I Can Hear You Now

Okay, I've decided on a sense I would give up if I had to lose one of my senses.

The decision was made for me, really.
At first, I figured that I'd go with "taste." If I wanted to drop a sense, it would be Taste. The upside is that I wouldn't be tempted in most ways that I am tempted by certain things. The downside is that, if I lost my sense of taste, I would start enjoying the music of Nickelback, The Music Industry's Answer to Illegal Downloading. Plus, I love foods. And I have a lot to try.

So I went another way. Or, like I said, the way came to me, and I said "mmmmB'okay." I know that I'll live a long, healthy life, vibrant and full of fun clothes and trips. But if I had to be robbed of a sense, of the 5 we have (Smell, Sight, Touch, Taste, Hearing), oh crap, EASY...

HEARING.

• I can read captions to funny movies and humorous passages in books.
• I can remember how many of my old favorite songs sound, but most of today's music is recycled from an era I wasn't that hip to anyway.
• I would never have to listen to somebody tell a totally F'ed-up joke. Not a "wrong" joke, a joke they aren't smart enough to remember the proper delivery to.
• I wouldn't have to listen to people complain about how their $5 coffee doesn't taste enough like coffee after they put enough milk and flavor in it to give a leprechaun insulin shock.
• Crying babies? Never again.
• Children's laughter? Creepier than you think.
• You're gonna have to come into the room to tell me the cat has diarrhea.
• Co-worker's diatribe, punctuated with mistimed giggling, about how "this place used to have creamer but now, I uh, my friend works at a place that has creamer and this place used to have creamer, and uh..." WHAT? WHERE IS THIS GOING? WHAT DO YOU WANT? WHAT?

SORRY, I cannot hear you. The Lord has blessed me. So what, I have to talk with my hands and tell people via written word that I'm unable to hear them? Look at all I have lost! It would be worth it.

Think of all the stuff you are inundated with on a daily basis that just turns to white-noise in your mind.
Never again.
The aliens have it right. TELEPATHY. ABDUCTION. PROBES.

Humor is a sense, much like taste.
Some people can enjoy the foie gras, the slow-braised elk tenderloin, and the cheese pairings. Some, well, they're just pissed you passed ANOTHER Arby's, man.

So yes, Hearing. If I had to lose a sense, it would be hearing. No more Nickelback. Yes, I'd choose to lose my sense of hearing,
Or Decency. I'm tired of gut aches from non-farting in public. Or maybe half-decency, half-smell. I think too few people have the perspective of what I could be doing in grocery aisles and various clothiers. So yeah, Decency would be the other sense I may give up.

I should re-think this.

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Two & A Half Minutes

Can somebody please contact me if you watch the CBS shitcom "Two & A Half Men"? I'm trying to expand my list of places to tactically air-strike suggest for special rewards.

I have yet to watch that show and say "Yes, that was funny." It's been on for like 9 years, I don't know a single person who watches it. At least, I hope I don't.

The other night I watched 30 seconds of it. Then the hot chick on the stairmaster went in the other room and I snapped back to reality, covered in a cold sweat and just leeetle bit o' pee. Hopefully, mine.

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Letters To Losers

Open Letter to Inattentive Lady At QFC:

I don’t care how long you stood behind me, not seeing that I was reading a magazine near, but not IN a check-out line.
I don’t care that you didn’t see that the check-out line I stood near, but not IN, wasn’t even operating, as nobody was in front of me, and the checker wasn’t there, and the light wasn’t on to show that it was in operation.
I don't care that you didn't see any sort of goods near me that would indicate a purchase was nearing in our time-space continuum.

The answer to your question “Well why (was I) standing there for?” is this:
Because you’re a dumb crap-piece who needs her world challenged in more ways than standing behind a man reading Seattle Metropolitan magazine for a minute before your head cork-pops from your butt’s hole to realize, OH HEY, that guy’s not even in line.

I honestly hope that your world is an emotionally teetering card-house on top of a frayed-cord space-heater near a puddle of the tears you cry at night in between couch-smoked cigarettes and tumblers of Chardonnay, weeping “Come back, Doug, come back” into an macramé pillow case. If I wanna read, I’ll read in your F’ing kitchen, Hag-ass. Sorry that you can’t pay Attention with AMEX. Next time, wear more perfume and make my other eye blind, we won’t have this problem. Eat a crap taco.

Open Letter to DoucheBagge Personifcato At The Alderwood Mall FoodCourt on Saturday, 2/16/08, between 2:30 & 4pm:

It’s not gonna happen, man.
I know you think the baggie Dickies jeans, backwards cap, black thermal shirt, flat-link silver-colored chain necklace, and Swisher Sweet tucked under your cap is an ensemble of ass-attraction. But there’s What You Think. And There’s Reality. Nice giant headphones plugged into a CD player, BTW. El nardo.

To watch you walk around with your elbows slightly flared, as though you were puffing up to make yourself appear bigger to other socially retarded monkeys (your friends), I was reminded of why some animals eat their young, or at the very least, stop feeding them. I know judging you without knowing you is wrong, but Bang-bang-bang-GUILTY on all counts of acting like the ring leader of a gang I dubbed “The Alderwood Skids.”

I watched as you all kept your slack-jawed gazes fixed upon the door, perhaps for a group of girls within your perceived ability to score with them. Yet for 90 minutes, it didn’t happen. That bus from the home for girls with sub-70 IQs never showed, did it?

And what was the dance move you were attempting? The left hand, flattened, palm-down at waist-level, while you undulated your hips to music only you could misinterpret and lose the beat to? You certainly had the attention of a number of girls. They all said “aaaaw!’ while hoping your seizure stopped long enough to laugh at you.

I’m going to see you again, I know I will. And when I do, I hope your posse is with you. The guy with the gigantic eyebrows. His brother with the mongobrow. Your friend who had a checkerboard shaved/dyed into his head. Your best buddy who you looked like you were about to kiss a couple of times, were it not for all those prying eyes. The kid with no headphones who kept shaking his head like we was listening to a song that focused on the ratio of “Money:Bitches” or perhaps “Bitches:Problems.” When I see you again, I will videotape you and post it on the internet to show everyone why NOW is the time to genetically modify food so that people under a certain IQ cannot breed. Smell my hate-fart.


Open Letter to the "Aren't I Funny!?!?"but You're Not Funny You Just Can't Shut Up Pipe-Blockage

Shouting your way in to every conversation going on around you is a great way to get your voice heard. And registered on the "Do Not Talk Around This Person" list. You think you're funny, because that one time at your old job your co-worker said they were going to trim their bushes over the weekend and you said "HEEEEEY! Don't GO theerrre!" and you've hung your whimsical hat upon that tag ever since.

My favorite was when somebody mentioned their friend's serious illness, and you imparted how your sister had a similar but not-as-serious illness, and your friend should have gone to the hospital your sister went to.

What.
The.
F*ck.

Next time that happens, I'm going to let it hang for 5 seconds, and interrupt whomever starts talking to put the limelight on YOU, Rubbernecker, because you want the attention and you'll get to pony-up the info you so greatly want to share. And when it's over, waaaaaaaaaay past the time you should have shut up, I'll just say "Oh, is that all? You made it sound so big, it's really not, is it?"

And then I, not YOU, will look awesome! Nice wolf shirt.
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Seriously folks, I'm truly in a GREAT mood!


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Love Reason #187: Right Is Right, And You'll Hear About It

Soooo...

we get to Trader Joe's, the Whole Foods of mini-marts, and we're pulling into the parking lot to park the car in the lot as the Lotts and go into the store. As we do, we see a woman on her cell phone on our right, close the trunk of her car, grab her cart, and make a 180-degree turn to take her cart back to the sidewalk corral. But something hit me... something said, "no, this chick looks lazy. That cart's gonna go in the shrub-bed in front of her car."

But it DID NOT go there.

It went in the shrub-bed two spots down where we were trying to park. This didn't stop me.

"Are you serious? Are you that lazy? You just screwed up somebody else's parking spot, being that lazy!" Words flying out the car window at this woman, now bug-eyed and still on her phone. This woman looked, roughly, like Danny DeVito with ponytail. Disbelief came from her agape-mawed mug as she heard these words. I have no idea if she understood them (the area we shop at has many hard-working, documented immigrants, or "Computer Programmers"), but she surely could not miss the tone of my wife's voice.

Yes.
Those words were from the voice-pipes of my wife-of-nearly-one-year. We were both shocked to see this kind of laziness in action, as though it were perfectly fine to just get the cart out of traffic. Well it wasn't, and it isn't, and I don't care if you're from America or California or India or Indiana...
YOUR LAZINESS SHOULDN'T BURDEN ANYBODY EXCEPT YOU AND YOUR FAMILY.

That kind of behavior -the laziness, not the reprimand - propagates because Lazy people aren't called on their crappy behavior. First it was not picking up their cigarette butts. Then it's dropping their bottles of Old Granddad under the Big Toy. Next thing you know, the only thing they toss in a dumpster is kid #2. BECAUSE NOBODY SAYS NOTHIN' ABOUT SOMETHIN'.

She's like a Swiss Army Wife. Just when I think I've seen it all, BLAMMO, magnifying glass comes out, and looks at the fibers of your behavior!

I love my wife. So friggin' much. She is NOT a rage-aholic, by any means. Strife and external idiocy are usually shrugged off with a "Karma's gonna bite 'em." But this time, nope. I would, of course, had never let any harm come to her. She is a calm, loving, and lovely woman who believes in what's Right and Fair. And that I shouldn't eat jalapeno-poppers and beers and sleep in the same room BUT I DIGRESSETH...

She stood up for what she believes in.
She let her voice be heard.
And she returned the cart to the corral... LIKE AN AMER'CAN WOMAN DOES.

Happy Valentine's Day, my sweet.

I love it when you spread that firepower around.

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To Serve And Annoy

Starbucks has a new contest going on.

Seems they missed their Q4 profits by the width-equivalent of their coffee cake's calories.

Yeah, new game here for ya...

SELL THE MOST COFFEE BEANS, AND WIN AN iPOD!!!

"It allows partners to creatively share their passion for the coffee with our customers," Valerie O'Neil, a Starbucks spokeswoman, said Monday. "And, it's fun."

O'Neil said contests are common to motivate employees in many retail chains, and Starbucks frequently has them. However, she did not know if the company had ever offered a high-end prize that retails for more than $250 each

No way, really? HOW FUN.
I like that the word "passion" can refer to both a barista's drive to annoy/up-sell a customer, AND the intent of Christ on the cross.

I guess I have to find some other place to gouge me for coffee now.

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Congrats To The New York Giants

Big ATTA-BOY to the Giants for beating the Patriots and their lackluster team in the Super Bowl, #XLII, or "The 2nd One Since The Seahawks Got Screwed."

The Giants WON. The Pats didn't LOSE. New York played like they wanted to win the game. The Pats sat on their thumbs and looked flat. Other than Wes Welker.

The Patriots coach, Bill "Gigantic Babyass" Belichick ran off the field with :02 left in the game, his defeat secured with a kneel-down by the Giants QB, Eli Manning. Classless, arrogant MoFo who ran up the score on a number of teams didn't just leave the field...

HE LEFT HIS TEAM.

If I were the Patriots' owner, Bob "All Your Food Are Ours" Kraft, I'd fine him his game check for that cowardly retreat. Bill cost the team $750,000 for illegally videotaping other team's signals. Also cost them their first-round draft pick, which also keeps a deserving college athlete from being drafted in the first round. Zero class in defeat. Prick.

This guy may be a football guru, but he embodies selfishness, underhanded tactics, and he looks like my big toe.

The Giants played 'em tough, smacked Tom "The Chin" Brady around, and hung in there to win it in the 4th quarter. THAT is Championship football. Good job Giants!

ONE MO' THANG...
American Idol commercials starring Ben Roethoelislioleolebergerloeer from the Steelers can gargle my butt oils. After muddling through his cheating victory over the Seahawks in 2006, he went out on his motorcycle and turned his big head too fast and his big head wrecked some poor woman's Volvo. He's no hero. Then again, he's a 24 year old multi-millionaire college dropout. So if YOU want to, go ahead and feel sorry for him.

Whaddup 34? How we gonna live, baby?
MANSIONS AND BENZES, GIVIN' ENDS TO MY FRIENDS AND IT FEELS STUPENDOUS.

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You are what you is

The other day a friend of mine was asking me a lot of questions about a bunch of goings-0n outside of my spheres. People I only kind-of knew, peripherally, were the topic.

What were they up to? Where were they working? Why didn't they ever come by? Did they not like (my friend)? Did (my friend) do something to piss 'em off?

Eventually I had to ask, "Don't you think you're being a little paranoid?"

His response?
"Why? Did somebody say something?"

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It All Ad's Up

Hey Reader!

Look, I love you, you know this.
I know you know this.
You know I know that you know this.

So what I want you to know is that the Google-ads you see on the top of my blog here? Those are on-purpose.

I haven't been commandeered nor tortured into posting these ads.
I included them based entirely on one principal:

EARNING MYSELF AND MY WIFE SOME MONEY VIA THIS BLOG TO FACILITATE OUR MOVE TO THE HOLLYWOOD DREAM RANCH, and to donate to charities we see fit and important, of course.

Shoot, if Carson Daly can be a millionaire, any of us can. Will you help me?

Your clicks on those links cost you nothing, so please check out a few sponsors there, and see what you find!

My thanks to you. I'll never forget you when it comes time to find somebody to help me bury a body.

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Carpe Frigging Diem!

In my life, I'm pushing myself harder and further than I thought I could, or should, or wanted to, at times. Because it's for things I love, like Comedy, or Writing, or my Marriage and Wife.

And every single time I do, I know it's because I have had, and will have more moments where I have to step up and get both cheeks into it, and just power one into the cheap seats.

If y'ain't heard of Paul Potts, now ya heard.

Paul went on to win the competition and a lucrative recording contract and, I hope, the respect and admiration of a good people, and some serious hawt ass.

SEIZE.
YOUR.
MOMENT.
Run that show, baby.

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Work It Out

Ah yeah.

The drone of the workday. Out of my ears for a bit. I was working with a contracting agency that placed me into The Software Empire. It was fun. It was fun because of the people. The work itself, meh, it just got in the way of getting stuff done.

As a co-worker, people talk spoke to me in a “get this done, it’s on you, yer fly’s still open” tone of voice. Not demeaning as much as passive, in that “I’m passing this off to you, I’m too busy/important/white to do it.” It wasn’t about respect as much as deflection. But hey, if I wanted to not have to do that work, I would work harder. See how that happens? It’s another of life’s cycles, much like a bicycle, NASCAR, and the making of one’s own poo.

I have always been the jack-of-all-trades. (Do not YaMoogle that term at work, by the way. There will be talkings-to.) I can do many things well. I can do one or two things extremely well, like crazy-good when I’m “in the zone.” Those things are in a rotating catalog of Performing Comedy, Writing, Baking, and “The Grown Folk’s Bidness.” You mind your own business, THAT’s what that is. In having diverse skills, I rarely have had the chance to let a particular one shine. Then again, I like farting around at work as much as the next nuclear submarine missile-launcher guy. But really, what grown man isn't entitled to 45minutes of chair-spinning per day?

But work, really, isn’t about “THE WORK” or “THE MONEY” or stealing decent lunches from “THE BREAKROOM” or “THE CANDY ON THE DESK NOBODY WOULD TALK TO OTHERWISE.” It’s about The People. I think.,

What I’ve learned from the Working World so far:

1) The Work you do, the actual production, is truly an expression of your character. Perhaps it is in HOW you do it more than WHAT you do. So when you go to put your best foot forward, remember that not only will people always expect that high level of quality in the future, but you are also likely to step directly into another person’s work/shit-pile.

2) The People you work with are the most vital component of your work. Knowing how to get along with people, who you can confide in, who can be trusted, is as important as any other weapon or skill. These folks are the ones you can count on to take the blame when you get wine-drunk at lunch again and forget that you’re leading the monthly review for HR’s “Diversity Practices,” and you haven’t yet removed that one side-note asking why every head of HR looks like a man-hater. Rrriiiiiiiiiiiiight. You can’t be fair unless everyone is judged unfairly.

3) The Money is important, but it’s only the most-important thing, if you don’t love your job. If you love your job every day, you’re one of those lucky folks who forgets to take the pill for short-term memory loss, but remembers the mood-uppers. Money is important, especially because you bought so much shoddy Swiss furniture in the past 5 years, you gotta get something substantial. Glue + BedFrame = Floor Sleeping. Get as much money as you can, horde it in a mattress, and start buying guns, canned food, and firewood. Paper money isn’t any good in this country, it’s all digital 1’s and 0’s these days. Cash Rules Ever’thing Around Me, hunna-dolla bill y’all, HOLLA. With enough money you can buy people to do your work for you. Think I’m wrong. I have two words for you. FLAVOR. FLAV. SO. THERE.

4) The Freebies, or “Perks,” or “what’s left behind when somebody leaves.” Getting a new desk phone is cool, but even cooler is some cool keyboard or mouse or desk. Food comes and goes, but sleek-looking desktop accoutrements are THA SHIZ. First chance you get, vulture that biznass and high-tail it to the breakroom for some Farewell Cake.

5) Managers are chosen for one of two reasons: They have the talents and skills to lead and guide multiple people across varying disciplines, or they have been with the company for a while now and seem about the right age to manage. I’ve had a lot of the latter. So when I recently had the former, it was like a breath of fresh air that didn’t smell like Chaps cologne and two days of smoking. Managers aren’t necessarily “Management,” a term I’ve usually reserved for the usually-absent “crusty uppers” with corner offices, sham marriages, and executive assistants either verrry attractive or verrrrrrrry “rustic.”

Now, don’t get me wrong about Work; it’s necessary. It’s good for the Soul. In the times I have been unemployed I’ve had searing moments of cabin fever. It’s not good to be cooped up all day hoping something fun happens or an unseen episode of “Scrubs” happens your way. And if you don’t have children or LSD, it can get somewhat lonely.

I will work, someday soon, in the jobs I really want and ougth to be doing. Those jobs aren’t available, appropriately, in Seattle, however. In the meantime, I can only prepare myself and my soul for another go-‘round in the Corporate Machine, giving all I got, if not for the Passion, then for the Glory. And I can only hope to do a good enough job that, upon leaving, my Bedazzled mousepad is retired, and my Farewell Cake is chocolatey.

I would like to thank the CSG Bay of Redwest A, 2227, for a great year. Don’t forget me. Which would be difficult until you find where that “brine shrimp/hot vinegar” smell is coming from.

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For The Men, Mostly

I just read this list on the Mens Health website, that website that makes looking at a man's muscular, lean body as hetero as possible outside of a mixed martial arts match.

I think this list sums up a lot about what it is to grow into a Man. Perhaps, many guys move seamlessly into these roles, but I have made conscious decisions to do these things, to grow up and out of my ways and look for more than the next high or the next date. Lordy, it's tough sometimes, but that's the Growth. The Peaking Of Life, the road to beauty is ugly, know what I'm saying? It has served me greatly, to go that route.

5 Fights You Can't (and Shouldn't) Avoid
By Mike Zimmerman

YOUR SURRENDER Growing up, getting married, and starting a family and a career ends in tragedy for men. We die. At least, the stuff that makes us interesting to ourselves does. Your many bosses (read: parents, wives, in-laws, the senior VP) are trying to mold you into a Gumby who bends to their will. They deserve your best effort, but not your capitulation. You a dude? Be a dude. Screw 'em (after your chores are done).

YOUR PROMOTION That sighing thing you do around your boss on payday is, well, pussy. Your boss hired a bulldog, and a bulldog will force his hand. Oh, and if your new package doesn't include equity, invest in yourself: Start your own company.

YOUR PARENTAL AUTHORITY Are you the "cool" dad? Dumb ass. You've set yourself up for this problem, and, yeah, it will hurt you more than it hurts the kid when you go ahead and fix what's wrong. You must now put your foot down, and, yeah, in the short term, junior or juniette will see only the jackboot that houses it. You're being a good parent by disciplining them. Let 'em hate you for a while.

YOUR FINANCIAL SANITY AS A COUPLE You must state your case to her about cash. Just realize some financial facts about women: First, a haircut (with highlights) runs three figures. Second, it happens every 6 weeks. And third, if you accept this and budget for it, it will no longer burn an acid hole in your stomach so big that half-chewed hunks of pot roast drop to your scrotum.

YOUR CAUSE Most unavoidable fights, like the ones you're reading about here, are selfish fights. But there comes a time in a guy's life when he steps up for something he believes in, though it was never his fight alone. And that's the point. A man makes it his fight.

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more to come...

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Welcome Riley Ann Hennessey!

SHE IS HERE!

Riley Ann Hennessey, the daughter of Katie (Lott) Hennessey and Brian Studforth Hennessey arrived December 19th at 10:53pm.

At 19-inches and 7lbs 10oz, blue-eyed, Riley is healthy, squeaky, pink, and happy. From what I can tell, of course I don't really speak "newborn." Last night I was holding her and rubbing her tum-tum, as she was swaddled by her daddy just a few minutes before. Brian is a really good dad, I had no doubt he'd be such.

But last night while she lay in my arms, she started fussin' a bit, ssqueeeealin', a little squawk, then breeeee!, she passed the bubble and immediately quieted down. Yep, we related!

Gramma Lott (Pam) is just eatin' her up. Can't get enough of her. She had plenty of time to gear up with Katie's pups over the past year, so she was beyond ready for Riley. It's very exciting, and this baby's gettin' a lot of love and attention. Must be nice.

There is a lot more to share here, but I'll go to it another time.

She's a beautiful little creation, and I took a big step toward figuring out why people get together and adopt one of their own. So precious!

So here she is, little Grandchild Hennessey/Lott #1... RILEY ANN!



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You Can't Write This Stuff

Reality Television.
The spontaneous programs that are made up of people who act how they normally act, whenever they audition for a TV show and then get drunk and half-naked in front of strangers and 3 roaming cameras.

The Writer's Guild is still on strike, aiming for residual payments on digital media. Streaming,
on-line, on-demand, etc. What we watch was acted, directed, produced, and started as words in the air, on a page, written. As media outlets advance with technology, so does the ability to get paid through those

And thus, the Reality Show has taken over. Game shows. Ever'body-in-one-house-and-drunk shows. Voted-off shows. Design it. Cook it. Make it fall in love with you. But don't think about backstory or character development or story arc; just get drunk and roll tape.

The best part of all this is that Reality TV, self-made media, and other attention-whores putting themselves out there have turned the Klieg lights & cell phone cameras directly upon themselves. And guess what?

Nobody cares. People have given us a glimpse into their lives, and those lives we thought were so sexy and provacative are reeeeeeeeeeeeeally... truly... utterly...
BORING.

So anyway, if you watch a lot of Reality TV, you aren't reading this blog. You're too busy with the new color-it-yourself menu.

I hope this writer strike gets over soon. Otherwise, I'll be forced to talk to people again.



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Why Do People Keep Calling To Ask If I'm Okay?

If it's because of the news story about the guy chugging a liter of vodka at the airport, I may be very upset.

Also, since people keep asking, I want to mention this about "the move:"

Please just pray, wish, snap, nose-wiggle, or faery-dust us in a positive manner.
Alicia and I are of the same thought that everything has a finite amount of energy, and talk-talk-talking about it over and over saps energy, from anything, really. So we'd really rather not talk about it too much.

Most of you have been verrrry positive, and that's really great of you, THANK YOU!

But for those naysayers and poo-poo'ers out there, hey, it's not your life. You do what you like. I'd rather try and try and try and try in a big world than eat misery every morning in a small one. Next time, skip the cereal and choose a good, stiff drink. Or a bullet.
Make YOUR decisions the good ones.

Have a GREAT Friday!

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Confessions

1) I love frosting.

Oh sweet, creamy lord. I feel so free. I can't tell if these are tears of joy or tears of missing frosting. Like cake frosting. Not "icing." Not sweetened whipped cream and a little vanilla extract.

Butter. Powdered sugar.
Maybe some cream cheese, or "albino fudge" as I ask for it at the store.
A bit of vanilla?
Cocoa powder.
A little cream, maybe some milk.

Graham crackers. And a spoon. Maybe neither.

I love it. I don't go crazy on it anymore, but only because I have mirrors and a family history of grand delusions. It's not healthy.

But this time of year, I cry. I cry for the abuse, the misuse of frosting.
The recent cupcake boom of the past 2 years has helped bring frosting back to the forefront. The frosting, I eat it last.

And some heartless people who yell at animals are using frosting as an apology for their shoddy work underneath, this time of year. The generalized letter of boring family recap that nobody cares for, under frosting. Fuck your stale cakes, Accounts Payable. Just leave the frosting bucket with the lid off and some spoons next to it and let us do as we like.

Stop mis-using frosting. The world's in bad enough shape as it is. Carson Daly has a career. Enough said.

Stop it you guys. Seriously.

I love frosting.
There. YOU deal with it.
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2) Got a cat last week. It adores me.

I'm not a cat-person. I'm more of a "guy." But this cat, about 2.5 months old, loves G-Unit here. Will fall asleep in my lap within a minute. Purrs only when I pet her. Will go into her litter box and "show off" with a display that can only be described as "1/8th her bodyweight." She has no traction on the Pergo, and no recollection of her lack of grip while negotiating a turn into the office.

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3) I thoroughly enjoyed myself at the Chop Suey- LaffHole show last night. That was a great crowd, and the interactive-ness of the standing bar patrons just adds to the rock show vibe. KUDOS to Kevin, Emmett, Scott, Dan, and all the others involved in that movement. They love comedy, they created an environment for comedy (Not just stand-up), and it's flourishing. Sweet-ass.

Andy Peters, I say... HUZZAH, sir, for calling that poseur emo-hipster buttcrease on his tattoo shenanigans. He's set up to do nothing but play Guitar Hero and power-wallow at Bauhaus. Next time, we'll kick his ass.

Also, here's how I envision a rehearsal of the band "That'll Do Robot, That'll Do" would go:
Dude's on the couch, face to the cushions, arms overhead. Wearing a maroon and blue-striped sweater, a size too-small, a.k.a. a "hipster Large."
-- Another dude enters. He sees couch-sleeper and another guy in a papasan chair holding a copy of "Figurine Monthly" in his hands, moving his lips while he reads.

FIRST GUY
(to guy on couch)
Hey. Dude. Wake up. (kick)
Come on, we have to practice for the
show tonight. Wake up, man. (nudge)

(to guy in chair)
No, it's cool, leave the gorilla mask on.
Okay, you shotgun this bottle of Vick's 44 and then
swan-dive onto the credenza while holding this ukelele.

I'm going to plug this keyboard into the wall,
stand in this pool of my collected urine, and
launch myself down the stairs.

(to guy on couch)
You. Hit the record button when my ballet slipper
comes off. Do NOT screw this up, guys. I did not
have my parents put me through art school to sound
like I know what I'm doing.

Okay, on the 2 & the 4, here we go...

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No News Is Great News

The past 10 days in Washington has shown some bad Winter weather, from the wind and rain, to the flooding and snow, to cold. Very, very cold. The driving around here got worse, if you had to drive, which most folks didn't, but wanted to see how fast they could ditch their foreign sedan anyway.

Tonight on KING-5 News was a recap of the major flooding in the Puget Sound area. Mostly just pictures and stories of the people most-affected by the flooding, living in some of the more-rural areas of the state, often in low-income demographics and zip codes.

I did not watch the entirety of it. I was out doing something I love for a Toys For Tots benefit show. I caught the last 10 minutes of the "news feature" to see what was affecting my neighbors. And I was pretty much laughing the entire time.

Not at the terror or sadness of losing their home and much of their lives in a flood.
Not at the lost money and work time and possessions washed away.

But at the "seriousness" of the story being played up like the newcasters actually cared, and like showing an hour-long program was going to actually help the situations and people in need.

What they need is 10 minutes, tops, to show the devastation.
Then they should show a website and a phone number of an organization that can actually help those folks, instead of the canary face of one local newscastress, or the mustachioed, vestigial weathermen we are inundated with.

The overdevelopment of our land in Washington, which is NOT "organic," nor "green," nor "progressive" as many folks would like to think they/we/this are/is/be... that clearcutting to build condos and zero-lot-line homes all over the place is great for the economy, bad for the housing market, and devastating for the environment. Way to go guys. Way to think with your common sense.

The news folks don't tell about that much. Not when 7 housing companies are buying commercial time. Turn it off. Turn it all off.

Then you can send some money or goods to those folks, to show the support you can't do with sandbags, backhoes, shovels, space-heaters, or spare bedrooms. And then pop in your favorite funny movie and get back to your Life.

Or you can, you know, like GO THERE and help them out somehow. Either way, you can just go. The news doesn't want you to do anything but stay glued to the news. Unglue. Change the channel.

TURN IT OFF.
Get on with Life.

Bring me some cookies!

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It's "Just Us" in Justice

I truly wish we could live in a world where we do not need a police service.

But we do.

Because we do not have enough people like Mr. Horn, represented in the article linked here.

Mr. Horn, his mental capacity up for some debate (and the fact that he called Sept. 11 "September the 1st"), took into his own hands the matter of stopping two burglars. They had broken into the neighbor's house next door, and Mr. Horn, calmly and rationally, while on the phone with 9-1-1 (not 9-1) decided to take his shotgun out to make sure somebody paid for the crime.

Now, I'm not saying you should go get a shotgun and sit and wait and watch your neighbor's property when they're gone. Maybe a decent .22 would do the trick for you. Or, EEEESH, get some of those shells that are full of rocksalt, OUCH, right?

But what I'm saying is that in many instances, it is far better to Do and Then Apologize, than to ask for permission when you know you'll be denied. Mr. Horn put himself in a dangerous position. I don't think of him as a hero, nor do I think of him as a criminal. I think of him as the kind of guy who I would like guarding my property if I'm on a 9-day outbounder. And in turn, I will help him bury one large bag per year, no questions asked.

Make up your own mind, decide what you like, but I swear that I would uncork some damage artillery if I awoke to find somebody snipping from my wife's rosemary, UNINVITED.

Shit would get handled, FOR REALS.

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Snow Driving: It's How You Use It

The first lowland/suburban snowfall has come to us here in the greater Puget Sound area, covering the hills and side streets with nearly 1/6th of an inch of slushy snow and the screams of adults, freaking out because they have to get from Costco to their 2nd home... in a fully-loaded, full-sized Sport Utility Vehicle... AND THE KIDS ARE KIND OF HUNGRY!!!

ssNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOw!

So yeah, first things first. How to drive in the snow.
1) Leave the liquor store, bags in hand.
2) Make sure you have some mixers and microwave meals at home, you don't want to make too many trips out once you're in and boozin'.
3)
(SSSRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE RECORD-STOPPING NOISE)

Okay, here's the deal...

Last night I had a private party to perform at in a sub-suburban area north of Seattle.

On the way to the gig I passed a number of spun-out, ditched, sideways cars (mostly very expensive sedans and a couple of street-racers). The real beauty of snow-driving, besides whipping monster-ass brodies in the playfield at Darryl Blattfeld Middle School, is that it sets everyone back to ZERO on the Good Driver scale. Those folks who zipped in & out of traffic on a daily basis, tailed others, sped, ignored the use of and ignored using blinkers, and those of us who CAN drive? We all get the reset when the snow's a-fallin'.

With snow, SKILL comes into play. You have to know about momentum, physics, continuity, tracking, and brake-tapping. If you ain't got it, you're gonna end up outside your Acura making that "OH COME OOOONN!!" motion you make when you realize, HA, you're gonna have another baby!

So again, I passed a lot of people who thought they had "skillz" to snow-drive. Nuh-uh. Sorry froots, I have a gig and my empathy for humanity takes a Greyhound seat to craptown when I have to venture among the untrained masses for a gig and a phat payout. I kept repeating to the people ahead of me "Don't look over there, not a concern. Forward, just keep going, NO NO NO BRAKES, NO NEED TO BRAKE, just keep going, you have a FORD... EX-PLO-RER, you need to GOOOOO."

Long story shortened... There were three snowy ways via hills to the venue I was supposed to perform at. All 3 were blocked by large vehicles driven by people who decided to stop and "renegotiate" the attempt on the hill, WHILE STILL ON THE HILL.

Snow Driving comes down to this:
You stop, you stick, you're done.
You speed, you spin-out, you're done.
You slow, you slide, you're done.

Keep your foot in it, pump your brakes, and keep it moving.
I could not get to my gig, nor my check, because of roads blocked by idiots.
ADULT idiots.
LICENSED adult idiots.

I drive a sedan. 4 doors, front-wheel-drive, 1999 SEDAN. There and back, one minor slip, no gig, no paycheck, and the Huskies lost. I hope those cars are still in those ditches, paint-jobs scratched by brambles and barbs and barriers. Idiots.

Oh, and another thing...
Bank of America can kiss my ass.
And when you ask for a number to reach me at, and I give it to you, and you call and leave a message on another number and leave me in the lurch for contacts that don't stick to my eye-lid inners? Yeah, Dr. Golitz's office lady, you're to blame for my not ordering through you anymore. I'll get my hash elsewhere.


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SICC and Tired

This is the last I can speak of this for a while.
First because I'll be interrupted in a moment for a very sweet reason, by my very understanding wife.
Second because I've talked at length about it already to many folks. I just can't keep rehashing the same old roads just yet.

I've been pleasantly marked by the experience of the Seattle International Comedy Competition (SICC) 2007. I feel it is a fresh memory, a bit painful, a group of muscles that have been broken down so often that they need time to heal. To be replenished (with Gatorade? or with Water?), stretched, massaged, and flexed back into a pliable and useful accumulation of strength and shape.

The past month of my life has been emotionally, physically, and mentally consumed by the SICC. I had not planned on doing it this year. My last trip through was abysmal, taking nearly last in my preliminary week. Oddly enough, there's a tip of the finger to impressions in that blog linked there, something I must have had issue with at the time.

This trip through I told myself if I was gonna do it, I was going to be even-keeled. That helped. The entire time I had one score that I thought was such utter bullcrap I wanted to backhand the judges, and not in a good way. But every other night I just went out and did the best I could and didn't worry about the numbers.

When you stop fretting over numbers, you start being able to enjoy the moments. The SemiFinal week was a lot of fun for me. Starting in Walla Walla on a Tuesday night wasn't so keen for the sleep skej, but we got it done for a bunch of college kids. The week progressed and my scores did as well. The shows got better, bigger, weirder. And I stayed consistent. The material may have moved around a bit, but the pace, the energy, the emotions I carried with me? All baselined. I wanted to just keep going forward.

Sorry, this isn't very funny yet. I'm not sure if it's going to be. I used to write funny stuff all the time. Let me turn this around.

Making the Finals was like getting a really hot friend of yours to go drinking with you. Everyone else sees you with a hottie. It feels good. You're likely to get SOME kind of love out of it. Even if you go home alone, maybe they brush by you and you stop thinking - just for a moment - about how they were born a man.

And I made it there somehow. Talent, luck, other people screaming into the walls instead of brake-tapping. I was coached up, ready, and raring to go.

Every room was a big room. Every crowd was hot. This was a ton of fun. I have no regrets. Wait... nope, none.

5th place.
That's what I take with me. 5th place out of 32. I am no longer emotionally attached to a best-guess numerical value assigned to my Presence, Material, Performance, Rapport, Technique, Flakiness of Crust, Wine Pairing, and Blood A'cohol Level. The muscle has been torn down. And is building back up. I cannot wait to get back on a stage without the mentally-amplified pressure of strangers holding a clipboard, hoping they'll like me more than another guy... why would I want to be compared to another guy? What about just being me? Why can't...

See how that goes? See why that muscle needs a rest?

Pretty soon, I'm gonna have to flex it again.
If I can't get some mutual respect now, I can always get mutual disdain.
But I prefer the former.

My thanks to my Wife, Family, Friends, Ron Reid, Peter Greyy, Pavel Simsa, Alyson Smith, Tony Boswell, Marcus, Key Lewis, Leif Skyving, Andy Peters, Rosalie Gale, Andy Haynes, Ruben, and all the venues that hosted us.

Biggest thanks goes to God for every single moment of my life that created the person that does the comedy I do. It's all becoming more clear.

The next time I want to be judged by drunk strangers in weird rooms I'll go see my family.

Thanks a lot ever'bodday, I'm Geoff Lott!
Good night.

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SICC Again; the Comics You Know

I am a finalist in the Seattle International Comedy Competition.
It hit me last Sunday in a deluge of emails, texts, phone calls, but not a SINGLE chunky muffin basket. Nor a tastefully-shot half-nude of Geoff Brousseau. Thank you very little.

I cannot take all the credit for getting to where I am. I have had the help, support, and well wishes of my wife, my family, my friends, and many of my friends who are comics. I have felt only minor tinges of pain throughout all of this. Sometimes just gas. Sometimes emotional. Oft-times the result of seeing Integrity take a rake to the back. You can't control what everyone else does. The best you can do is control your own moments, your own performance, and dumb it down so very deeply that even the most qualified of comedy judges isn't challenged by what you're doing.

But I progress. DI-gress.

Going into this final show tonight at the Comedy Underground Marcus, an impressionist with energy to burn, is in 1st. He is a stage monster. He is a one-man, live-band karaJoke jam, audiences cannot get enough of him, and he's played everywhere you can play in this state.

Close behind is Tony Boswell, an incredible writer and comedian who reminds me of a very good whiskey, a sweet and smoky warmth that doesn't quite burn. But could. It's like watching a Miles Davis solo in comedy form, laughing when the notes trail to something you thought would go one way, and just give you the chills instead. I wish I would have written a lot of the stuff Tony is doing.

Leif Skyving has impressed me nightly since the beginning with great joke-writing, great performances, and fully embracing the entirety of his life for material. He shies from nothing, and makes it all Funny. I would love to work some gigs with Leif, but that's an awful lot of Northern European man-funny for an audience to unzip for.

Key Lewis has taken rooms over with energy, and has commanded stages with coolness. This guy's got so many talents that there's no way to tell what he can do yet. But it's big. To FINAL your first time through this thing is a Feat. And he's married. With 3 kids. And a full time job that one day had him on the road to Portland at 5am, and BACK to the Vashon show on time. Impressive stuff all the way around.

I'm in the mix as well. Placings don't matter right now. Doing the best possible set I can for the last night of the competition is all that matters.

I will summarize my own feelings throughout the entire run of 18 shows over three weeks of the waning month of November 2007. As autumn has turned earnest, my thoughts of comedy, my own and in general, have been injected with respect, drive, and a focus on Doing The Comedy I Want To Be Remembered For.

I can always write more jokes. Better jokes. Better comedy. Bigger Funny.
And I will.

Oh wait, here's that Brousseau picture!


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