I'm heading out of town for a week, off to sunny Cabo San Lucas. I'm looking forward to it in ways I can't even explain. Especially since this past week has been worthy of launching myself out of Seattle for some respite from. I have a gig the night after I get back, a paying, fancy, corporate holiday party gig so who knows what I'll be like after a week off-stage? It'll be fun, though. Some jokes you only have to tell once a week to keep them polished, but there is a lot of new stuff that the company wants me to work in to the performance. I'm whoring, a little, but it's also a personal challenge for me that I get to step on stage with material formulated specifically for a company, to hone in on their culture and people, as well as be able to do my own act. It's hard enough writing from thin air sometimes, but tailoring an act around a central theme, in this case, "Clothing For Cats," is a challenge as well as a creativity primer.
I'm trying to not be too exacting in writing lately. Some people can sit and pour over jokes that are written out and refine and juggle them, but I can only take that so far. The funniest and most powerful I've ever felt on stage is when I'm shooting from the hip, letting whatever's inside just come out. There's nothing rehearsed, and the audience knows that, and it is rather exhilirating for everyone in attendance. I can see the words flashing across my mind in slow motion, mileposts I connect with other terms and phrases, like the funniest words stick out and my senses guide me there. Then after my set I usually end up taking the mask off the severed head and see my own face there. Or was that in "Empire?" Maybe "Jedi," but "Empire" is still the best.
You can never really plan for what's going to happen at a comedy show. All you can do, as a comic, is be open to experiencing the middle ground you meet the audience on. Ego often forces a comic to stand in front of a cold room and deliver joke after joke without getting so much as a nose whistle. Ever feel like that? Like you're in line and the brat taking your order is throwing attitude so you're like "F*ck you, here's my order, it's your job to take it" and the whole thing leaves you feeling a little worse? That's what it's like for a comic to bomb and yet keep pushing on with the act. It's okay to break your character and tell the audience to loosen up, to ask what's wrong, to direct the funny back on them instead of on your problems. They need some levity, too, or your nachos are going to be topped with whatever was in the dustpan... if you're lucky.
Stay flexible, that's what I'm saying. Whether on stage or a yoga mat or yet another witness stand, gotta stay flexible. I say this while staunchly defending my position that if you cross a certain decibel level in the work place you should disciplined ass-wise with a proper caning. My hypocrisy is perhaps someone else's opportunity to be flexible.
I am the F*CK out of here. Have a good week. Via con Dios.
==========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Tuesday, November 30, 2004
You Really Need To Get Over Yourself
Holy mackarel. Seriously, take some ludes and drop your throttle a little. You've got too much yaw to land that thing, you're going sideways on it there. Ease back. More. Now cruise a little.
Sure enough, we're all flying the best we can around here, but you seem to have to radio to all the other pilots about what you see wrong with their patterns. That's how most pilots come to a stop, quickly, against a mountain. What do you care if I'm barrel-rolling into 15-degree dive and pulling tail-stalls? I'm not on your flight path anyway, Hindenburg, so maintain radio silence instead of sonicating everyone with your banality. I'm switching channels.
I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I've realized that missives directed at nobody in particular are great tools of making people squirm in their seats. I've had people be aksin' me who these are aimed at, "is it so & so?," "it has to be Boogly, right?" Of all the possible targets, people never think they have a bullseye on them. Good, because we shouldn't fret over what other people think of us. Good, because eventually the person handing out bullseyes will be just another dipshit handing out fliers for their crappy one-nighter in Twisp, and we breeze on by. And Bad, because some people have zero sense of self, and the Self is running kid-like around the room, and sooner or later, someone's taking it to a closet and doing a naughty to it. Like giving it the emotional foundation to be a comic. Quel horreur!
I realized that in most of my anonymous directives I am finding a piece of myself that I am fed up with, and this is my way of telling it to sit down and asking for it's house key. It all comes back to releasing fear from my life. Fear of not being funny, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my ability to store fat, fear of ending up Bradley Lewis' roommate (which would congeal the previous fears into one), fear of a government that is running unchecked like an oil light on a '78 Buick. It could seize at any moment, you know?
Comedy is the hardest thing I've ever pursued. It has so many random little awards and disappointments, and losing hurts more than winning feels good. I can have a great 15 minute set, but if 2 jokes bomb then I had only a good 13 minute set, in my mind. Or, I can have a crappy 3 minute set, but if a new joke gets a big laugh and an applause break then I consider it a good set. Backwards? Yes. Rational? Yes, oddly enough. Don't ask why. It's just the order of the comedy universe.
Also, it's nice to be in a position where I don't have to take crappy gigs. Some guys who are "just comics" take every single paying gig they can get their hands on. In the end, they develop an act that caters to the brown and smelly end of the comedic anatomy, instead of the synapse-firing/blood-pushing side. Work your way up and the jokes get harder. The funny is thinner way up there, you have to pace yourself. Shit jokes will get you work, but the work will be shit. Grab a spoon.
And when all is said and done, I've seen Willie Nelson parodies do 10-times better than a clever and solid joke. You never know what people are going to laugh at, especially when they don't even know where they got their jacket. "Found it" = "Hell gig."
What the hell am I talking about? Oh yeah...
...so touch down lightly, refuel, and get someone to de-ice those wings. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that problem and you won't have to pee into a bag. You are in my prayers.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sure enough, we're all flying the best we can around here, but you seem to have to radio to all the other pilots about what you see wrong with their patterns. That's how most pilots come to a stop, quickly, against a mountain. What do you care if I'm barrel-rolling into 15-degree dive and pulling tail-stalls? I'm not on your flight path anyway, Hindenburg, so maintain radio silence instead of sonicating everyone with your banality. I'm switching channels.
I have no idea what I'm talking about, but I've realized that missives directed at nobody in particular are great tools of making people squirm in their seats. I've had people be aksin' me who these are aimed at, "is it so & so?," "it has to be Boogly, right?" Of all the possible targets, people never think they have a bullseye on them. Good, because we shouldn't fret over what other people think of us. Good, because eventually the person handing out bullseyes will be just another dipshit handing out fliers for their crappy one-nighter in Twisp, and we breeze on by. And Bad, because some people have zero sense of self, and the Self is running kid-like around the room, and sooner or later, someone's taking it to a closet and doing a naughty to it. Like giving it the emotional foundation to be a comic. Quel horreur!
I realized that in most of my anonymous directives I am finding a piece of myself that I am fed up with, and this is my way of telling it to sit down and asking for it's house key. It all comes back to releasing fear from my life. Fear of not being funny, fear of losing my job, fear of losing my ability to store fat, fear of ending up Bradley Lewis' roommate (which would congeal the previous fears into one), fear of a government that is running unchecked like an oil light on a '78 Buick. It could seize at any moment, you know?
Comedy is the hardest thing I've ever pursued. It has so many random little awards and disappointments, and losing hurts more than winning feels good. I can have a great 15 minute set, but if 2 jokes bomb then I had only a good 13 minute set, in my mind. Or, I can have a crappy 3 minute set, but if a new joke gets a big laugh and an applause break then I consider it a good set. Backwards? Yes. Rational? Yes, oddly enough. Don't ask why. It's just the order of the comedy universe.
Also, it's nice to be in a position where I don't have to take crappy gigs. Some guys who are "just comics" take every single paying gig they can get their hands on. In the end, they develop an act that caters to the brown and smelly end of the comedic anatomy, instead of the synapse-firing/blood-pushing side. Work your way up and the jokes get harder. The funny is thinner way up there, you have to pace yourself. Shit jokes will get you work, but the work will be shit. Grab a spoon.
And when all is said and done, I've seen Willie Nelson parodies do 10-times better than a clever and solid joke. You never know what people are going to laugh at, especially when they don't even know where they got their jacket. "Found it" = "Hell gig."
What the hell am I talking about? Oh yeah...
...so touch down lightly, refuel, and get someone to de-ice those wings. Maybe someday you'll get rid of that problem and you won't have to pee into a bag. You are in my prayers.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Gabriel Rutledge, That's Who!
It's Official: Gabriel Rutledge is the Winner, Best All Around Comic, and Coolest MoFo of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I competed with Gabriel in a contest earlier this year and was impressed time and again at how he captured crowds and was cool and collected, and how we both got beat by a 20 year-old comedy anomaly, Fahim Anwar. And I think by Scott "The Stick" Black, but Gabe could've been 2nd overall that week. I was just happy and honored to lay my head on his shoulder. Scott has funny teefuses on!
Gabriel's next mission will be to erase the section of his blog where said he was gonna get a day-job, as well as remove that picture on his website where he looks like Tim Curry circa "IT" in a snow-patrol parka. He's so darling, that picture doesn't do him yustice. It's hard enough to get laughs sober, prepared, and well-rested. Gabriel won this grueling competition of 18 shows over 3 weeks while battling bronchitis, laryngitis, and HIV. He doesn't have HIV, but he would have won even if he did, although he wouldn't have ever mentioned to the audience that he had HIV, he would have simply winked at the comics and handed them the microphone he just spat his game into. HIVLARIOUS!
I am really happy for Gabriel and his achievement. His act is universal, it appeals to so many people, and that is so hard to create, unless, like Gabriel, you are open to the universe. His observations are so perfectly accessible that you laugh your ass off, like an Occam's Razor of punchlines. The funniest jokes are those that are simplest to understand, and it is the harsh task of any public communicator to simplify your thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words, let alone make it funny enough to be called a joke, and to make it a joke that works largely EVERY SINGLE TIME. Damn, the guy's GOOD, ah'ight? WORD!
Congratulations to Gabriel Rutledge. He beat 31 other comics from around the continent, in rooms where he had to prove, night in and night out, what comedy really is. Here's hoping his winnings will pay for the respirator and stem cells, and a little something left over for the family. It is the holidays, yo.
Your gift? Gabriel's Comedy. Enjoy.
Way To Go, GABE!
==========
Why not, here's what a Blog is. Get yours today!
Oh, and watch HAX-TV tonight, 9pm, Ch. 77
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Gabriel's next mission will be to erase the section of his blog where said he was gonna get a day-job, as well as remove that picture on his website where he looks like Tim Curry circa "IT" in a snow-patrol parka. He's so darling, that picture doesn't do him yustice. It's hard enough to get laughs sober, prepared, and well-rested. Gabriel won this grueling competition of 18 shows over 3 weeks while battling bronchitis, laryngitis, and HIV. He doesn't have HIV, but he would have won even if he did, although he wouldn't have ever mentioned to the audience that he had HIV, he would have simply winked at the comics and handed them the microphone he just spat his game into. HIVLARIOUS!
I am really happy for Gabriel and his achievement. His act is universal, it appeals to so many people, and that is so hard to create, unless, like Gabriel, you are open to the universe. His observations are so perfectly accessible that you laugh your ass off, like an Occam's Razor of punchlines. The funniest jokes are those that are simplest to understand, and it is the harsh task of any public communicator to simplify your thoughts, feelings, and ideas into words, let alone make it funny enough to be called a joke, and to make it a joke that works largely EVERY SINGLE TIME. Damn, the guy's GOOD, ah'ight? WORD!
Congratulations to Gabriel Rutledge. He beat 31 other comics from around the continent, in rooms where he had to prove, night in and night out, what comedy really is. Here's hoping his winnings will pay for the respirator and stem cells, and a little something left over for the family. It is the holidays, yo.
Your gift? Gabriel's Comedy. Enjoy.
Way To Go, GABE!
==========
Why not, here's what a Blog is. Get yours today!
Oh, and watch HAX-TV tonight, 9pm, Ch. 77
===================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 28, 2004
Just Some Random Thoughts
I'm thankful for all of the people in the Seattle Comedy Scene. Whether by deed, word, or immature and misguided emotional outburst, we're all making each other better in one way or another. Some really great people to hang out with, but wow, some of you are F*CKED TO THE CLOUDS. It's fun watching you freak out and self-destruct. And if you think I'm talking about you...
How I know that I have found the right woman:
Laying by the fire. We watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. We sip a light Pinot Noir. My shirt is off. She makes a man out of me right there.
Gleefully, she is yanking the hair out by the root. Wax on... Deep breath in... FSSSSHT wooOOP!... Waxing is not for the faint of sack. When one experiences pain, the brain's pain centers release endorphins and a bit of dopamine in order to counteract the pain, resulting in a feeling of bliss and calm. (this is why some people enjoy some pain with their pleasure; see "Open Mic") I've got enough of those running through my body right now to downshift that OxiClean guy.
Killorn did a masterful stuffing of the bird by showing her Thanks for people in her life. Check it out. She is a writer of inspiring and humbling gifts (talent can be developed, but hers is Inspired from above), painting pictures in my head when I read or hear her words. I hope she never stops writing and publishing. On top of that, she fed a number of local comedy scenesters on Thanksgiving, and I've heard rave reviews from all who attended. Later that night, with punch-softened brains and pants unbuttoned (pros wear sweats on such days, recognize), I'm sure they basked in the glow of full bellies and love that is Killorn's gift of hostessing. Good work, Short-pants. Here's to the LA-Mexico leg of our flight, now in under 96 hours. Acting shoes on, centered... and BE the whatever.
How the F*CK do the Seahawks suck this bad? Losing 38-9 at home to a team that had not won a road game all season? I haven't seen a collapse like this since they opened a gymnastics school for lepers. Personally, I think Mike Holmgren's got his eyes on another job. He wants out of Seattle for some reason. Maybe he's pursuing his career as a chef? That's what I've heard.
Magnets. Mark my words. Invest in magnets as a biotech option. No shittin'.
Do you understand that at least once a day I hear some pop-culturetard say "Waaaasuuuup?" or "You're so money"??? You do now. Before Christmas, I will be drunk at work. I'll be making a booty-blog.
Tony Moser is a savant. I can't understand his fascination with organic lip balm or why he won't eat soup with a spoon, but hey, working with the guy is fantastic. Fabulous. TRUTH. He will be there to film the demise of rap, and this asshole will be holding his boom.
I have a strong belief that, if I was ever in the position, I could wrestle to death a cougar.
Wine's wearing thin, gotta roll. Have a great Monday.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
How I know that I have found the right woman:
Laying by the fire. We watch Aqua Teen Hunger Force. We sip a light Pinot Noir. My shirt is off. She makes a man out of me right there.
Gleefully, she is yanking the hair out by the root. Wax on... Deep breath in... FSSSSHT wooOOP!... Waxing is not for the faint of sack. When one experiences pain, the brain's pain centers release endorphins and a bit of dopamine in order to counteract the pain, resulting in a feeling of bliss and calm. (this is why some people enjoy some pain with their pleasure; see "Open Mic") I've got enough of those running through my body right now to downshift that OxiClean guy.
Killorn did a masterful stuffing of the bird by showing her Thanks for people in her life. Check it out. She is a writer of inspiring and humbling gifts (talent can be developed, but hers is Inspired from above), painting pictures in my head when I read or hear her words. I hope she never stops writing and publishing. On top of that, she fed a number of local comedy scenesters on Thanksgiving, and I've heard rave reviews from all who attended. Later that night, with punch-softened brains and pants unbuttoned (pros wear sweats on such days, recognize), I'm sure they basked in the glow of full bellies and love that is Killorn's gift of hostessing. Good work, Short-pants. Here's to the LA-Mexico leg of our flight, now in under 96 hours. Acting shoes on, centered... and BE the whatever.
How the F*CK do the Seahawks suck this bad? Losing 38-9 at home to a team that had not won a road game all season? I haven't seen a collapse like this since they opened a gymnastics school for lepers. Personally, I think Mike Holmgren's got his eyes on another job. He wants out of Seattle for some reason. Maybe he's pursuing his career as a chef? That's what I've heard.
Magnets. Mark my words. Invest in magnets as a biotech option. No shittin'.
Do you understand that at least once a day I hear some pop-culturetard say "Waaaasuuuup?" or "You're so money"??? You do now. Before Christmas, I will be drunk at work. I'll be making a booty-blog.
Tony Moser is a savant. I can't understand his fascination with organic lip balm or why he won't eat soup with a spoon, but hey, working with the guy is fantastic. Fabulous. TRUTH. He will be there to film the demise of rap, and this asshole will be holding his boom.
I have a strong belief that, if I was ever in the position, I could wrestle to death a cougar.
Wine's wearing thin, gotta roll. Have a great Monday.
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 25, 2004
Olympic-sized FunnyPool
Last night I went to Olympia with Tracy Tuffs for a comedy show at the Bar Code. Had a great show. Tracy will be at Giggles all weekend. I'll be there Saturday night, both shows, 8pm & 10pm, in the event you want to come out and catch a fun, turkey-hangover show.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
A few little birdies told me that somebody has been trying to contact me, and that the contacting party was none too happy with something about my blog or whatever. So here we go:
The great birdies who have my phone number, feel free to give it to the person who wants to contact me if they should call you.
And keep any voicemails they may leave you.
Sorry that this is so cryptic. This is a bullcrap matter that needs to be shoveled off, and I'm not mentioning any names or specifics until it's settled. Until then, let's take your picture:
------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Give Thanks For This, Too
The Neptunes are overrated.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Today is the most travelingest day of the year, and I'm heading to Olympia for an 8:30 show with Tracy Tuffs. Likely arriving at exit 105 with a few bruises, I can't be in a car with anyone for 3 hours. Man, there better be a big turn-out or I'll go bar to bar to recruit peeps.
Worst "Popular" Band Of All Time: The Violent Femmes. Let me go wild. Like a blister on your eardrum. Then I go deaf. Big fans I hope you all die.
Tony Moser authors, or authorED - past tense, the worst blog on the internet. Best name, worst content. It brings a certain indie-vibe, backyard wrestling feel to the blog-stand. Bored with it. Get out of my sight, I'm done with you.
While KD Lang's version of Leonard Cohen's "Hallelujah" is beautiful, Jeff Buckley's version of the homage to love gone strong will haunt you like his untimely death at the age of 27. Yet another genius gone before his time. Jeff's version is a spin of Leonard's, and KD's version is actually Jeff's version. I encourage you to find a copy of it. Lyrics linked below.
Leonard's Lyrics
Jeff's Lyrics
===========
HOLY CRAP. I heard this was funny, but dear God, hast Thou brought forth unto me the funniest blog of all time? It's none other than BRITNEY SPEARS! Read THIS, scroll down to "Letter From Britney." Oh Lord, you are a kind and loving Lord. This makes up for Tony Moser.
It was reported on "the news" this morning that Britney's site had posted a letter about her wanting to start a family and that mothers shouldn't focus on working outside the home. Things are really black & white when you're still young. And from Oklahoma. And dumber than a turd. Please Britney, have that baby (Kevin Federline's specialty is, in fact, fathering children) and be the best stay at home mom ever.
===========
Oh my GAWD, I want PIE.
Happy Thanksgiving, Butter Rolls.
--------------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Are We, As a Nation, Sexually Repressed?
I dunno. This picture's been on the Top-5 of Yahoo's Most Popular Photos for like 2 Weeks now:
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
WHOA
I don't know what to make of it. It's either funny or sick or weird or waiting for a caption. Caption Contest! Winner, chosen by me, gets a beer, paid for by me.
The little rhino is the calf of the other two. Deposit your loads, Peepers.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
For Thee, On The Day We Giveth Thanks & Eat Till We Crap
What am I thankful for this year?
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Hmm. There's a lot. Do I have to pick just one? No? Damn, that'd been a quick-un. Hmmkee then.
I'm thankful that I can walk. 6 years ago I was run into by a Harley Davidson piloted by a beer-drunk speed dealer with 18 teeth and even less money. I bounced off the front of the bike, 10 feet into the air, 50 feet into the street. Having once spent 5 years throwing shot-put, I know 50 feet to be a good distance to be body-checked. All I got out of it, damage-wise, was a broken leg. In light of that, I'm happy that my leg is still attached to my body. I'm happy and thankful that my body still operates about 95% of what it did before the accident.
I'm thankful for my friends. They are good and real people. They are people whom I would travel upwards of 50 miles to watch make-out with pseudo-celebs, just to back their story of having made out with a guy who dressed like a girl who looked like Scarlett Johansson with an Adam's Apple and a Cinnabon addiction.
I'm thankful for my creativity. How else could I go through a day and immediately think of ways to jiggle the handles of people's collective banality without it? Try this, tomorrow when you're in a grocery store: No matter how many items the person in front of you has, ask if you can go ahead of them because you have to go to the hospital or your kid's in the car or whatever. Play it as serious as you can. It's cool, nobody ever double-checks that crap. Live a little, would ya?
Oooh, I like it like dat, she workin' dat back, I 'unno howda ac', Slow Moshun Fuh Meh...
I'm thankful that I got to see a lot of great comedy this year. I wish people would realize that comics, good ones, are telling us what's going on without painting in on the walls. It's a hip civics lesson, a social study with a low-carb beer chaser on the hook. It's small, but oh God, it is so Big. Just go and enjoy laughing, get your knees wet. FEET! I meant FEET wet. Wow, it got a little hot in here.
I'm thankful for being able to do 90 minutes of yoga in a 114-degree room. That's not a boast, I'm just saying I've found my new physio-drug. It's like taking the old Porsche out, getting it lubed up and letting it run open, seeing what it can do with all it's been given, then careening side-assed into an old folk's home asking "If I'm in Heaven, why does it smell like hot nylons and ribbon candy?" You're not dead, you're Zen. Now. In the moment. In this word only. No then. No there. Here. Now. brrrrrreep!
Most of all, I'm thankful that people are reading this at all. I hope it entertains, above all, and if you laugh more than you cry and ask "WHY ISN'T THIS FUNNY? I NEED FUNNY!" that's a gem, moppets.
Bring on the bird. Daddy needs bird. Pie my ass. PIE IT.
History Lesson for another day: White People Are Assholes, and Black Comics Will Let You KNOW!
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 22, 2004
Thank You, Kind Patriot!
I'm walking into work this morning through the back door of the building. It's mostly the front door, since most people park in the back. It's a little before 9am, and I am one of three people arriving to the door about the same time. Due to regulations of insecurity and perceived attention of Orwellian stature, we have Photo-ID badges along with the access badge you wave over the sensor so the door that you don't really want to go through will unlock.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
As I arrive to the door I'm on the phone with a misdirected, self-important, and panicking "English As A Form of 3 Languages" efficiency analyst, and not having a whole lot of fun in the process. Efficacy of Communication = More Time For Actual Productivity. The Guy ahead of me waves his badge, opens the door, and I slide in behind him, phone in one hand, pistol-grip flask in the other. Kidding, it was just my notebook from last week's meeting with the Dingleberry 5, er, CONTRACT PARTNERS. ANYway...
The guy behind me, who hopped out of his Saab, tied a scarf around his neck - after, of course, donning a pair of woolen mittens and canvas/courdoroy jacket - for the 24 second walk to the door (all ordered from the LL Bean "Overkill" collection), and was a step or two behind me then says "Hey, sorry, I'm gonna have to ask you to swipe your badge. I know it's crazy, but..."
Yes, "Todd," it is crazy. I've never seen you before. You don't have the authority to command my badge-swiping. I've been here 6 years and have the old-school badge to f*cking-A prove it. Maybe he saw the look on my face and immediately thought "Disgruntled, carrying a black bag, I could be on the 5 o'clock news!"
Sure thing, with the text "Man Beaten Diaper-Bound In Bothell For Attempting Authority." I didn't have the extra hand to swipe the badge, but I figured, what the heck, I'll bother this guy for a few minutes.
I tell my phone conversationist that I need to go due to a security breach, and I hang up. I then pat my pockets and belt-line to find my badge, which was clipped to my belt, but hidden by my jacket. So as he stands there losing his gruntle, I think "I could totally take this guy in a fight," and therefore start the "Gosh, hmm, where... gosh, did I leave it?... well, how about we go to the front desk so I can get a pass for the day. Looks like I forgot my badge this morning." The look on Toddlet's face changes to "Well at least I can save the day." Then he looked at his watch, and the amount of F*cking I was going to do with him shifted up a gear. Every extra 5 seconds I have to spend here is 5 extra minutes for the cause of my slow-down.
We walked to the badging/security station, a good 150 feet from our original entrance in near silence. The guy was annoyed at this point, but I'm a teaching soul, I couldn't let him not learn the importance of not giving a crap about work. Even if I was a guy who was going to shoot the place up, I didn't know him, so before his interruption, he would have been among the survivors. But now, hey, don't I deserve a little entertainment?
I tell the guy at the front that I forgot my badge and this prick to my right stopped me at the back door like a good watchdog. Not in those words, but y'unnerstan'. I draw out the explanation as long as I can, stating I must have left the badge on my desk over the weekend and you know how that happens and then you feel like it's a Catch-22 did you ever read that book it was better than the movie but at the same time... moving on. Finally the Security Guy (he's really not a Guard of anything) says "Uh, what's your extension?"
Gosh... I really hope I can remember it, being 4 numbers and all.
2 combinations later, he dials it and looks up at me, about the same time I, SURPRISE AND HOSANNA, find my badge in my inner pocket!
I swipe it and cruise through the doors up to Boredom Ave. about the same time I notice Saab Taad tilt his head back and inhale deeply in the universal gesture of getting a facial in an adult film. That's right Taad, you're on Carenot Camera! Start counting down from 100 by 4's, cool off, you seem a little disgruntled!
Next time remember that not all of us want to be here, and questioning who I am on a MONDAY MORNING is a great way to have my disregard for your schedule exercised to exhaustion. If I'm here, and I'm wearing a shirt with buttons and a sport coat, 99% chance that I'm supposed to be here. Tomorrow I'm wearing body armor and rapelling through the 2nd-floor conference room window, badge laminated to my breastplate. BINK, access granted!
Then I sat down at my desk and Happy stopped. At least I got to bother a Republican.
=========
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
What A Dick!
Ashton Kutcher Tools Around Hollywood In Penis
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Full Article and Pictures Here
ASHTON KUTCHER embarrassed two of girlfriend DEMI MOORE's kids when he dropped them off for school in his new supertruck.
RUMER, 16, and 13-year-old SCOUT practically needed a ladder to climb down from the monster International CXT which sells for more than £80,000.
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Thursday, November 18, 2004
Not Sure What Else You Need To Know
I'm not even kidding anymore, quit it. You know exaclty what I'm talking about, so drop the games. This isn't old news, you know where I'm coming from, where EVERYONE YOU KNOW is coming from. You're doing it again, you know you're doing it, and you're too wrapped up in your own little narrow world to see it.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Think about it a sec, what did you do two days ago? And last night? And 5 times since breakfast? EXACTLY, now cut it out.
No, no, NO this is not your "issue," this is you being the worst version of you there is, and don't say you can't change it, because you know you're doing it, so you're conscious of it, so now you're just ruining what's left of people thinking you're worth your skin. Can it.
Right, right, I'm blind to my own problems, exactly. When's the last time my problems caused this kind of situation to spring up for the 10th time? Write it down, right now, write down what the hell it is you're doing.
WRITE IT DOWN. Believe me, you do this and you're going to feel a whole lot better.
Write it down. Now read it. Out loud, read it out loud.
Now let me read it.
Sounds pretty stupid, huh? See, you're laughing at it, because of how silly it sounds.
So get this straight: If you ever do this again, I have full authority to stop it, for good. If you bring this crap around me again, you're in trouble. Not with me, I mean with the cops, your friends, and then me. Don't forget, I was the one who helped you that night behind Burdines. And I was there when the first phone call came through for that big deal you had planned.
You've proven yourself unfit to run the show. I'm doing it for now.
And you know I think Tarantino's a masturbatory wanna-be. And yes, the worst band ever is a tie between the Violent Femmes and any hair metal band that started after 1987. What? DARK CHOCOLATE, dammit, do I have to do everything?
=============
Blaine Reeder's blog today, 11/18/04, made a couple of interesting points. First off, the Tacoma Comedy Scene is rather exclusive in the general themes running through the material there. Yeah, they are dirtier, set vs. set, than the Seattle Scene. The Tacoma group also believes the Seattle scene to be exclusive & "clique"-y. I don't know. I'm in the Seattle Scene, but I try my best to be cool with everyone as a person. Good comedy, which is a subjective term, is Good Comedy, doesn't have to be from one group, and the delivery may even be done by a complete wastebag of a human. But if it's funny, creative, and original then BINGO, they win a little war for the side of Good Comedy, even if they'd be hell to be on the road with. If you want a primer as to what's been done to death in comedy, Go Here.
It's sad to see what's passing for comedy these days in some places, but hey, until people stop paying to see it, that's what the performers are gonna throw on the table.
Another good thing Blaine put forth was that 2004 seems to have been a real bear. I hope that Blaine is taking some happiness in the fact that on December 3rd & 4th, the incomparable Marc Maron will be at Giggles Comedy Club. Go See Marc Maron. I won't be able to, I'll be out of town that weekend, but PLEASE, dear friends, save up about $25 and go see this guy. He is Comedy with a capital "C." He's true and real and flapping hysterical. If this guy makes Blaine's day, you ought to have your month made.
And be true to yourself, with a birth control pill that gives you a high level of effectiveness, and a low level of hormones. Try new low-hormone "OrthoTricyclen-Low" today. Only to be taken with a 1/4-cup of Pennyroyal Tea and Gasoline.
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 16, 2004
The Results Are In: Open Mic Concedes To Everything
I got bumped last night at the Underground’s open mic, after originally making “the list.” I don’t have a fragile enough ego that needs or demands my 3 minutes like it’s OWED to me, so it was more a waste of time than anything else. Due to the conventions in place on Open Mic nights, spots are first allotted to performers who have brought people to see them, then the pros, then it's kind of a free-for-all. I got bumped most likely due to the debacle from last Thursday. nah, that's conspiratorial nonsense. I got bumped because I haven't purchased a Lex Cooper tape in two years. Last night was a deep pool of acts, 41 in attendance, 29 slots, with only about 4-8 non-performers in the crowd. Or at least, that is how many who had no intent of getting on stage. Going on stage in that room would equate to attending 28 other kid's birthday parties, wondering why they were so special as to get a toy they were just going to abuse and forget after 3 minutes.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So here’s what I did to keep myself interested and engaged in the show: JOKE TALLY! I kept a running tally of jokes or subject matter that normally get bandied about on open mic nights. It wasn’t surprising, and it’s pretty much useless, but it was fun. It’s useless because this blog isn’t likely to be read by anybody who’s material would have been tallied, so perhaps there’s no real benefit, other than to see what is being feverishly scribbled down on napkins for presentation:
GAY JOKES: 18 (this was a tough category to track. This was any joke that mentioned homosexual subject matter, either in deed or discourse. I counted tag-lines as well, including 3 for one set-up)
DICK JOKES: 14 (this number seems extremely low, but I counted only jokes referring directly to male genitalia, as opposed to counting jokes that made me think lowly of the person delivering them.)
ELECTION JOKES: 12 (4 from one performer, I included any reference to President Bush here, even if it wasn’t about the election. Other knob-twisters such as Cheney or Ashcroft were not tallied, unless Cheney was mentioned in the same sentence as Bush, in any capacity.)
PUSSY JOKES: 7 (early on, these were pulling away from dick jokes, with one female racking 3 in 45 seconds, double-counting 1 of them disguised as a menstrual joke. These took a vacation in the latter-half of the show, citing “female issues”)
SPECIAL OLYMPICS JOKES: 3 (nice to see this number dropping)
VIAGRA JOKES: 1. (this didn’t happen until the 22nd performer, who may have been Bizarro Elayne Boosler. This performer registered a coveted Trifecta, ringing up a Viagra-Dick-Pussy onslaught, a veritable Ho-hum Trinity.
DRUG SIDE-EFFECTS JOKES: 0!!! (a lot of this credit should go to Doug Gale. It was nice to make it through a night without a single joke about unexpected drug side-effects)
DUMB JOKES: 17 (this is not a count of jokes about dumb people, this is my own scrutinizing of material that went no-where. There were a number of words spoken last night by people who had been on stage before that made me bury my face in my hands, and thus counted as a Dumb joke. If it detracted from the set, ching. If it made no sense, ching. If it invalidated itself for the sake of a pun, chonk. If Brad Brake said it, pa-chik.)
Now I know we all had a lot of fun here tonight, but Homosexuality is no laughing matter. Gay people are only allowed to make fun of one another, and of breeders, but not the other way around. Thus proving what I've been saying for nearly a year, Gay is the New Black.
Lastly, it was “open mic.” This wasn’t a competition to tour with an A-lister. There was no prize on the line. This was a free-for-all, plain and simple. Do whatever you want at these things. If you’re just winging it, wing it. If you’re building an act, be in your character and don’t break. If you think you deserve time at every open mic, bring a friend every time so the club can thrive with your attendance. And make the next set count double by making every person in that room laugh. And never take advice from anyone you don't respect.
I'm in pretty heavy need for some zen right now. I am challenging myself tonight with a 90-minute power yoga class in a hot-ish studio with my kick-ass hot-pants Girlfriend. She's got years of dance training, so I plan to look pretty stupid tonight. Breathe, hold, release. Breathe and bend, hold, and question your dedication to comedy. Release, forget yourself, and be at one with the open mic. Breathe, hold, go towards the lights. Release, and big closer.
================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Monday, November 15, 2004
Consider The Source
Last night was a nice little open mic showtastictardoganza at Giggles. I usually go there instead of, by all accounts, the much-lamented Sunday Night show at the Comedy Underground for a couple of reasons. First off, 10-15 comics show up, and most of them are actually pretty good. Second, everyone gets a fair amount of time, 5-8 minutes. Also, the audience, although sometimes low in numbers, are usually pretty attentive. They also have access to the comics hanging in the bar area, so there's a little more 'open' feel to emit as a performer.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Last night was a good show on all accounts. The average set was above-average, and nobody tanked. It was a low-key night all around. I was happy with my set of mostly new material, delivered veeeery dry and lounge-like, as if I were chiding a small boy caught red-handed sniffing his first-cousin's seat. Not sure why I decided on that delivery style, but it was much easier to say all that was on my mind by forcing myself into a slower speech pattern the entire time. My mouth moved a half-step slower than my brain, which is a nice role-reversal.
This afternoon, I talked with a guy I have a lot of respect for in the Seattle comedy scene. We spoke in regards to the debacle of my set last Thursday night, documented a couple blogs ago. It was nothing I was proud of. Apparently the other two acts that night are still firmly convinced that I did 45 minutes instead of 30. Siiiigh, okay, for the last time.
8pm, the show hasn't started.
8:10pm, the show starts with the MC getting on stage.
8:20pm, the MC brings me up.
8:50pm, I close up and walk off-stage at 30 minutes. Believe me, I wasn't gonna be up there any longer than I had to.
8:51pm, the headliner decides that the show needs a kick in the ass so he does what he can to berate me and my act from the stage. He later apologizes, and makes himself look ever more the weirdo.
It's like the show that will not die. My crappy set felt like more than 30 minutes, but if I had done 45, it means that the MC had actually gone back in time during his set to bring me up. I doubt he's got that on his DSL service. Hey, everyone's got their own "whatever" going on as far as comedy goes. Lizzy Pilcher's most recent blog about comedy is a good picture of What that Ever is. We're compelled to do it. But wow, after a while of being around the egos and bullshit, one has to take a step back from it all and decide what battles are worth fighting, and which are being waged in the heads of emotionally stunted adult-kiddos with parental issues.
As it turns out, quite a few people have talked a fair amount of smack about me in the past 2 months. Before I freak out about any of it, I follow my own rules:
1: Consider the Source; Could the person talking about me accurately describe my everyday behavior to a group of strangers? If so, would they use the words "d*ckhole, sh*t, suckwad, f*ck-sock, human o-ring, or totally gaaaaay" in the description? Is this person my friend? If so, would they call me if they needed help getting bailed out of a Mexican jail? If we're such good friends, why aren't I there with them? See, you have to consider who is saying what about ya. How well do you know THEM? Odds are they are a contradiction of self all the time, which means their words have no integrity, and you go on about your day.
2: What are they Saying? If people are talking, good. You're being noticed. What are they saying about you? Here's the key to finding out:
STOP GIVING TWO RINGTONES ABOUT IT. These are HUMANS. They have closets piled deep with some of the most malformed skeletons ever stuffed behind inflatable hands. Go on about your day.
3: Who Are They Telling? See, in my recent case I was lucky enough to be dealing with a rational, cool, righteous fellow who wanted all sides of the story. In a case where people believe all they read, fawk, that person's just a few neuron connections from brain death. All I can ever hope for is that there is an intelligent, disseminating audience on the hearing end of the spewed-forth word-vomit. If the person is intelligent, they'll know the difference between decent wine and sour grapes, tootsie rolls and cat-turds. If they can't, maybe they deserve pellets in their cereal.
And go on about your day. Neither of the guys i worked with will decide my fate; that's up to me to destroy.
==============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 14, 2004
Old Dirty Bastard's Dead. And So is Dirt McGirt.
I have a deep belief that we are spirit-beings experiencing a human life. You know you are human because you make and follow through on decisions. Sometimes you act without conscience thought, until it's too late and you have to hide the evidence. We've all been there, late at night, not thinking straight, roommate's been pissing you off, and WHAMMO, you've just killed the last of their Pepperidge Farm Milano stash. Thought, decision, action. Decision. That's the human talking.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
So the other night I sucked the tailpipe of an 18-wheeler with a full deck of palates headed to UnFunnyville. The peaks were low, the valleys deep, and the shot of Jager sent by the dude in row 3 was more salve than salutation. I ate it. I unconsciously decided before going on stage that it was a defeatist crowd and my jokes weren't gonna work and it showed through to my undershorts. It just wudn't gonna happen because my heart wasn't into it enough, and that's my fault. I was tagged on rather harshly by the headliner -from the stage - and knowing his incendiary nature, I laughed a lot of it off. Enough about that night.
Saturday night I had a different mindset altogether. I decided that I was going to have fun no matter what happened before I took the pool tab... er, stage... at the Nisqually Bar & Grill. First up was Ruben K., who had some great material about amateur boxing. Next up was Fred Bowski from Tacoma who left us all wanting. Wanting what? Golly, that's going to differ depending your preferences and medical coverages. Thjen it was me, and, uh, well... I did really freaking well. I had a lot of FUN.
And that crowd wanted to laugh, they weren't just getting out of the house on Saturday. Even the couple that showed up late "by accident" told me that it was a nice surprise and they had a great time. That's such a better feeling than 47 seconds without a laugh, even with punchlines flowing like so much catsup at a hotdog feed. (Ketchup's for gooners)
But while performing I went back and forth between "This is a crafted bit" to "In the moment of delivery, and springboard into a freefall, and make a nice dive out of it, and oh hell, CAN OPENER!" with some ad-libbing. To quote the legendary Frosty Westering, retired Marine and former football coach of the wildly successful Pacific Lutheran University football team, "Make The Big Time Where You Are." I wanted to give them a show, AND have fun. That happened. I appreciate Ruben and Jeff for throwing me the gig. Get ya back when I can, yo.
Now here's a funny extra to that Nisqually gig that ties up loose ends of my Thursday night debacle:
The Thursday headliner had recently done the Nisqually gig, and in his set had offended people to the point of, from numerous reports of the locals, nearly getting his hat handed to him with his ass inside of it.
And to any of the comics out there who are doing all they can to "put others in their place," for whatever reasons - emotional, psychological, or narcotical - you cannot win. If you think this is a game, you will win, because it's likely that nobody else knows it's going on. Especially since it's in your head. It's a big stage, folks. Everyone gets time. Make yours count. And now we hug.
=============
From The "Now Joining Elvis" Files
Yassir Arafat, dead or too ugly for TV? He actually slipped into a coma during his Extreme Makeover. He wanted to look like Ashton, and now he's dead and oogly.
Old Dirty Bastard, a man different than Arafat, died in his studio at the age of 35. A wild, wildly popular rap artist who first gained fame with The Wu-Tang Clan, had recent battles with the authorities, illicit narcotics, the fraud auditor's office - he was once filmed, with his consent, coming from the studio and picking up a welfare check - and Mariah Carey. When asked for comments, an anonymous man present at the time of his death said, "Dirt's lucky, dawg, he died doing something he loved... laying down lyrics with a coke straw in his nose and a pre-payed hooker pissin' on his bare feets, dawg. Say 'Hi' to Tupac, Dirt. Where's that hooker at?"
I admire any man who tabs himself with the moniker "Big Baby Jesus" while, in the same breath proclaims he had been "burned by the gonorrhea 6 times!" That's his exclamation point, not mine.
====================
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Friday, November 12, 2004
Stuck In The Middle With Poo
(Geoffrey Lott will not be able to blog anything on Friday, November 12th. He had a horrific accident on Nov. 11th in Everett, WA, wherein his material self-destructed on the 3rd floor of what was once a Masonic temple. His wounds are healing nicely, and he should be able to return to blogging and general ignorance within the next few days.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Blogging in his stead is Dickie Hormunkel, a childhood acquaintance of Geoff's who would like, some day, to realize his life-long dream of becoming the guy who puts raspberry preserves in the scones at fairs.)
no this is bold
I'm supposed to be typing something for Geoff to put on the internet. He wanted me to talk or type about what happened last night in his skit. He's usually a funny dude, always has been, even when he has us convinced as kids that he could talk to animals. Turns out we can ALL talk to animals, but they can't understand us. I didn't realize that until I got kicked right in my balls at the fair last year. I don't work at the fair but they let me in and I hang around to find out what people do when the fair is not as busy. They do not do much there at the fair when nobody is there. So do not worry, you aren't missing anything at the fair when you are not there.
Last night I was at Everett and Geoff was doing a show at a place that used to be a church or something. He said there was a pinagram or pentacle on stage or something and a large red stain in the middle of it. I didn't see it. He didn't see me until after all the bad stuff happened. It wasn't bad, really, but he wasn't funny. I think the forces of darkness attempted to bend sidelong the will of Sir Geoffrey of Lott, yet he resisted. I really get into mid-evil stories about times of knights. I'm not sure how that's spelled. The first guy on stage didn't talk for very long, and the people did not laugh much.
Geoff came on stage and just talked for a few minutes about the pentacle on the stage and everyone thought it was funny. He also mentioned Judas Priest and Cannibal Corpse, the second and fourth best bands of all time. First is Ozzy, he's the best band ever. I like his show when he doesn't talk very well, it's hard to understand English sometimes, especially when it's with an accent. SHAROOON! After a while, Geoff did not make many people laugh, but he was up there for about a half hour.
The next guy screamed a lot at Geoff when he was on-stage. Calling people names is pretty friggin' lame, especially in a place like Everett with not a lot of people watching. I can't really tell you the words the guy said, but I heard him apologize to Geoff afterwards. Geoff laughed at the guy when he was yelling at him. If you're going to be that loud on a stage, I think it's better if you just stay that loud all the time. I guess this was not really a comedy show, anyway. They used to do masonry at the building or something. It had bricks, that's what masonry does.
Geoff told me after his skit that he did not like his time at all. He had a few parts where everyone was really laughing, but I don't think those were jokes he made, he was just being funny. Right before Geoff's notebook started on fire, that was really weird, he told me that he didn't let go of his material and be funny enough. Something like "Everett is what it is, but I, Geoff not me, want to make everybody laugh every time with my own original self, that's what a comedian does." It was like that. I was 4 beers into the night, plus I have to take these pills for my foot that I hurt at the fair when I fell after getting kicked in the balls, and the other pills I take so everything isn't talking to me when I try and sleep.
Geoff's going to be fine, I think he'll be funnier and better because he went to Everett and did not do very good. You can't go forwards without going backwards sometimes. Willy Wonka said that. It doesn't make crap of sense, but hey, the guy has a factory of candy. He can do whatever he wants in my book. It's foggy out today.
So take a second and remember that Veterans of the United States Armed Forces once fought and died for our freedoms. They are but soldiers sent forth to follow orders in the name of Freedom and the Light of Liberty. My brother was in the Marines for a while but got sent home because he fell on his gun and tore his intestines. So don't try to drink 9 beers and balance like Superman on your gun. There is more honor to the US of A than that.
Do I stop now?==
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Highly Devolved
Thursday, November 11, 2004
A Thinly Attended Showcase, Deep With Talent, etc.
Hmm... it seems the sun came up today. That's odd. The way some people acted last night led me to believe that we were having the lamest last day on Earth in history. I guess there'd really only be one on record though, except maybe Pompeii.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
I had a showcase/audition/try-out/auto-whoring last night for the Montreal Comedy Festival. "Just Pour Rire," pronounced "Zhoost Pour rhearh." Loosely translated it means "Thanks, but no thanks." I think. I'm rusty on industry slang.
It was a STELLAR frigging show. Performers were, in order of appearance:
David Crowe, Cathy Sorbo, Fahim Anwar, Dwight Slade, Geoff Lott, Tracy Tuffs, Brad Upton, Matt Ralston, Jake Dill, Duane Goad.
Everyone did really well, despite the following hurdles, roadblocks, and negative stimuli:
1- A group of people from Everett, one of which was sleeveless on Nov. 10th, commenting the whole frigging time.
2- Another group that couldn't quite shut the hell up amongst themselves.
3- More. Mother. Fluffing. Talking.
So in otherwords, a potentially amazing show was cut to a Wednesday Night Show Of Kick-Ass Proportions thanks to nobody telling these yappers to Shut their racial-slur holes. I didn't do it because I wasn't going to blow my set with minor distractions. Eventually one guy was told by Matt Ralston to "shut the f*ck up" in Matt's laconic, easy style. The room was only about 1/3 full, even with a massive papering for the event. Seattle, you suck as a comedy crowd. YOU SUCK. Go watch yet another crappy prog-country-acid jazz-emo band open for a wailing, unshorn sister of the apocalypse for whatever reason. If you can't figure out that there's more to this city than your 4th story condo and, holy shit, ANOTHER PLACE TO HAVE COFFEE with black-rimmed bespectacalés, you don't deserve to get hip to the scene.
There are Comedy Shows, and there are "Tuesday Nights where some comedians show up." Or whatever night we end up where-ever. So, tonight's show is in Everett. I'm opening for the lively-wired, passionate, and hysterically raw James Inman at a place called Club Broadway. Last week 20-ish people showed up in a room reportedly the size of the old Houston Astrodome. Lovely. I will tell them that this is NOT Thursday night, this is a comedy show, so strap down in the 5-point harness and open thine ears to laugh. Right now, comedy is all I want to do. I don't wanna work. I wanna write and perform and make people laugh. Because, as you've seen from this blog, the funnies just flow forth like so much flowing stuff.
Better work on that. My set last night started well, got 'em on my side, drifted into 3rd gear, then punched it and cruised in on an old favorite that never fails to achieve big laughs. I felt quite good about my set, and I know still that I have work to do on this craft I've chosen, if I want to get as good as I expect of myself. Thanks again for all of your support, and for not taking Viagra jokes laying down.
----------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Tuesday, November 09, 2004
The Forecast Calls For Awss Funnies
Yeah, I said "Awss." It's short for "awesome." That's a word that means "something that you stand in awe of because it's massive and tumescent and possibly veiny." Could be a bull without myostatin, you don't know.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
After seeing the final night of the first week of the SICC, I realized how easy and how hard it can be to do the comedy. I heard a bit of an old Woody Allen interview recently where he mentioned falling into the "Material Trap" as a comic. That is, believing that because something is funny on paper it will always be funny from the stage. I read that about a month ago, about how a comic's material is an idea, but it's not what makes a Comic. The overall "Performance" -the memorization, structure, delivery, and formality of "performing" - will always be the foundation of a comedy show. When the material fails, and it will fail, can you then be your FunnySelf? The bullets are gone, time for the survival skills to take over, and the audience can smell flop-sweat. Now if only they could smell "hack" and "street joke," we'd all be better off.
Damn, Woodreau. Thanks for giving me that to ponder.
I am surrounded, in comedy, by some of the funniest and coolest people to ever drop off an umbilical and into public education. But whatever "Funny" is and whatever "Cool" is, well, that's subjective. I had a "funny" set a couple weeks ago that was 75% ad-libbed for 10 minutes. I surprised myself with it, but I had a general idea that I didn't want to be "staged" when I took the stage. I cut loose the fear that I had in my head of not making people laugh and went for it. It felt like a million bucks. Fear, lose it.
What I found was my Real Voice expressing my True Feelings. It was gawddamned visceral, like every nerve in my body had doubled in size, making my muscles quicker and pinching-numb my pain receptors. In a world where, if we stop for a second and think about it, very few people are saying what's on their minds (what did you want to say to the last person you saw?), and perhaps it exhilirates a crowd to have that boundary between social lubricant and personal pleasure removed with a firm and loving touch.
I'm going to pound that stage into submission. I'm going to talk to that stage and ask it "What's your favorite animal, Stage? Remember that. Keep it Front&Center. Because that's gonna be your safeword. You may not care who gets on you. But I do. Just for tonight, though, romance is out the window. Here comes ME."
If you'll excuse me, I and my throbbing confidence must now go rehearse 3 different set lists 19 times to make sure I don't come off too "improv."
--------------------
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog about My Dad's New Life.
Monday, November 08, 2004
You're Kidding, Right?
You understand THIS makes everyone around you 100% MORE normal, right?
===========
A Weak-Long HotDog
Already, my week is vacuum packed, tightly sealed, and fully watertight. I have two gigs, a showcase, and most excitingly, the return of HAX-TV!
Tonight, Monday, November 08, 2004, I am heading to the Comedy Uberpants for the final night of the first week of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I am hoping to see my dear friend, James Inman, perform to the highest of his abilities. I know how these things can really mess with a performer’s head. It’s like being conscious of people’s short-changing your dreams, re-living your childhood without the hope of Christmas morning or a hickey, or having a crush on a fair-skinned, substitute choir teacher in a classroom about 11 degrees cooler than necessary. I am also hoping for a stellar performance from Geoffrey G. Brousseau. He has promised me that he will wear tightly sealed, watertight, dolphin-colored courdoroy pantalones c’est soir.
Friggin’ comedy. It takes and takes and takes, and when you’ve had it up to your favorite premise with these staring blumpkins, BINGO a monster set followed by 4 paying gigs. The Muse flirts with us all, a hermaphrodite of Bowie-like energy, lap-hopping like a blossoming 15 year-old girl who misses her dad… and “Friends.”
And today is that day at work where I am pounded ass-wise by Reality:
I sit among 40-somethings who have been where I’ve been, I assume. Disillusioned with Corporate Whoremerica, wanting to make a difference in their lives and the lives of others. Staring at cubicle walls and making inside jokes at Conference Calls, only to end up twice-divorced at 44, one kid a thousand miles away, a mortgage or two, another crow's-grip of wrinkles and graying hair, and hoping beyond hope in a zen effort to scrape-clean this here yogurt cup. Their shuffling feet finding a slicker pace with rumors of donuts in the breakroom. That’s their only happiness of the day. They create work for themselves by confusing the hell out of people, over-talking every point to death (that sounds familiar). “I am IMPORTANT. See, my phone’s ringing!” So do the phones of hostage-takers. Speaking of which…
It’s really tough to see and interact with people who I am sure that, without this job to be at, would not know what to do with themselves all day. I sometimes feel like instituting a non-violent "Fight Club," like telling someone they're bothering everyone, or giving them a backhanded compliment.
"Wow Bill, you lost a lot of weight. How much more to go?"
{God, take me before that path ever comes under my feet. I’d rather die young and glorious than older and broken, blind to the fact that this is NOT Life. My dad's illness, while often hilarious and frustratingly life-affecting, is part of Life, and I thank you for that challenge, and yes, I'm still pissed about it but I have perspective now so can You please see that it loosens it's grip on the man who once read to me when I was 2 and scared of the nightlight? I'd appreciate that.}
Along with that prayer, I resolve myself to never be broken. To follow the path I am supposed to be on, destined for, through the good graces of powers above me, with the drive to learn how to do what it takes, whatever It is, and the serenity to allow everyone else to go pound their donut holes.
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Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
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A Weak-Long HotDog
Already, my week is vacuum packed, tightly sealed, and fully watertight. I have two gigs, a showcase, and most excitingly, the return of HAX-TV!
Tonight, Monday, November 08, 2004, I am heading to the Comedy Uberpants for the final night of the first week of the 25th Annual Seattle International Comedy Competition. I am hoping to see my dear friend, James Inman, perform to the highest of his abilities. I know how these things can really mess with a performer’s head. It’s like being conscious of people’s short-changing your dreams, re-living your childhood without the hope of Christmas morning or a hickey, or having a crush on a fair-skinned, substitute choir teacher in a classroom about 11 degrees cooler than necessary. I am also hoping for a stellar performance from Geoffrey G. Brousseau. He has promised me that he will wear tightly sealed, watertight, dolphin-colored courdoroy pantalones c’est soir.
Friggin’ comedy. It takes and takes and takes, and when you’ve had it up to your favorite premise with these staring blumpkins, BINGO a monster set followed by 4 paying gigs. The Muse flirts with us all, a hermaphrodite of Bowie-like energy, lap-hopping like a blossoming 15 year-old girl who misses her dad… and “Friends.”
And today is that day at work where I am pounded ass-wise by Reality:
I sit among 40-somethings who have been where I’ve been, I assume. Disillusioned with Corporate Whoremerica, wanting to make a difference in their lives and the lives of others. Staring at cubicle walls and making inside jokes at Conference Calls, only to end up twice-divorced at 44, one kid a thousand miles away, a mortgage or two, another crow's-grip of wrinkles and graying hair, and hoping beyond hope in a zen effort to scrape-clean this here yogurt cup. Their shuffling feet finding a slicker pace with rumors of donuts in the breakroom. That’s their only happiness of the day. They create work for themselves by confusing the hell out of people, over-talking every point to death (that sounds familiar). “I am IMPORTANT. See, my phone’s ringing!” So do the phones of hostage-takers. Speaking of which…
It’s really tough to see and interact with people who I am sure that, without this job to be at, would not know what to do with themselves all day. I sometimes feel like instituting a non-violent "Fight Club," like telling someone they're bothering everyone, or giving them a backhanded compliment.
"Wow Bill, you lost a lot of weight. How much more to go?"
{God, take me before that path ever comes under my feet. I’d rather die young and glorious than older and broken, blind to the fact that this is NOT Life. My dad's illness, while often hilarious and frustratingly life-affecting, is part of Life, and I thank you for that challenge, and yes, I'm still pissed about it but I have perspective now so can You please see that it loosens it's grip on the man who once read to me when I was 2 and scared of the nightlight? I'd appreciate that.}
Along with that prayer, I resolve myself to never be broken. To follow the path I am supposed to be on, destined for, through the good graces of powers above me, with the drive to learn how to do what it takes, whatever It is, and the serenity to allow everyone else to go pound their donut holes.
===========
============
Take Me Home
My Non-Funny Blog.
Sunday, November 07, 2004
Tony Isn't Too Far Away
I gotta hand to it to Tony Moser.
He's really, *really* trying to get under my skin. Actually, he's trying to get under my shirt, but that's about as likely as Tony getting an applause break at a home for people who exhibit symptoms of OCD by applauding. He's the cure for that little neuronic misfire.
I ask you this, dear, foxy-ass reader:
Who is Tony Moser?
This great technology of ours allows us to find just about anyone, and find out just about anything about that anyone. So I'm like, hell yeah, who the hell is Tony Moser? I whip out the six-finger for a little Googling, and guess whats I find?
Tony Moser: (ca:2000) Crusading Arkansas journalist Tony Moser, 41 -- killed Saturday night by a 1995 Chevy pickup truck -- was a friend of mine. We bonded quickly and intensely on America Online, journalistic colleagues and compatriots, the way it happens suddenly, sometimes in cyberspace. Though it makes me terribly sad, I am not surprised at his sudden, suspicious death.
(from the linked article)
Tony Moser, a critic of the Arkansas Democratic Party political machine, was killed as he crossed a street in Pine Bluff 10 days after being named a columnist for the Democrat-Gazette newspaper and two days after penning a stinging indictment of political corruption in Little Rock.
Looks to me like somebody has assumed the identity of a deceased Akansasian in order to escape a past of illicit cat adoption, dick jokes, and charlie-horsing horses. Tony Moser is dead. Long live Brad Brake.
Oh wait... what's THIS?
More Moser-comma-Tony? No!
Yes: Now He's an Engineer? At Calumet U., Indiana? This is fishier than Tony's ring finger. Much like Tony's dating life, I'm getting to the bottom of this.
Oh for the love of car-seat camping... He's a photographer now? I wonder how many ladies shirts and hopes have fallen after that spiel.
Well then, Tony Moser is either an engineer, a photographer, or a corpse at this point. Sooner or later he'll figure out that when he's finally whomever the real "him" is, people will stop thinking he's THIS.
He's really, *really* trying to get under my skin. Actually, he's trying to get under my shirt, but that's about as likely as Tony getting an applause break at a home for people who exhibit symptoms of OCD by applauding. He's the cure for that little neuronic misfire.
I ask you this, dear, foxy-ass reader:
Who is Tony Moser?
This great technology of ours allows us to find just about anyone, and find out just about anything about that anyone. So I'm like, hell yeah, who the hell is Tony Moser? I whip out the six-finger for a little Googling, and guess whats I find?
Tony Moser: (ca:2000) Crusading Arkansas journalist Tony Moser, 41 -- killed Saturday night by a 1995 Chevy pickup truck -- was a friend of mine. We bonded quickly and intensely on America Online, journalistic colleagues and compatriots, the way it happens suddenly, sometimes in cyberspace. Though it makes me terribly sad, I am not surprised at his sudden, suspicious death.
(from the linked article)
Tony Moser, a critic of the Arkansas Democratic Party political machine, was killed as he crossed a street in Pine Bluff 10 days after being named a columnist for the Democrat-Gazette newspaper and two days after penning a stinging indictment of political corruption in Little Rock.
Looks to me like somebody has assumed the identity of a deceased Akansasian in order to escape a past of illicit cat adoption, dick jokes, and charlie-horsing horses. Tony Moser is dead. Long live Brad Brake.
Oh wait... what's THIS?
More Moser-comma-Tony? No!
Yes: Now He's an Engineer? At Calumet U., Indiana? This is fishier than Tony's ring finger. Much like Tony's dating life, I'm getting to the bottom of this.
Oh for the love of car-seat camping... He's a photographer now? I wonder how many ladies shirts and hopes have fallen after that spiel.
Well then, Tony Moser is either an engineer, a photographer, or a corpse at this point. Sooner or later he'll figure out that when he's finally whomever the real "him" is, people will stop thinking he's THIS.
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