. Don't ask why. It's just the order of the comedy universe.
Also, it's nice to be in a position where I don't have to take crappy gigs. Some guys who are "just comics" take every single paying gig they can get their hands on. In the end, they develop an act that caters to the brown and smelly end of the comedic anatomy, instead of the synapse-firing/blood-pushing side. Work your way up and the jokes get harder. The funny is thinner way up there, you have to pace yourself. Shit jokes will get you work, but the work will be shit. Grab a spoon.
And when all is said and done, I've seen Willie Nelson parodies do 10-times better than a clever and solid joke. You never know what people are going to laugh at, especially when they don't even know where they got their jacket. "Found it" = "Hell gig."
What the hell am I talking about? Oh yeah...
...so touch down lightly, refuel, and get someone to de-ice those wings. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that problem and you won't have to pee into a bag. You are in my prayers.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Gabriel Rutledge, That's Who!
It's Official: Gabriel Rutledge is the Winner, Best All Around Comic, and Coolest MoFo of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I competed with Gabriel in a contest earlier this year and was impressed time and again at how he captured crowds and was cool and collected, and how we both got beat by a 20 year-old comedy anomaly, Fahim Anwar. And I think by Scott "The Stick" Black, but Gabe could've been 2nd overall that week. I was just happy and honored to lay my head on his shoulder. Scott has funny teefuses on!
Gabriel's next mission will be to erase the section of his blog where said he was gonna get a day-job, as well as remove that picture on his website where he looks like Tim Curry circa "IT" in a snow-patrol parka. He's so darling, that picture doesn't do him yustice. It's hard enough to get laughs sober, prepared, and well-rested. Gabriel won this grueling competition of 18 shows over 3 weeks while battling bronchitis, laryngitis, and HIV. He doesn't have HIV, but he would have won even if he did, although he wouldn't have ever mentioned to the audience that he had HIV, he would have simply winked at the comics and handed them the microphone he just spat his game into. HIVLARIOUS!
I am really happy for Gabriel and his achievement. His act is universal, it appeals to so many people, and that is so hard to create, unless, like Gabriel, you are open to the universe. His observations are so perfectly accessible that you laugh your ass off, like an Occam's Razor of punchlines. The funniest jokes are those that are simplest to understand, and it is the harsh task of any public communicator to simplify your thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words, let alone make it funny enough to be called a joke, and to make it a joke that works largely EVERY SINGLE TIME. Damn, the guy's GOOD, ah'ight? WORD!
Congratulations to Gabriel Rutledge. He beat 31 other comics from around the continent, in rooms where he had to prove, night in and night out, what comedy really is. Here's hoping his winnings will pay for the respirator and stem cells, and a little something left over for the family. It is the holidays, yo.
Your gift? Gabriel's Comedy. Enjoy.
Way To Go, GABE!
==========
Why not, here's what a Blog is. Get yours today!
Oh, and watch HAX-TV tonight, 9pm, Ch. 77
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Gabriel's next mission will be to erase the section of his blog where said he was gonna get a day-job, as well as remove that picture on his website where he looks like Tim Curry circa "IT" in a snow-patrol parka. He's so darling, that picture doesn't do him yustice. It's hard enough to get laughs sober, prepared, and well-rested. Gabriel won this grueling competition of 18 shows over 3 weeks while battling bronchitis, laryngitis, and HIV. He doesn't have HIV, but he would have won even if he did, although he wouldn't have ever mentioned to the audience that he had HIV, he would have simply winked at the comics and handed them the microphone he just spat his game into. HIVLARIOUS!
I am really happy for Gabriel and his achievement. His act is universal, it appeals to so many people, and that is so hard to create, unless, like Gabriel, you are open to the universe. His observations are so perfectly accessible that you laugh your ass off, like an Occam's Razor of punchlines. The funniest jokes are those that are simplest to understand, and it is the harsh task of any public communicator to simplify your thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words, let alone make it funny enough to be called a joke, and to make it a joke that works largely EVERY SINGLE TIME. Damn, the guy's GOOD, ah'ight? WORD!
Congratulations to Gabriel Rutledge. He beat 31 other comics from around the continent, in rooms where he had to prove, night in and night out, what comedy really is. Here's hoping his winnings will pay for the respirator and stem cells, and a little something left over for the family. It is the holidays, yo.
Your gift? Gabriel's Comedy. Enjoy.
Way To Go, GABE!
==========
Why not, here's what a Blog is. Get yours today!
Oh, and watch HAX-TV tonight, 9pm, Ch. 77
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Just Some Random Thoughts
I'm thankful for all of the people in the Seattle Comedy Scene. Whether by deed, word, or immature and misguided emotional outburst, we're all making each other better in one way or another. Some really great people to hang out with, but wow, some of you are F*CKED TO THE CLOUDS. It's fun watching you freak out and self-destruct. And if you think I'm talking about you...
How I know that I have found the right woman:
Laying by the fire. We watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. We sip a light Pinot Noir. My shirt is off. She makes a man out of me right there.
Gleefully, she is yanking the hair out by the root. Wax on... Deep breath in... FSSSSHT wooOOP!... Waxing is not for the faint of sack. When one experiences pain, the brain's pain centers release endorphins and a bit of dopamine in order to counteract the pain, resulting in a feeling of bliss and calm. (this is why some people enjoy some pain with their pleasure; see "Open Mic") I've got enough of those running through my body right now to downshift that OxiClean guy.
Killorn did a masterful stuffing of the bird by showing her Thanks for people in her life. Check it out. She is a writer of inspiring and humbling gifts (talent can be developed, but hers is Inspired from above), painting pictures in my head when I read or hear her words. I hope she never stops writing and publishing. On top of that, she fed a number of local comedy scenesters on Thanksgiving, and I've heard rave reviews from all who attended. Later that night, with punch-softened brains and pants unbuttoned (pros wear sweats on such days, recognize), I'm sure they basked in the glow of full bellies and love that is Killorn's gift of hostessing. Good work, Short-pants. Here's to the LA-Mexico leg of our flight, now in under 96 hours. Acting shoes on, centered... and BE the whatever.
How the F*CK do the Seahawks suck this bad? Losing 38-9 at home to a team that had not won a road game all season? I haven't seen a collapse like this since they opened a gymnastics school for lepers. Personally, I think Mike Holmgren's got his eyes on another job. He wants out of Seattle for some reason. Maybe he's pursuing his career as a chef? That's what I've heard.
Magnets. Mark my words. Invest in magnets as a biotech option. No shittin'.
Do you understand that at least once a day I hear some pop-culturetard say "Waaaasuuuup?" or "You're so money"??? You do now. Before Christmas, I will be drunk at work. I'll be making a booty-blog.
Tony Moser is a savant. I can't understand his fascination with organic lip balm or why he won't eat soup with a spoon, but hey, working with the guy is fantastic. Fabulous. TRUTH. He will be there to film the demise of rap, and this asshole will be holding his boom.
I have a strong belief that, if I was ever in the position, I could wrestle to death a cougar.
Wine's wearing thin, gotta roll. Have a great Monday.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
How I know that I have found the right woman:
Laying by the fire. We watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. We sip a light Pinot Noir. My shirt is off. She makes a man out of me right there.
Gleefully, she is yanking the hair out by the root. Wax on... Deep breath in... FSSSSHT wooOOP!... Waxing is not for the faint of sack. When one experiences pain, the brain's pain centers release endorphins and a bit of dopamine in order to counteract the pain, resulting in a feeling of bliss and calm. (this is why some people enjoy some pain with their pleasure; see "Open Mic") I've got enough of those running through my body right now to downshift that OxiClean guy.
Killorn did a masterful stuffing of the bird by showing her Thanks for people in her life. Check it out. She is a writer of inspiring and humbling gifts (talent can be developed, but hers is Inspired from above), painting pictures in my head when I read or hear her words. I hope she never stops writing and publishing. On top of that, she fed a number of local comedy scenesters on Thanksgiving, and I've heard rave reviews from all who attended. Later that night, with punch-softened brains and pants unbuttoned (pros wear sweats on such days, recognize), I'm sure they basked in the glow of full bellies and love that is Killorn's gift of hostessing. Good work, Short-pants. Here's to the LA-Mexico leg of our flight, now in under 96 hours. Acting shoes on, centered... and BE the whatever.
How the F*CK do the Seahawks suck this bad? Losing 38-9 at home to a team that had not won a road game all season? I haven't seen a collapse like this since they opened a gymnastics school for lepers. Personally, I think Mike Holmgren's got his eyes on another job. He wants out of Seattle for some reason. Maybe he's pursuing his career as a chef? That's what I've heard.
Magnets. Mark my words. Invest in magnets as a biotech option. No shittin'.
Do you understand that at least once a day I hear some pop-culturetard say "Waaaasuuuup?" or "You're so money"??? You do now. Before Christmas, I will be drunk at work. I'll be making a booty-blog.
Tony Moser is a savant. I can't understand his fascination with organic lip balm or why he won't eat soup with a spoon, but hey, working with the guy is fantastic. Fabulous. TRUTH. He will be there to film the demise of rap, and this asshole will be holding his boom.
I have a strong belief that, if I was ever in the position, I could wrestle to death a cougar.
Wine's wearing thin, gotta roll. Have a great Monday.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Olympic-sized FunnyPool
Last night I went to Olympia with Tracy Tuffs for a comedy show at the Bar Code. Had a great show. Tracy will be at Giggles all weekend. I'll be there Saturday night, both shows, 8pm & 10pm, in the event you want to come out and catch a fun, turkey-hangover show.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Give Thanks For This, Too
The Neptunes are overrated.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Are We, As a Nation, Sexually Repressed?
I dunno. This picture's been on the Top-5 of Yahoo's Most Popular Photos for like 2 Weeks now:
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
For Thee, On The Day We Giveth Thanks & Eat Till We Crap
What am I thankful for this year?
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Thank You, Kind Patriot!
I'm walking into work this morning through the back door of the building. It's mostly the front door, since most people park in the back. It's a little before 9am, and I am one of three people arriving to the door about the same time. Due to regulations of insecurity and perceived attention of Orwellian stature, we have Photo-ID badges along with the access badge you wave over the sensor so the door that you don't really want to go through will unlock.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
What A Dick!
Ashton Kutcher Tools Around Hollywood In Penis
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Not Sure What Else You Need To Know
I'm not even kidding anymore, quit it. You know exaclty what I'm talking about, so drop the games. This isn't old news, you know where I'm coming from, where EVERYONE YOU KNOW is coming from. You're doing it again, you know you're doing it, and you're too wrapped up in your own little narrow world to see it.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
The Results Are In: Open Mic Concedes To Everything
I got bumped last night at the Underground’s open mic, after originally making “the list.” I don’t have a fragile enough ego that needs or demands my 3 minutes like it’s OWED to me, so it was more a waste of time than anything else. Due to the conventions in place on Open Mic nights, spots are first allotted to performers who have brought people to see them, then the pros, then it's kind of a free-for-all. I got bumped most likely due to the debacle from last Thursday. nah, that's conspiratorial nonsense. I got bumped because I haven't purchased a Lex Cooper tape in two years. Last night was a deep pool of acts, 41 in attendance, 29 slots, with only about 4-8 non-performers in the crowd. Or at least, that is how many who had no intent of getting on stage. Going on stage in that room would equate to attending 28 other kid's birthday parties, wondering why they were so special as to get a toy they were just going to abuse and forget after 3 minutes.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Consider The Source
Last night was a nice little open mic showtastictardoganza at Giggles. I usually go there instead of, by all accounts, the much-lamented Sunday Night show at the Comedy Underground for a couple of reasons. First off, 10-15 comics show up, and most of them are actually pretty good. Second, everyone gets a fair amount of time, 5-8 minutes. Also, the audience, although sometimes low in numbers, are usually pretty attentive. They also have access to the comics hanging in the bar area, so there's a little more 'open' feel to emit as a performer.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Old Dirty Bastard's Dead. And So is Dirt McGirt.
I have a deep belief that we are spirit-beings experiencing a human life. You know you are human because you make and follow through on decisions. Sometimes you act without conscience thought, until it's too late and you have to hide the evidence. We've all been there, late at night, not thinking straight, roommate's been pissing you off, and WHAMMO, you've just killed the last of their Pepperidge Farm Milano stash. Thought, decision, action. Decision. That's the human talking.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
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Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
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From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
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