You Can't Always Want What You Get

I realize, fully, that if I want something in life I need to focus like a frat-boy on a blacked-out sorority pledge, and go for Life's bra-strap with ferretous abandon. I have goals, real goals, goals that make people reassess their own, and that make women say "That sounds soooo sexy. What planet will THAT happen on?" Yeah, I dream big. I dream frigging huge.

Ya know why?

Because if I don't, I will be stuck in corporate whirlpools and carpools and basketball office pools the rest of my working life. And I'll be DAMNED if that's gonna happen on my watch. The only corporate involvement I want in my life is their sponsorship of my national tour someday. I think it would be perfec to have Schmireless sponsor it. Then whenever I didn't feel like performing I'd just walk to a dark part of the stage and drop the mic. Sorry, my punchlines are weaker here. And God knows that I'm pretty much fed up with corporate life, he said, filling out an on-line application for GreenBoobs Coffee.

You have to have a goal, and that goal must be backed by a DESIRE to achieve. And that's where a lot of people get lost. Whoa, Achieve? You mean, goal-reached achievement? Yes, a desire, unwavering and fanatic, to see your goal through to fruition. To do that I will have to work my ass to the bone... oy... in order to get what I want. The key is to stay positive. See, a lot of negative feelings come through when a dude comes across a setback. But I'll look that setback over, think to myself what I will do differently next time, learn what I can from it, then call the folks for bail money.

Oh man, and if I find that I end up blocking my own myostatin like that freaky muscle kid, I'm-a FREAK. Myostatin is a hormone that blocks muscle production in the body, and this baby was born with out it. He's already got only 50% of the bodyfat of a normal baby, and last night was found outside eating midgets. Turn about is fair play. Okay, so $500,000 a year from comedy and no myostatin. Bring it.

Off to Las Vegas. See you in 10 days with a couple of 2 day follow-ups.

Take Me Home

Comedian Up

I can't say "Cowboy Up" because I don't like snoose.
I'm finally getting close to feeling funny again. I think there are a number of changes coming my way, good ones. First of all, Shoogs B in the house Whaddup? got a jay oh bee. That doesn't affect me directly unless I don't get my tie and jacket back. TAKE OFF MY TIE AND JACKET. Right On Shoogs.

Second, I'm in a relationship with a kick-ass woman, and as it nears the 6-month mark I'm seeing some of my old habits die. Die hard, but they are making their way to the great Bad Habit bin at St. Scott Weiland de Structo's 2nd-Hand Habit Hut. I'm done with so much of the crap that happens in some emotional crossings-over. It sucks that we live a 150-mile rounder from each other, but that all goes away with a few minutes eye-to-eye. Key to making it work? At this point, for me, not f*cking it up. Swing that bat, Dr. Phil.

Third, well, I don't know here. I'm just ready to get the heck away from my job for a while. I need a week, at least. Pivot Tables suck, people. OK? They suck ass. There's no reason, really, that this company needs a pivot table of any sort. IT IS GOING TO DIE! Please get the rouge and the good jacket, let's give it a proper burial, then we can drink at the wake and lament how long it was around. Mangerially driven into the ground, and I'm paying for it everytime I roll in here at the bright hour of 9:47-ish.

Fourth, get outta there. Go have some fun.

Going to Vegas on Friday. Gonna gamble and drink drinks and not set a record for Salmonella-induced rocket vomiting.

Taters


Take Me Home

Until The Message Gets Through

Everybody, men and Women, especially not men, needs to read this article from MSN.
I did NOT write this, I am NOT taking credit for it. Dr. Brenda Shoshanna wrote it. Read and heed.

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FIVE QUESTIONS EVERY MAN DREADS

When it comes to relationships, most women want to know everything that a man is thinking. His secrets are often considered little enemies, capable of tearing the relationship apart. But nothing could be farther from the truth. In fact, it's absolutely necessary for each partner to have his or her own personal world -- thoughts, feelings and boundaries that belong to him or her and no one else. So what's a well-intentioned woman to do? Read on to find out which topics are better left untouched -- and why. If the following five questions never leave your lips, it just might be music to your man's ears. Take a look:

1) Are you attracted to other women?

Don't pry into this. Some women keep asking their man whether or not he is attracted to other women. A man who doesn't look at anyone or feel anything for other women is either very old, very tired or just plain lying. There is nothing wrong with a man who looks at and admires other women, as long as he does it discretely, doesn't make a show of it in front of other people and doesn't use it to make you insecure or competitive with the other women. Looking at and responding to others doesn't necessarily mean he doesn't find you desirable or is comparing you. Most men fuel their sexuality and fantasies by admiring women. If you ask him to talk about it, not only will it make you nervous, but he might feel embarrassed and exposed as well. He will feel unable to do what he does naturally, without being censured. Enjoy his love for you and leave this one alone.

2) What happened in your past relationships?

Some women become obsessed with finding out everything about their man's past. They need to know if they measure up to ex-girlfriends or wives, if he's as happy with them as he was before and if he's really over a past heartbreak. There's no need to probe any of these issues.
You might be especially concerned about what went wrong with your guy's previous relationships. Remember, though, he might have been a very different man then, and he probably learned from his mistakes. Try not to hold his past wrongs against him because chances are he doesn't want to be reminded of them. He doesn't want you to see him in a bad light. Let him be the person he is now. Let him feel good about how he is with you, and not dragged through memories of what he did (or didn't do) with other partners. When you let the past be the past, that is where it will stay.

3) Where (or how) do you think our relationship is going?

Many women just can't wait to get around to the "relationship discussion." They want to know how their guy is feeling about the relationship in general, so they sit him down to get the details. The problem is that this discussion makes many men feel pressured -- and restless. This question is pretty vague, and a guy may not understand what you're actually asking him. For example, is this the precursor to discussing marriage, or do you simply want to know whether he's content with the relationship between you?
Of course a man will have opinions of where the relationship is going, just like women do. The problem is that after being prompted to address a heavily weighted issue like this, some men fear that, depending on how they answer this question, they might be in for an intense, uncomfortable discussion. They could feel judged and criticized, and if this happens too often, it can easily make them drift away. Instead of pinning all of your expectations on a forced discussion, try to keep communication open in the relationship -- all the time. That way, you can both express your feelings as they arise, and have them heard and attended to naturally.

4) What are you thinking? (Usually asked in bed...)

Some women want to make sure that a man is thinking only of them in bed, but this is a very complicated question for a guy. Although he loves you -- and may be very happy with you -- it is normal for your guy to occasionally fantasize about others during sex. And it's not because he isn't there with you. This only means that he's making the experience exciting for himself in many ways.
Don't probe his secret fantasies unless he wishes to discuss them with you. If he doesn't bring it up, chances are that asking him about it will make him feel criticized, guilty and perhaps restricted. On the other hand, if he does wish to share his fantasies, this can be tricky too. Make sure you can tolerate hearing about what's going on in your man's mind, and remember not to assume he doesn't care about you. It's perfectly acceptable to decide you don't want to hear about these fantasies. Just let him know about your wishes gently, if and when he tries to fill you in.

5) Do you enjoy being with your friends more than being with me?

Many women become possessive of their man's attention and resentful of time spent away from them. This is particularly true for nights out with the guys. Women want to be included in every activity as proof of their partner's love for them. And if a guy is out with his buddies, they ask if he enjoyed the time more -- or less -- than time spent at home because they secretly want to hear that he did not. Some women even feel threatened when a man is with his family.
The fact is, your man needs time for male bonding, no matter how much he cares for you. Truly loving him means allowing him to be all of who he is, fulfilling all his needs and realizing that no matter how much he loves you, he also needs others in his life. The more fulfilled he is, the more he can give to you. So let the time he has with buddies belong to him. Don't question him about details. The beautiful part of having a healthy relationship is that you are both secure enough in your feelings that you want to see each other happy, no matter who you're with or what you're doing.


Take Me Home

Tightly Wound

This is totally a F**k It Friday. There is no reason for me to be here. Nobody under the age of 32, except myself, is here today. Ya know why? Because I'm supposed to be, I'm f*cking responsible. The shit I've been given to work with has begun to stink to high holy Heaven, and they want me to spray the Glade until it dies down.
Hey folks, come on in! It smells like someone crapped a raspberry bush!

And ya know what? I should not be here. I should be on a boat with a drink, tunes cranked, my hot girlfriend lounging atop, and getting a weird tan-line on my chest as I lay back with a middle finger being displayed to the world.

So anyway, yeah, that's Friday. Thanks for reading, like you even did.
What, you want some?

Take Me Home

Like, It Matters

Comedy is whatever it is. It's entertainment, basement level. Parroting the foibles of humans and animals and now technology in all of its break-neck boobs & such broadcasting. That's what we do with it… question mark. Comedy, a way to connect to people through pain or surprise, using humor. Laughter is the best medicine, for some people. Comedian Robert Schimmel had cancer a few years ago, locked his death-hurtling personage into a room with Larry, Moe, Curly, Frasier, and a number of other comedic talents, and emerged victorious. His mind was off It. His soul was free. His body healed.

Which is why I want so much to do comedy the justice it de-frigging-serves. There's so much I see people doing on stage that is actually just recycled technique and watercolored-over verbiage. Sooner or later we all go there, but you must, must come through the standards, and set your own bar high. It takes time and practice, learning and losing, and most of all it will take you an arena-full of courage, if not ego and machismo. But I have a desire to make people laugh so hard they expunge physical, emotional, and mental pain. And the only way to do that is to find the darkest parts of life, drag them into the light, and watch them writhe in the heat of happiness.

Take my dick jokes, please.


Take Me Home

Just Keeping It Real

So today I've had a few recruiters contact me in hopes of setting up interviews. The pay for the positions is pretty close, all the way across the board. Also, the one that is a little below is probably the most fun out of any of them. So what to do?

First of all, I'm sick of the ridiculous Telecom industry, I'm out of this idiocy. Here's the problem with it: Cheap MoFo's. Here's why: Research shows that most people (greater than 60%) who use cell phones are concerned with the phone's 1)Price, 2)Look, and 3)Features, in that order of importance. Even if it cost $300, people would make calls on a Peanut M&M if it took pictures. A phone that takes pictures... finally! And if one company decides "Hey, enough of this 'going for customers with actual money' bullschidt, let's give our $400 cell phones to EVERYONE who wants one, and make up the cost on a schiddy plan!," then all the other companies have to follow suit as a matter of selling down to the Joneses. When you're baking cookies as fast as you can, and the owner's giving a dozen away, as long as the cookie-taker promises (calling plan) to buy another dozen tomorrow, that next day better yield some results. We can't get paid in gold fronts, burned DVDs of "The Rundown," or animal pelts. We need KIZZASH. DIG? Our marketing people didn't. Goodbye $2,120,000 in Revenue.

Second, I am sick of IT. IT is like working with every geek from 11th Grade Physics: Too many inside jokes about contiuums and cookies, loadbearing and wormhole security. I shouldn't even be in IT, I'm not a virgin and I friggin HATE "Farscape." I need to get out of IT before I hear any more acronyms. SCTI, ASCI, MSN, DEV, PRISERV, .COM, hey, how about F U?

Third, I am on the wave of change, about to turn this board down the face of a cresting tube. It's not a huge wave, I'm not trying to go extreme and ride a thunder sine over a reef. Even if I fall, I'm not going to be driven through the reef like a steamroller hitting warm cheese. Nope, Just gotta keep my balance, point down the wave, and turn back up it when I'm ready for more. Hang Loose. Mahalo. Beer me.

Fourth, I want to do comedy more, make more money at it. I'm not going to be road-dogging it, but I sure can't do a lot of comedy when I'm stuck at this desk. I can't write, I can't focus to write jokes, all I can muster some days is sitting here wondering when all that work's gonna get done, while I write 'ponst my blog. And feeling not one smidge sorry 'bout it.

F*ck AT&T Wireless. It's So Much Worse Than You Know.

Take Me Home

Kill? No. That Would Be Unfair to People In Hell.

Stouty McNoisyknickers, the human pile who sits behind me, is fully on my nerves this morning. He's a person who is afraid of silence, afraid of his own thoughts. Here's how I know. I've seen him walk an entire hallway and flick a hand out on every third stride, to bank off a cubicle wall or a doorway. He will walk from one end of the building to another without a peep (yes, this floor is that devoid of life that I can see/hear him coming) and once he approaches an area where he knows there are people, he begins to whistle. No actual tunes, just random notes to fill what was once occupied by thoughts. He is an almost constant factory of sniffling and throat-clearing. Not the full-on lung/throat/nasal catharsis, more like the "sniff-sniff-KHM, ah", as if he popped his clutch too early, and that's 10 times/hour/hour. I'm not on anti-depressants, unless you count staring into his window and making a slashing motion across my heart a drug.

It's a character study in overly-ebullient personalities. Okay, we get it dude, you are FUN to work with! The kind of fun you get by letting a Springer spaniel loose in the building, lots of face licking and stumpy tail-wagging. He's a high-five from peeing in the Aspenwood Conference Room. He's a go-getter, a bulldog, a roper, a fireplug, a head-butter, a buttplug, a butthead, a firecracker, and most importantly of all, a selfish shankre. He's in charge of a bunch of contracts and vendors and really just another person in an office who cannot save this company from full assimilation. So why would he get to me?

Because I feel like I am pinned down behind enemy lines here. As if I have nothing but a lock-knife, 3 shots in a service revolver, a stick of wintergreen, and 2 cigarettes. I have to make every one of these items count before I make it to daylight. As I round the corner of the work garage, I see his stout form pacing back forth, breath breaking the calm of the night as he double-sniff-hacks his way to giving away his position. He's the only thing between me and that fence. On the other side of that fence lies a place I haven't seen in 3 months… Silence. Glorious, empty, idea & progress-filled SILENCE.

He's my albatross in an otter suit. He's an otter wrapped in a Snausage. It's almost as if everything he does is to say "LOOK AT ME. I AM CONTRIBUTING TO THE FUTURE OF… I MEAN, I AM HELPING BUILD THIS COMP… I WORK HERE! I AM SHORT!" The reality of the situation is that soon I will be working for another company, he'll still be here, and I'll be calling him randomly to whistle, clear my throat, and speak in analogies while he slowly descends into madness. By "madness" I mean "reality of the hopelessness that is The Death Star."

And he likes baseball. That alone should be grounds for torture.
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I Want To Know What Love Is. I Want You To Show Me. But Don't Be a Perv.

Hey, here are some parallels I've drawn between Love and stuff. I think this could be fun. If you have any, please e-mail them to me and I'll post them here.

Love is a many splintered thing.
Love is a rose. Somewhere, somebody just got 12 red nodules because of it.
Love is a tree. It's fully alive, yet totally flammable once it dries up.
Love is a frog. It's call in the middle of the night is both hilarious and frustrating. Oooh, Warts!
Love is a storm. You get wet and blown about, and need soup afterwards.
Love is a hug. When you give, you can receive. Too much or too little can hurt.
Love is a beer. It can cool you off, ease your spirits, and should be crushed when empty.
Love is a shoe. Many types for many occasions, and the more you wear, the more likely you will get a fungus or funny bumps.
Love is a drug. You may not be addicted to it, but then again, maybe you haven't had the good schidt.
Love is a knee. It can bend and stiffen to move you forward, or trick you and make you fall.
Love is a martini. Strong and pure, and it helps to knock one down at lunch.
Love is a knee to the balls. 'nuff said.
Love is a cocktail. I only want the top-shelf to feed my addiction.
Love is a kitten. Soft and innocent, falling off the couch, and scratching up your hands.

Your turn, FleaCollars. I gotta get back to work. Whistley Time!
==========
I vote "Milkshake" as the WORST song of the past 6 months. Close to whatever shyte N.E.R.D. put out.

Take Me Home

Nick DiPaolo, Alley Doorway, Levitation: Discuss...

June 4th, 2004. Giggles Comedy Club, Seattle, WA. Second Show, approximately 2315 hours. Headliner, Nick DiPaolo, recently of Comedy Central's "Tough Crowd With Colin Quinn," and a pants-pee funny comedian, not to mention good Italian boy from Queens.

Sitting front & center, at least for that stage, is a really drunk guy... Second Show Friday, whaaaa?... and his lippy date, who is probably really nice, but on that evening was not so, although I would NEVER call anybody a retarded whore. (great, now every Googler pricing mentally challenged escorts is going to be hitting this page) So drinky show guy says to Nick, "Say something funny." That's not a good heckler line, folks, that's really as dumba as it gets. If you want to heckle, say something weird. That will loosen it up.

Nick starts going back and forth with the guy, and the not retarded not a whore date says "He's trying to make YOU laugh." Well the shine's off the turd at this point and the guy says he paid for the show and he's not laughing (the crowd was really tight that night anyway, but they were in it for Nick's funnies). Standard banter follows, then it's time to move on and keep the show going, but the guy says something else to Nick and gives him the finger, so Nick leans down and says something along the lines of "That's all you can do is give me a little finger and think..." then the schidt came down.

That's about when I heard a few glasses fly, saw a few nachos fly, and then saw a headliner fly. The guy threw a drink in Nick's face (that dick! Microphones are pricey!), and Nick wasn't having it. I set my drink down and hoofed it down front, where Nick had already pulled the dumbass's shirt over his head a la "Slapshot." Everything was cooling off until a ninja dropped in. I knew it wasn't a real ninja, though, because a real ninja wouldn't have been seen by anybody. There would have been only a puff of smoke and perhaps a fortune cookie left behind. The fortune would read "Look not at what you see. See more than you look at. Eat at Wong's. Say 'Hi' for me, I am ninja Doo Me Po." So yeah, it wasn't a real ninja and I saw him go for Nick so I'm like "HEELL NAW" and KEE-AYE, I uncoil a front snap-kick to his undercarriage. He disappeared in a cloud of smoke... it may have been a real ninja afterall, or just a Marlboro Red-loving burqa fanatic. Either way, sorry about punishing your junk.

So the fight breaks up, ninja's gone, and the drinky dude's out the club. The side door of the showroom is open because it's hotter than a birthday gift from Winona Ryder, and that door opens to an alley of sorts that runs the side of the club. So drinky dude's heading down the alley and figures "Why not?" He ducks back into the showroom, grabs a glass off a table and tosses at the stage in Nick's direction. Something like 8 guys, a woman, and that poor excuse of a ninja dive outside to grab the guy, which they succeed at doing. It was entirely outside of the club. Then I hear a pretty loud, slapping/thudding sound, kind of like when a bad career, a heroin-laced comedian, or a watermelon hits the face of a drunken show-goer.

Later on the authorities showed up to take care of things. I'll tell you what, when Optimus Prime speaks, you listen. He's pretty cool. I thought Cobra Commander was kind of snooty, but hey, he used to run a majorly evil, underground evil network of evil. He's got some control issues.

The Moral Of The Story Is:
You don't sit in the front and bring a not-lippy whore to a show, then yack at a New York stud of comedy and expect to not have schidt on your shoes afterward. In other words, he got what he deserved, a bear-hug from Terry Taylor.
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Oh really?

The rock band Creed announced the other day that they were breaking up after 3 albums.

Choose from below:
1) It's about time.
2) The president of the band's fan club replied to the news with, "Oh schidt, now I'm gonna be 33, living at home with NOTHING to do on Friday nights."
3) The president of the band's fan club, and the rest of the world, shrugged.
4) A ninja would never have done that.
5) Who?


Take Me Home

How Do You Feel?

My blog here is about my feelings and thoughts. Sometimes my feelings and thoughts have harsh words in them. I've worked on gripping my feelings with both hands and massaging them to full release, but sometimes it's better if I just let 'em hang loose. I hope not to offend anyone. If you get offended by my ideas and feelings, I'm real f*cking sorry. Feel free to picket my website, which you don't pay for.

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Just Jokin'

George Tenet resigned this week. We all have the same question:
Who?

Chrysler recalled over 400,000 PT Cruisers this week, after finding a major design flaw: They look f*cking stupid.

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How Far It Has Gone

The normally reserved and anti-depressant-laced self-styled "Funny Gal" next to me seems to have introduced a new word into her vocabulary. She's used it at least ten times today. It's a major step forward for her, because this is someone who uses words like "oh futzy futz" when her stapler runs dry. It's pretty intense, actually, her use of the new word. She's throwing heavy emphasis on the first syllable and a little vitriol into the tone of it. Dig it:

"DumbAss."

That's it, that's the "new" word. I was thinking that before I could speak. Then again, that was only 5 years ago, but still... That's just wild. WILD. I need rum.

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I Am Perfectly Unperfect

Not that I've ever figured it all out, but I've come close a few times. I've figured a few things out, but never all of it all at once. If you ever do figure it all out, you probably get killed by a friend playing with a gun to celebrate his girlfriend losing the baby. I saw it on "The O.C.", lighten up.

I recently read an article about "The Search For A Soulmate," and it's been resounding in my head for a while now. After reading about characters and people and ideas and demi-gods and Demi and Ashton and all of these other participants, the article talked of how the search for a "Soulmate," that "perfect someone for each of us," is killing the modern relationship. Firstly, when I hear "soulmate," I want to punch Alanis Morrissette in the cock. Secondly, the divorce rate in this nation for five or fewer years of marriage is disgustingly huge, because kids raised with TV remotes and CD players with skip-to-the-next buttons think it's a great idea to get married. There's no perfect TV show, although "Scrubs" is pretty close. If ever I have a child who, at an age of less than 28, wants to get married, I'll throw them a party where they can get dressed up and kissy-face their half-wit pokin' partner, but I will forbid them from getting married. I'll abort a child up until the 24th tri-mester. Damn, that's two dead baby lines in the first two paragraphs. No more, it's not my style.

It was Charo or my 4th Grade teacher after a dismal spelling test who once said "Nobody's perfect." What the hell is "perfect" when it comes to a person, anyway? Donny and Marie Osmond, that's pretty close to perfect, but they are also made entirely of seafoam candy and LipSmackers lip balms, now in low-carb Chipotle! I accept myself as Perfectly Imperfect. That is, I'm okay with all of me, but always want the best of myself to come forth. I accept the bad with the good. That was hard enough to do, and it's even harder for others to accept. That's a good time to grab a spoonful of Splenda to help the benzodiazapines go down. If you don't like me, odds are I forgot about liking you a long time ago. Unless you sign my paycheck or decide the fate of my soul, I don't give two Pabst Tall Boys about what you really think of me. It's hard enough to deal with my own imperfections, let alone your misinterpretations of Life. If y'ain't For me, you's agains' me. And you better put your back into it, son, I ain't budgin'.

I am in no way perfect, nor do I ever intend to be. There are some things I strive for perfection in, like writing and sleeping more than 4 hours in a stretch each night. The rest, I'm just doing the best I can. I read this weird theory in that Soulmate… damn you Alanis… article about how the intimate/romantic relationship is intensely imperfect in so many ways, that the less a person tries to mold it, the more it will take it's natural shape. And once you see something for what it is, not what you wish it would be, the more clearly you can see the schidtpile in your path. You can then accurately assess and decide where you go. Walk around it, walk into it, you just gotta keep walking.

No, I don't know what Perfect is, so I will never be the Perfect Soulmate. The only perfect things in my life are the imperfections. The chip in my guitar. The double-twisty heart drawn in the card given to me by M, who is like a bomb baby come on get it on. The scuffs on my shoes. They all mean something, they have character and history. To be perfect is to never have been scuffed, to never have learned, to never have gained character. And that is perfectly f*cking boring.

I am the F out of Here. Thanks for coming, get home safe, don't forget to tip your arresting officer.


Take Me Home

It Got Broughten

Yesterday afternoon I got a call from ChiliDog, asking me if I could headline at the illustrious Pegasus Pizza and Comedy Palace. I said I couldn't, as I was taking my dad and his friend to watch the Seattle Mariners get reamed by the Toronto BlueJays. Comedy isn't going anywhere, but there are only so many chances to watch live sports with a man you idolize.

So we go to the game and by the top of the 7th, we realize that a 3-run deficit is too much to overcome for the M's, and we bounce. Turns out, we were right. That team sucks. Oh well. More on why I hate baseball in another blog. So we leave the game and I drop elder statesmen Lott and Masterson off at their car, and decide, "Hey, why not, I'll head to Pegasus and catch a little comedy laugh." As I arrive, one of the all-time greats, Tracy Tuffs, is in the box doing his hilarious thing. The headliner for the night, who shall remain nameless out of respect, was in the house as well. I go up after Tracy and do about 10 minutes, then bring up the header.

After about 7 minutes of hating his own act, hating comedy, and general defeat, the header says "Sorry gang, I'm not into it tonight. The show's over. Sorry. Bye." Drops the mic, and walks off. WALKS OFF STAGE, live mic, moderately live crowd, and leaves. I felt bad for the guy. I've been there. I've wanted to bail so many times. But never on a paying gig. There's money involved, go for it. But he walked, and the mic was hot. So I ask T-Bone Tuffs "Hey, wanna save the show?"

I get on stage, and proceed to do 40 minutes of old stuff, new stuff, just rambling here and there, doing the refined stuff here and there, getting laughs and groans and ad-libbing to keep the crowd happy. I walked off, got paid, and after all was said and done, headlined the Winged Horse Pizzeria and Fun Jungle. Why am I telling anybody any of this? Because of this... Never once did it feel like work. I did what I love to do, got paid, and walked away feeling pretty darn good. I got to hang with my dad, I got to work on some new jokes, and I got some extra scratch for it.

What'd you do? I hope you did at least one thing that was good for your Being today. You deserve it. Unless you are the manager I call PigTit. More on that when I'm not falling asleep on myself.

Hey everyone, thanks for coming out, drive safe, and don't forget to tip your cow.
Take Me Home

Tuesday or Monday or Whatever

So much to write here, but I'll begin later. Let's put it this way: This weekend I did a public show, a private show, I saw love, I saw acceptance, and already this morning, 8 minutes into my workday, I'm seeing an overwhelming anymosity towards the overly cheerful and ignorantly ebullient.
Sometimes I wish the antidepressants weren't prescribed so freely, when the flip side is laughing at EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR OWN MOUTH.

Welcome to my Tuesday. I'm not even awake yet.

Rosie O'Donnell's a woman?

Take Me Home

It's Not Even Midnight

Memorial Day Weekend, are you set up? What are you doing? E-mail me, don't just say it outloud, weirdo. Nah, say it, weird out the people around you need a little reality check.

So what are you going to do? Hike? Drink? Sleep in? Shop? Head to Emerald Downs... oooh! The ponies! Yes, the ponies are back! If this rain would stop we'd see some real running, but dammit, global warming or El Nino or Terry Taylor seem to be causing some kind of climate trauma. It's raining, two days straight now. But here's another thing on my mind.

My friend seems to be seriously depressed, it's in his act, in his blog, it's live. I know he's not going to suicide, yes, it's a verb, but there's a point when you care enough about someone that you should let them know that they matter. I'm going to call my friends and family this weekend and talk for a bit, let them know I think of them, and tell them straight up that a part of them is inside me. Call it love. Call it too much Merlot (I suggest L'Ecole 2000, it's worth the $35). Call it sentimentalism. But call. It's 30 minutes out of your weekend. Then, back to gathering beads.

Y'all take care.
Geoffers

Take Me Home

How's That Working Out For Ya?

I just read The Mastermind's blog about Monday night, and I'll tell ya... I love that guy. So real, so brutal, so depressed. Go read his, and then read the other blogs there, too. See, blogging is this weird, self-gratifying act of writing your thoughts as if anyone would read them... as if anyone truly cares. It's just entertainment. Hell, I'm sharing cyberwads with Recipes, True Mind Masters, and deviance so deviant it would be deviant to link them here. Get one on your own time, it's America, you have options. Just imagine words like "soaked," "drenched," and "spandex." I'm sure you'll find something.

Anyway, Mastermind's blog talked of how he spent some time correcting the actions of a performer, and I was totally with him on the moment to do so. See, Art's been on stage enough to know that, when you're done, you holster the mic, you SET THE STAGE for the next act. It's courtesy, it's professionalism, it's WHAT YOU FRIGGIN' DO. I told Mastermind I thought it was good opener, just jokin', ya know, seein' as how, golly, it's WHAT I FRIGGIN' DO. I don't know if that rubbed him the wrong way, but if it did, see, that's not on me. It wasn't meant to, but if he took it to heart that's on him. It's called Frame Of Reference.

Some people are easily offended. They don't like loud music, loud clothes, fast cars, slow children at play, or dogs too ugly to live. If you tell them they are wearing blue shoes, and they hate blue shoes and insist, dammit, that those slides are PERIWINKLE, thank you, then you offended them... but that ain't your stressball to squeeze. Let 'em lose it. It's their coronary. If you toss someone a ball and they let it hit them, they either A) have no hands, B) have no coordination, or C) don't like balls coming at them. That reminds me of a Youth Group story, but we'll get into that after I perform the miracle of turning rum into water.

So let's imagine scenario A, they have no hands. You can clearly see they have no hands, what with their reluctance to shake hands, high-five, or offer a reach-around. You KNOW they are at a disadvantage, yet you throw it anyway, they take a restricted-flight to the collar bone, and BINGO, you're the a-hole at the office picnic. First of all, stop drinking at office picnics, even if your boss is pounding PBR, even if she's doing said pounding in your back seat where she's been since just after Happy Hour on Friday. Have some class, get a flask. Okay, so you bopped ol' Hooky, and frankly, it's your fault. It's pretty clear that you shouldn't have thrown a ball at a person with no hands. Apologize, then switch to soccer. Hope that Hooky didn't try and kick those fireworks way back when. Good on you.

Option B, they have no coordination. Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't. It's not totally your fault. You meant nothing by the toss, just to get them into the game because they were, after all, complaining that nobody ever tells them when Happy Hour's going down, especially after their conversation with the Boss lady. That lippy schidt's always a hen with a few pops in the bucket. So Wobbles the Intern has a welt (the uncoordinated always bruise easy, thanks to only eating hand foods, nothing with a fork and some iron, it's for their own safety), and the best you can do is apologize for your part in it, and maybe go 'em one better and offer your skills of retrieving balls, which reminds me of a story involving a corsage, a cumberbund (that's gay, in the non-gay-bashing way) and a can of Aquanet, but we'll save that for when you're sober. Gawd, you drink like a Kennedy.

Finally, C), they don't like to have balls thrown at them. Did you know? If so, then you're a prizzick for forcing a ball into their world, which reminds me of a spandex, but I digress. If You did not know that they detest ball-throwing activities and they get upset, hey, you didn't know and it's either their fault for being in the field of play, or it's their duty to get off the friggin' field, BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE FRIGGIN' BALLS GET TOSSED. It's called Empowerment, taking care of one's own feelings, needs, or withdrawals with conscious decision-making. If they are upset that a ball came at them, cripes, think of how people feel when bombs, motorcycles, or ugly cookie-saleskids come at them. You probably didn't know they were anti-catch, and they probably resent you for being the kind of person who goes around tossing balls. Which reminds me of almost every middle manager I've ever met, but this is going on forever.

In summary, if you ever get offended, you have to come to a conclusion: Did they intend to offend you, or are you easily offended? Only you know for sure. The world is full of offensive images, words, and bosses. It's up to each of us to pick our battles, thicken our skin, and fill our flasks. And for crying out loud, watch your balls.


Take Me Home

My Previous Week

I saw "Cabaret" for the first time. The actual live performance, caught it at a little community theater in Olympia. It was surely a community version of the musical, but it came off without a hitch, and these people were literally in the audience performing, which takes WAY more mangoes than plodding around above the orchestra pit. Face your fears. Then have wine.

I had a show in Puyallup at the Liberty Theater. I MC'ed for a couple of old dogs, Gabriel Rutledge and Brad Upton. I realized how close and yet how far I am from where I want to be as a comedian. I think the real issue is dedication, which I've let slide a bit in the past few months. So it's up to me. That's not funny, that's about as New Aged Cheese as I'll go for the day.

Last night at the Comedy Ubergrind it was "nickname" night. If we didn't choose a nickname - I chose "The Asshole" - then we were tagged with one. Most people chose their own. Including Mickey "The Soldier" what's his who-cares. This dimwit had a bravado that perfectly juxtaposed (I said it) his lack of humor. He ate more crap than a dog on a camping trip. Diatribes about sports highlights nobody saw, using "he/she was on crack" as a punchline, imitating "pigeons" (female crack heads) to show off a silly face and physical mannerisms, then after going over-time and starting a bit about how cell phones are big, which shows he doesn't have one. And not a single segue or linear thought. It was totally scattered, and that's speaking ill of people with ADD. And he EARNED every second of silence he got.

The laughs were more about how bad he was, but he got a taste of the entertainment cocktail, and he just couldn't wait until next week. In fact, he was leaving the club and GOT BACK ON STAGE BECAUSE HE HAD TO SAY SOMETHING. He said it was "good bye," but he was trying to work a bit. So here he is, taking time from the other comics who are funny, taking the mic away from the MC, and being a prick, basically. So we all start booing him from the back, with one guy yelling "beat it" and someone, probably me, yelling "SCRAM" or maybe "YOU SUCK." His demeanor showed that he's got no class, no couth, and no courtesy for the rest of the performers, AND he's not funny, so he's really got zero clout. Comedy didn't start when Mickey walked through the door of the comedy club. He actually called one of us "boobirds" a "bigot." He played that card, as if the color of his skin had anything to do with his jokes being unfunny, and him acting like a dick. I know plenty of very unfunny white people, too, so save that schidt for the bus stop.

I'm out for now. I need to do stuff. I'm looking for a new job. Email me at "GeoffLottRules@yahoo.com" if you hear of anyone hiring, mmkay? Muchas gracias.

Take Me Home

Here's Your Post

If anyone's wondering what's up this week, I'll tell ya… JACK. Alright? I have a job that me no like, and I sit here and make monkey sounds all friggin' day. It annoys some people, and if they ask why I'm doing it? I say "because I don't know how to do a parrot." Then I follow them to their office or cube and rip off a ghost of breakfast past. That's what they get for coming into my world. Stink.

I hate hearing the song "Happy Birthday" being sung. It's another reminder of two things: One, we all get older. And Two: Nobody is giving me anything. Birthdays don't really matter after the age of 21, or 18 if you're a fan of the Olsen Twins.

I matter. I matter a lot to a fair number of people. That's important to remember. And even if there were fewer people to whom I mattered, I would matter to me. If you're reading this, in a small way, you matter to me. Take that with you, for what it's worth, and never forget that somebody somewhere is such a pee-hole that they matter to no one. Never be that person.

Almost zero motivation to be at work today. If I could pick something to do, it'd be this stuff, in no perpendicular order: Perform on the Tonight Show; do circuit workout of pushups, pull-ups, bicycle crunches, and eat from a tube of cookie dough; punch Bam Margera in the neck with a Ford; buy a Mercedes E55, navy blue, light blue interior; It; hang out with Jake Johannsen, Marc Maron, and Dave Attell; look into the face of a child and say "Dear little one, look to the sky and aim high for your dreams, and know this: When you look up there, Life will kick you in the nuts."

It's odd to hear from others that they enjoy reading this here blog. It doesn't in the least frighten me, although it does make me feel as if I'm writing for an audience, at times. It makes me think that I shouldn't hold back all the time, say what I feel here, and do what it is that I want to do. But when it comes down to it, the truth of writing was passed on to me a long time ago. This is the truest element of writing in any form: Sell out and make a shitload of cash, then tell your "audience" to bite it. (Thanks Mom!)

That's all I got for now. I'm actually a little sunny today, too, so let's hope my serotonin kicks up soon, or there will be Hal to pay.




Take Me Home

Get Paid For It

I did a headline set at Taster's Wok last night in Lynnwood. It sucked. But it was just a show. I made a little coin off it, and it was simply a tune-up for my shows this weekend. Check out my calendar if you want to come to either of those. And you do.

I have to lay myself on the altar of the Muse soon. I feel like I have a ton of jokes that are floating on top of the surface of the Sea of Hilarity, and some of them I just can't get a hold of. I guess I don't feel one way or the other about some of the material yet, as I seem to write from my gut. This is good because it provides me the most original comedy, something that is MINE, and nobody else can do it properly.

The bad thing is that some of the stuff I want to talk about I'm not really inclined to discuss at this point in my life. I'm seeing some of the most horrendous treatment of people lately, and there's nothing funny about it, except for when those Iraqi prisoners played possibly the worst game of Twister ever. It's war, f*ck those guys. And if you say "You wouldn't want it happening to YOUR troops." F*ck You. No, I wouldn't, but maybe we need something like that to push the next step faster. Venus and Saturn have returned after an eclipse you freaks, things are going to change for the better, but it's going to get realy dicey for a bit. And if you question my patriotism, believe me, I question YOURS. Knee-jerk Jingoism is pretty close to bigotry and facism and Jenny McCarthyism (that's going to get me on TV, you understand me?). My patriotism is a love of country much like the way you love a child or a pet, depending on your methods of birth control. I love this country and the opportunities it provides, even for the dumb and ugly, but that's no reason to think it is never astray or misled or belligerent. That happens because people are involved, which means anything is possible.

Even making money doing comedy in the bar of Chinese Restaurant.

Take Me Home

A Weekend of a Weak Week

Yo. Whaddup? Thanks fer readin'.
This past week was really odd. I'm at a point in my life where I feel ready for the next stones to be stepped on. I am not talking about "okay, new job, new place to live, yay." I am fogging up the windows of The Big Break mansion, I want to live in the kingdom of the Fortunate.

Luck is when opportunity meets preparation. The first man to say this was then shot by the guys he'd just broke at a poker table. But it's true. I believe we make our own luck. The "cosmic forces" at work put things in order, and if you're open to them you will find them at the right times of your life. If we all have that luck waiting for us, then how would I explain homeless people?
Like this: Without homes or continuous resources of hygiene.
Nah, more like this: Making choices in your life leads you to the next step. Good choices keep your mind and heart open to more good things. Bad choices cloud your judgment and your view of yourself, either through tears of sadness or tears of pepper spray, so maybe you think you're not worth anything, you're no good, you won't ever win a comedy competition, whatever it is for YOU, not me, I'm not talking about me.
I'm not.
Now I am. Yes, I'm looking to move along here. For me, not for the happiness of anybody else. At the end of the day, it's just me, and maybe a kimono-wearing animatronic Koala... cute, huh? How will I do this, make this next step?
First of all, weigh my options. What's heaviest? What will yield the greatest rewards, financial, personal, intellectual, culinary, technical, physical, granular, dairy-like, and/or follicular? What is really best for me? Incorporating the 80/20 rule, if a decision benefits me in 80% of the instances, I should go for it. On the backside, things are going to work out, because nothing is ever perfect, and the imperfections are overcome by your skill and want to grow, adapt, and be pitied and given free stuff. And then the other 20% will either be overcome or cause me a wretched stomach ache of regret, if I'm not an emotionally and spiritually steadfast person, or at least really stinkin' rich.
I think God thinks I'm going to be an asshole if I get rich, and God doesn't want me to become an asshole. All I can say is that not being rich is WAY played, big G, so throw me a little green, and I'll prove that I'm thankful by erecting a golden statue of, who, ME! But I'll at LEAST be wearing a T-Shirt that says "Jesus Is My Homeboy."
Second, in weighing my options for "what's next," I have to assess my skills. I am of the mind that I can do anything well, and a few things REALLY well, and maybe three things so deftly that even the experts call it sublime. One of these skills is illegal in Utah, even between consenting farm animals, so I'll call it TWO things I do really well. Know Thy Self. I am WAY into Self Actualization, (for the Mazlow's Hierarchy devotees), to find the maximum Me that's in here. So get the fear of success out of the way, and the next thing you know, you're sitting across a boardroom table with a schiddy comb-over looking into a TV Camera saying "You're Fired... Up For Insurance Savings With Vern Fonk!" See, I could totally work for an ad agency. Or a pharmaceutical company. Mostly I need to feed my worksoul a little bit. I know what I can do. It's diverse, as long as I'm not working with total f*cking idiots. GAWD, dumb people ruin EVERYTHING in this world. It's a sad fact that some lives are ended before they really start, and some aren't.
Oh, and I just heard this on the TV... "How do improve a Toilet Brush?" Uh, give it to your butler? YEAH, you gots a butler, bee-atch, all things just keep getting better!

I have enough thoughts to fill a Cure fan's empty soul. So now I must go.
You take care. Come see me on stage. I miss you.

Take Me Home

ReCrap of the Week

I haven't done a word of comedy since Sunday night. I'm actually writing again, which is nice. It's been a while since I had any sort of inspiration for the funny. I revisited a couple of old premises I've been working on, such as how technology and dumbasses don't mix, or how our culture is obsessed with body image, and how rough women really have it. I call it "Jenny McCarthy-ism," and you should look at the C-cup as Half-full, don't be such a breastimist. There's a common thread of personality among true comedians, where the desire to create, perfect, deliver, and then evolve is constant. As you do this longer you may not find as many funny things, but what you DO find comes to you in your voice, your style, and you are able to "put your finger in the puddin' " with a little more style. So I'll be working out the new stuff and hope to lap the puddin' up as I have actualy paying gigs over the next couple of weekends.
If you think the puddin' thing is some kind of innuendo, you're dirty. I didn't say you were wrong, mind you.

The woman I'm dating has been out of town, enjoying a well-earned trip to the exotic locale of Twisp, WA. She said they had a great time yesterday watching "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead" and making crystal meth in a car trunk.
I keed, I keed. She won a trip for her work efforts and is in the U.S. Virgin Islands (oh, THAT'S where they are), and has reported perfect weather, amazing blues, and enough rum punch to floor Keith Richards. I'm really happy for and proud of her, as the reward is for the top sales performers in her company, and she's only been there one year. However, other people don't really grasp the idea:
When I say where she is, everyone automatically assumes that, since I didn't go with her, there must be some major rift and that I'm a big pussy for not demanding my tickets. That's an external perception of the situation, one where the Perceptor (wasn't he a He-Man villain?) makes a snap judgment and goes apeschidt over what they appear as her slighting me and my taking it with my nuts in her purse. I have this knack for staying the F out of other people's business and not always imparting my "view on the world" into their lives. Discussion is one thing, forceable entry by a mentally deficient whiskey-prophet should ellicit at least one headbutt. I don't expect anyone to care about my opinion, no matter how well I present it and am in a forum for presenting, i.e. the Castle SuperStore men's room.
So M, who's funning and sunning, decided to take her little brother on the trip. We'd only known each other a couple weeks when she won the trip, and were it not for her gesture of thoughtfulness and her brother being a cool guy, he may never have taken such a trip in his life. It worked out best all the way around.
That's the truth, not an opinion.
Perhaps... YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!
I just made that up.

Dick Cheney's daughter is a lesbian. Some lesbians are born gay, and some just don't like Dick.

Photos of naked Iraqi soldiers appeared all over the world this past week. First of all, that's what the Iraqis get for passing out early at a Military drunken function. Second, I have no problem with this. Iraqis would do it, and worse, to American prisoners. So the military stripped 'em down and posed them with bags on their heads. There are a lot of people in this country whining that they have to pay $500 for such treatment, and the Iraqis got it for free!
And if some 8th-Century misogynist were trying to put a bullet in my brain and I had a chance to go man-to-"crap with feet" with him, he'd be getting off easy if all that happened was few games of Troublingly Naked Twister with extras from "Ishtar."
U S A! U S A!


Take Me Home

1) The Rotund Mound Of Sound, a.k.a. "Stumpy McWhistlah" just used the word "ludacrousT." He added a "t." This guy is using analogies like crazy today, and none of them are funny. He's a total dooooosh.

2) The Seattle Comedy Mafia is not up to speed on their blogging. Oh my dad, it's already May 4th, update your crap.

3) If you know a good headhunter or someone not scared to hire a guy with a great analytical mind, energy to spare, and enough sarcasm to fill and office and choke the life out of a whistling urethra of a human being, have them e-mail me at This Address, GBLott@Hotmail.com. I'm more ready for change than your grammy's jammies.

4) Example 4,731 of why this place sucks. There's a pretty fair number of East Indian contractors, consultants, and willing-to-work-all-weekenders here, and many of them are taking over the jobs from here when we go Orange. In a gesture of welcome and sportsmanship, some self-appointed "Event Planner" scheduled a BBQ with them. Let's hope the planners remember that India is big on not eating cows. "Mm, good stuff! Ever try your god with gouda?"

5) No more analogies. Bye.


Take Me Home

This Is What It's Come To

I had planned vacation days for today and tomorrow. No work. Play. I'm at work today for a couple of reasons. The main reason is that I have 4 managers. None of them talk directly to me until they F up and need to tell me to fix something. The good thing is that whatever they think is broken probably ISN'T, because I don't do enough work to break anything anyway.

I have a project in front of me that I was handed on the 16th of April. It was going to be due for presentation on 5/13 to a group of people who feel that what they do for this three-legged dog of a company actually amounts to a hill of disposable cell-phone batteries. It doesn't, by the way. So in this report I'm supposed to gather and manipulate the data for the month of March on the efficiency of a few processes we run here at Turkish Prison Cellular, as per our conversation on the 16th of April.

Yesterday one of my 4 managers, whom I shall refer to as Pigtit, because he's bulbous and pinkish in hue... (I just threw up a little)... stops by my desk after a meeting with another Director-level mopey waste of organs. He tells me that we'll need the numbers for April, but that will be odd because the end of the month isn't until Friday. No schidt? aaaand NO SCHIDT! So he's changed the criteria for a deliverable one week before it's due. It's important that I point out to you, dear reader, that I pointed out to him, Pigtit, that I had written down in my notes from the 4/16 meeting that our main priority was March metrics. His comeback?
"Well yeah, but that's because it wasn't the end of April yet."
Does this make sense to you? The words make sense, but the idea, the gyst, the REASON FOR OPENING THE PIGTIT PIEHOLE makes no damn sense whatsoever. Luckily I'm ahead of schedule for the actual work I need to do on this report, because...

later on I get a Pigtit-mail that is a reply for clarification on a few issues so that I knew what I was doing from here on out and made myself look good. It's the corporate equivalent of reverse psychology: This is what you told me you wanted. Are you wrong? Turns out... he was! STOP THE MUSIC, this shouldn't be a surprise to any of us at this point. Other than finding the M&Ms in trail mix, this guy's ability to sift through information is suspect at best. He tells me that the big report due on the 13th isn't due on the 13th anymore. Yeah, that's due on the 6th. They moved the date up a week.

Nowhere in here have I used the words "apology" or "sorry." See, when I goof up and it affects someone else, I apologize and I mean it, because my goof messed with someone else's day or life or happiness, and I am sorry for doing that. Pigtit's head-in-the-hamhock maneuver not only could have REALLY f*cked himself over, but it almost put me in a position to look really bad and maybe get fired. Instead I'm in the office on a gorgeous day working over some files for schidt that means NOTHING to the future of this planet, mankind, or making out with M, who's leavin' on a jet plane in a few days. I don't want to be here. There's really no cosmic reason to be here. It's only a job, not THE job, it's just money. It helps. I shut out the pain and find the hilarity of it all. And THAT my friends is WORK.

I'm checking the company handbook to see if it's true that you can get fired for hitting a co-worker. Pussies.

Take Me Home