Crash Callahan is at it again.
Check out her blog update for July14th, and see what I'm talking about. She posted a statement from some Kraut philosopher stating "Any concept of Truth is an Act of Faith."
Germany produces great cars, great beer, fine people, and phenomenal weirdos. They are either dancing in a circle, eating an ex-gay-lover fricassee, or spreading panic via simple statements. Be thee Jung'er than you are Freud (I know, Karl was Swiss, chill), psychology is the study of behavior based on how your brain is wired, and how your brain is wired is up to you.
The way I see the statement up there is this:
Concept is a word meaning "idea," and an Idea of Truth is a Belief. It's not hard evidence, it's Faith. So that statement is true for itself... but not for everything. It's not absolute. What I BELIEVE to be True (Tom Cruise is an alien, Tigers are homophobic, work sucks) is true only in my world. Some people thing Tom's more gay than alien, and therefore hated by tigers. But let's not get off track here.
Anything you believe to be True is true to you. Any thing you KNOW to be true is probably true to someone else. Faith is not math and numbers and paint swatches. How do you know today is even real? Because you can feel your hangover, that's how.
Okay, I gotta go, sorry I can't expound on this, but Elbows O'Noodle, A-Bomb, and The Geoff Lott Experience talked about this last night and it got me thinking. That's what philosophy is supposed to do; create a perspective in your head so that while you are pondering the universe, that noise in the background is the showering off of whatever you went home with last night. Make sure you get out before they marinate you.
============
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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.
Friday, July 15, 2005
Monday, July 11, 2005
The Report Was Neither Toxic, Nor Collegiate
Toxicology reports have come back in regards to the passing of one of Stand Up Comedy's true Stars, Mitch Hedberg.
Mitch died of Clone Poisoning. While the causes of clone poisoning can be found at any comedy open mic, the vaccine is untested. If anybody who believes they are affected by the Hedberg strain of CP would please call OriginalityLabs IMMEDIATELY, everyone, especially Mitch's soul, would be greatly less critical of you.
Funniest Story I've Heard In Relation To Mitch's Passing:
And no, I don't know why I've decided to drop this stuff today as opposed to 3 months ago when it happened.
This story was told by Craig Gass on The Robin And Maynard show a little over a week ago. (the more I learn about Craig, the more I like him. He's locally raised, has a successful career going without an agent or manager, and for what it's worth, is quite an amazing impressionist)
There were numerous memorials for Mitch, two of which were comic-centric. One in LA at the Friar's Club gathered many comics with many industry types, and friends and family of Mitch. Doug Stanhope hosted the affair. As many of the stories began with "This one time, Mitch and I were so drunk/high/wasted/Republican" or what-have-thee, and it was making a few people cringe and shift considering the sad and foggy circumstances surrounding Mitch's death.
After a number of these stories had started like that in-a-row, and ellicited the reactions as noted in-a-row, Doug comes on stage and says (paraphrasing):
"Hey, look, some of you are cringing at the fact that we're recounting a time or two when we were drunk or high with Mitch, but that's part of what we loved about Mitch, he pushed the fun limit. (getting worked up) He wouldn't be crying about it. (getting angrier)
Hey, when Ralphie May keels over nobody's gonna be crying about how they should have pulled the chowder bowl away from him."
I'm done linking, so get your own Ralphie May picture.
Comedy, I love you, you whore.
===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Mitch died of Clone Poisoning. While the causes of clone poisoning can be found at any comedy open mic, the vaccine is untested. If anybody who believes they are affected by the Hedberg strain of CP would please call OriginalityLabs IMMEDIATELY, everyone, especially Mitch's soul, would be greatly less critical of you.
Funniest Story I've Heard In Relation To Mitch's Passing:
And no, I don't know why I've decided to drop this stuff today as opposed to 3 months ago when it happened.
This story was told by Craig Gass on The Robin And Maynard show a little over a week ago. (the more I learn about Craig, the more I like him. He's locally raised, has a successful career going without an agent or manager, and for what it's worth, is quite an amazing impressionist)
There were numerous memorials for Mitch, two of which were comic-centric. One in LA at the Friar's Club gathered many comics with many industry types, and friends and family of Mitch. Doug Stanhope hosted the affair. As many of the stories began with "This one time, Mitch and I were so drunk/high/wasted/Republican" or what-have-thee, and it was making a few people cringe and shift considering the sad and foggy circumstances surrounding Mitch's death.
After a number of these stories had started like that in-a-row, and ellicited the reactions as noted in-a-row, Doug comes on stage and says (paraphrasing):
"Hey, look, some of you are cringing at the fact that we're recounting a time or two when we were drunk or high with Mitch, but that's part of what we loved about Mitch, he pushed the fun limit. (getting worked up) He wouldn't be crying about it. (getting angrier)
Hey, when Ralphie May keels over nobody's gonna be crying about how they should have pulled the chowder bowl away from him."
I'm done linking, so get your own Ralphie May picture.
Comedy, I love you, you whore.
===========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, July 07, 2005
Double Fisted, or "What Brown Did For Me"
Starting last Friday, I have been wondering when a shipment would arrive.
It did, last Friday, to my home. I was on the premises, yet the UPS driver didn't really do much to let me know he'd arrived. I don't recall hearing a knock nor buzz, but I do recall asking the brown and yellow sticky note "Oh what the f*ck?"
With no time noted as to when he'd arrive the next business day, I didn't sweat it. I checked yesterday morning on the UPS site, www.wehaveyourboxsochewonturd.com, and noted that the box delivery on Tuesday was at 11:34a.m., attempted. So I scooted home yesterday about 10min prior to that and.. long story, short, I had to trip out to the distro center this morning.
I won't go into details but check this out. UPS gives f*ck all about the non-business customer. I'm writing a bit about it, started in the parking lot of the distro gulag. I had to wait, sign my name for the package, and then find out that I was sent a size of shoe I can't wear, as my 12 would be over-snug in the 7 I was sent. All for nothing. But I did get to give somebody an autograph this morning. It's pronounced Jeff Lot. Eat Shit is the Gaelic spelling.
SIDE NOTE:
The woman two spots ahead of me had three large boxes that she needed help loading into her car. The Brown Troll said he couldn't help her lift them, only push them out to her car. Immediately, the gal ahead of me told the customer "I'll help you when I'm done, if you can wait a few seconds." They were strangers. That's Customer Service.
FedEx, Postal Service, or just drive it over and have a bite with your recipient. But do whatever you can to not use Unconcerned Parcel Shippers.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
It did, last Friday, to my home. I was on the premises, yet the UPS driver didn't really do much to let me know he'd arrived. I don't recall hearing a knock nor buzz, but I do recall asking the brown and yellow sticky note "Oh what the f*ck?"
With no time noted as to when he'd arrive the next business day, I didn't sweat it. I checked yesterday morning on the UPS site, www.wehaveyourboxsochewonturd.com, and noted that the box delivery on Tuesday was at 11:34a.m., attempted. So I scooted home yesterday about 10min prior to that and.. long story, short, I had to trip out to the distro center this morning.
I won't go into details but check this out. UPS gives f*ck all about the non-business customer. I'm writing a bit about it, started in the parking lot of the distro gulag. I had to wait, sign my name for the package, and then find out that I was sent a size of shoe I can't wear, as my 12 would be over-snug in the 7 I was sent. All for nothing. But I did get to give somebody an autograph this morning. It's pronounced Jeff Lot. Eat Shit is the Gaelic spelling.
SIDE NOTE:
The woman two spots ahead of me had three large boxes that she needed help loading into her car. The Brown Troll said he couldn't help her lift them, only push them out to her car. Immediately, the gal ahead of me told the customer "I'll help you when I'm done, if you can wait a few seconds." They were strangers. That's Customer Service.
FedEx, Postal Service, or just drive it over and have a bite with your recipient. But do whatever you can to not use Unconcerned Parcel Shippers.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, July 06, 2005
Leggo My Ego
This ought to be fun, once I get around to writing it. Until then, remember the words of my late, great-great-great grandfather:
"Your women are working half as hard as your horses, and smell twice as bad."
=======
Moderate update at 12:25a.m.
My ego has me in Eagle Scout knots at times, tying me to the notion that Comic A is doing what I'm not, and Comic B is already surpassing me, and Comic C is still believing that there's a shot when that shot left the barrel a long time ago, and could barely even plink-chip a pint glass. And it's THAT, right there, the negative aspect that my ego is telling me that I'm lagging, yet good enough, but not good enough yet, to do what I ought to be doing. And not doing what I ought, that's just a waste of time and talent. Then the anxiety sets in like moths to a flame to a cigarette, and something's gonna die in that chain.
Then I stop pulling so hard against the knots. Ego keeps pacing around the room, shaking its giant head on its narrow shoulders, splintering a calm solliloquy with a shot at Esteem. Come on Ego, I say, you know my penchant for self-deprecation. If Ego had been stroking itself the whole time, I'd be disgusted, but the moment I quit fighting and started wriggling to myself, shick shick shick... those knots started loosening up like I'd been pouring wine and lies down its throat since Happy Hour. Go ahead, tell me again what a sinkhole I am. What do you know, besides fear and whatever somebody that nobody has heard of told nobody you've ever heard of about you, who nobody has ever heard of.
And in that Universal anonymity I am free. Pay me a compliment, and Ego steps forth on a short leash, salt in one hand, one ear covered by the other. Spew forth a vomitorious edict about my thin hair, flaccid set, choice of spiritual pursuit, or how your mom doesn't like me and I'll laugh. Considering the source, it sounds like somebody's Ego is defending the indefensible position. Anger, jealousy, fear, are each and all weapons of the Ego. My hands are free, and while many people would tell me "throttle the shittor," I'd prefer to stand right in your face until you either bite me or kiss me. Either way, Ego is a little scared kid trying to be the dad it never had to the sons/daughters other people never were.
What do I know? I'm just a comic.
And in closing, my client would greatly appreciate it if anybody reading this happen to light a firecracker after 11pm on July 4th would tape one to their toothbrush, and jam it directly asswise, lit, and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance. You are a useless cockhole, and your mom will be barely sad when the hospital calls her to come identify both of your earrings and armband tattoo, you impacted colon of wasted life energy.
And you're car is really high off the ground YEAH I SAID IT.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
"Your women are working half as hard as your horses, and smell twice as bad."
=======
Moderate update at 12:25a.m.
My ego has me in Eagle Scout knots at times, tying me to the notion that Comic A is doing what I'm not, and Comic B is already surpassing me, and Comic C is still believing that there's a shot when that shot left the barrel a long time ago, and could barely even plink-chip a pint glass. And it's THAT, right there, the negative aspect that my ego is telling me that I'm lagging, yet good enough, but not good enough yet, to do what I ought to be doing. And not doing what I ought, that's just a waste of time and talent. Then the anxiety sets in like moths to a flame to a cigarette, and something's gonna die in that chain.
Then I stop pulling so hard against the knots. Ego keeps pacing around the room, shaking its giant head on its narrow shoulders, splintering a calm solliloquy with a shot at Esteem. Come on Ego, I say, you know my penchant for self-deprecation. If Ego had been stroking itself the whole time, I'd be disgusted, but the moment I quit fighting and started wriggling to myself, shick shick shick... those knots started loosening up like I'd been pouring wine and lies down its throat since Happy Hour. Go ahead, tell me again what a sinkhole I am. What do you know, besides fear and whatever somebody that nobody has heard of told nobody you've ever heard of about you, who nobody has ever heard of.
And in that Universal anonymity I am free. Pay me a compliment, and Ego steps forth on a short leash, salt in one hand, one ear covered by the other. Spew forth a vomitorious edict about my thin hair, flaccid set, choice of spiritual pursuit, or how your mom doesn't like me and I'll laugh. Considering the source, it sounds like somebody's Ego is defending the indefensible position. Anger, jealousy, fear, are each and all weapons of the Ego. My hands are free, and while many people would tell me "throttle the shittor," I'd prefer to stand right in your face until you either bite me or kiss me. Either way, Ego is a little scared kid trying to be the dad it never had to the sons/daughters other people never were.
What do I know? I'm just a comic.
And in closing, my client would greatly appreciate it if anybody reading this happen to light a firecracker after 11pm on July 4th would tape one to their toothbrush, and jam it directly asswise, lit, and recite the Pledge Of Allegiance. You are a useless cockhole, and your mom will be barely sad when the hospital calls her to come identify both of your earrings and armband tattoo, you impacted colon of wasted life energy.
And you're car is really high off the ground YEAH I SAID IT.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, July 05, 2005
Just Thinking...
I feel it is vital that we work to break down stereotypes.
In a world where African-American comics often go to a hackneyed line about "black people got bad credit..."
We're not breaking it down by forgiving African debt.
If numerous nations can forgive trillions of dollars in debt, what's stopping banks in this country from doing the same? It's mostly a bunch of 1's and 0's these days, anyway. Oh right, because this country has a lot of white people, and they got the money to pay for everything, which is stereotyping and prejudicial. How about a lottery where 1% of the population has their debt zeroed? Who pays for it?
I'm thinking "somebody else." I don't really care.
The 2nd biggest cause of personal bankruptcy in this country is the cost of medical care. $76 office visits, and rarely are you seen for more than 10min. So where's the f*cking wait time coming from? Trying to figure out what country you're from to charge accordingly.
On the bright side, Africa will be really really grateful for having their debt forgiven. Then we can go back to helping them with the face-flies and shit ditches.
Oh world, you so crazy!
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In a world where African-American comics often go to a hackneyed line about "black people got bad credit..."
We're not breaking it down by forgiving African debt.
If numerous nations can forgive trillions of dollars in debt, what's stopping banks in this country from doing the same? It's mostly a bunch of 1's and 0's these days, anyway. Oh right, because this country has a lot of white people, and they got the money to pay for everything, which is stereotyping and prejudicial. How about a lottery where 1% of the population has their debt zeroed? Who pays for it?
I'm thinking "somebody else." I don't really care.
The 2nd biggest cause of personal bankruptcy in this country is the cost of medical care. $76 office visits, and rarely are you seen for more than 10min. So where's the f*cking wait time coming from? Trying to figure out what country you're from to charge accordingly.
On the bright side, Africa will be really really grateful for having their debt forgiven. Then we can go back to helping them with the face-flies and shit ditches.
Oh world, you so crazy!
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, June 30, 2005
Body Of Work
The female of the species we call Human Beanies has got it pretty rough. First there was the sending them away when they were menstruating... comment withheld... and these days it's back around to sexual identity. Life is difficult enough without wondering how you look through a pair of night-vision goggles. I blame women themselves. Not "WOMEN" in general, but a blame that is as much as I blame men for each of our own issues. And if you're pissed right now, take a friggin' Midol and whatever pill makes you accountable to yourself and relax.
Oh wow, the "women's magazines" throw out all these terms like "LEAN" and "TONE" and "FLAT" and "BULIMIA" and "RENAL FAILURE." Then don't F'ing buy them. You can get every recipe, workout tip, and list of "Top 10 Secret Hollywood Crushes" off the internet for free. (btw, the only common factor in all 3 of those is Steve Buscemi) Have you seen a men's health-oriented magazine? Not Maxim, which may or may not be the Wall Street Journal for Acquaintance Rapists. Men's magazines talk about how you should be wearing this Armani jacket with these Ferragamos, running this interval workout in between pushing your new Aston Martin when you can't make it to the gym because you have to be on the jet to Milan in an hour, and hey, wear condom when you arrive because you are getting tons of ass, right? Luckily, I can't read.
Yeah, guys have to go to Europe now to get women who aren't as concerned with their bodies. Why? Because in America, the media has thrown around so many images of what "sexy" is, that after a while, somebody believes it. And if a woman has even one extra inch of unf*ckable flesh to her, then NOPE, sorry, she just ain't gonna be popular enough to make out with before closing time. HORSE'S SHIT. Confidence is sexy. Confidence in the swing on the back porch is even sexier.
Get an eyeful, readers, it's called "Jenny McCarthyism." Blonde, blue eyed, boobily-inflated Jenny sprung up a decade ago and was immediately the "it" girl. Recently, she had a procedure done that removed a peanut M&M-sized, flesh-colored mole from the bridge of her nose. That was her "it." But it's in some jar on her nightstand next to the TrimSpaz, Absolut, and nightly eye cream. Bye-bye mole. Why? Oh hell, how about VANITY? Did you know it was there? No, because you were too busy looking at her fake tits and airbrushed bikini line and ass. What you see isn't what you get. And she chopped it off. It was her only endearing quality.
It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you. Discipline. Dedication. Brazilian. Monobrow. Happy Trail. Flatulence. One testicle. Size of an apple. That can see your future. Lactose intolerance. Abcessed choad. Nobody is perfect. Nobody you see. Nobody you saw. Nobody you fooled around with. That's what's so great. If we were all perfect, we'd know better than to have that next 3 martooners and lock lips and hips now and again. There'd be no stories or lessons to learn and then lock away out of shame. What happens in Vegas, stays at Planned Parenthood. Stop that groaning shit RIGHT NOW.
I think my biggest impetus for writing this was my trip to the gym last night. I was really pushing around some heavy iron, for what reason, I don't know. I've never been half-way through writing cross-formulas and needed to rep-out some military presses. Never had my raise hinge on a one-rep deadlift. No matter how hard that hardbody is working on that body, there are no reps to build "likeability." Long-story slightly longer, there are more magazines with "perfect" bodies on the cover because there's no way to sell Personality. Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Personality is in the heart. And pants.
Now drop your top.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Oh wow, the "women's magazines" throw out all these terms like "LEAN" and "TONE" and "FLAT" and "BULIMIA" and "RENAL FAILURE." Then don't F'ing buy them. You can get every recipe, workout tip, and list of "Top 10 Secret Hollywood Crushes" off the internet for free. (btw, the only common factor in all 3 of those is Steve Buscemi) Have you seen a men's health-oriented magazine? Not Maxim, which may or may not be the Wall Street Journal for Acquaintance Rapists. Men's magazines talk about how you should be wearing this Armani jacket with these Ferragamos, running this interval workout in between pushing your new Aston Martin when you can't make it to the gym because you have to be on the jet to Milan in an hour, and hey, wear condom when you arrive because you are getting tons of ass, right? Luckily, I can't read.
Yeah, guys have to go to Europe now to get women who aren't as concerned with their bodies. Why? Because in America, the media has thrown around so many images of what "sexy" is, that after a while, somebody believes it. And if a woman has even one extra inch of unf*ckable flesh to her, then NOPE, sorry, she just ain't gonna be popular enough to make out with before closing time. HORSE'S SHIT. Confidence is sexy. Confidence in the swing on the back porch is even sexier.
Get an eyeful, readers, it's called "Jenny McCarthyism." Blonde, blue eyed, boobily-inflated Jenny sprung up a decade ago and was immediately the "it" girl. Recently, she had a procedure done that removed a peanut M&M-sized, flesh-colored mole from the bridge of her nose. That was her "it." But it's in some jar on her nightstand next to the TrimSpaz, Absolut, and nightly eye cream. Bye-bye mole. Why? Oh hell, how about VANITY? Did you know it was there? No, because you were too busy looking at her fake tits and airbrushed bikini line and ass. What you see isn't what you get. And she chopped it off. It was her only endearing quality.
It's not what you're eating, it's what's eating you. Discipline. Dedication. Brazilian. Monobrow. Happy Trail. Flatulence. One testicle. Size of an apple. That can see your future. Lactose intolerance. Abcessed choad. Nobody is perfect. Nobody you see. Nobody you saw. Nobody you fooled around with. That's what's so great. If we were all perfect, we'd know better than to have that next 3 martooners and lock lips and hips now and again. There'd be no stories or lessons to learn and then lock away out of shame. What happens in Vegas, stays at Planned Parenthood. Stop that groaning shit RIGHT NOW.
I think my biggest impetus for writing this was my trip to the gym last night. I was really pushing around some heavy iron, for what reason, I don't know. I've never been half-way through writing cross-formulas and needed to rep-out some military presses. Never had my raise hinge on a one-rep deadlift. No matter how hard that hardbody is working on that body, there are no reps to build "likeability." Long-story slightly longer, there are more magazines with "perfect" bodies on the cover because there's no way to sell Personality. Perfection is in the eye of the beholder. Personality is in the heart. And pants.
Now drop your top.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 29, 2005
Marked, Noted, and Streaked
I am officially astounded by the number of guys not using the ass-gasket sheet when hittin' second gear in the men's rest room. Each day I've been in the can there's been at least one dude bare-backing the seat as if it is his Own Private Idahole.
There hasn't been so much as a clearing wipedown of the seat, just a shutting of the stall, trou-drop, and touch down of mancakes, extra flabby. As if the only other person in there all day was their dominatrix, just click, zip, flap. This is conquered frontier, guys! It's one small step for evolution, one giant leap for common courtesy. Just like keeping your eyes closed when the clown pees on you, SAFETY FIRST.
And let's all revive the Courtesy Flush, can we? That's the flush you make for others so that any noises, from groaning to ripping to splash-down, are covered by the rushing waters of civilization. There's enough shame associated with being in the can without total disregard for germs AND decibel level. It's not for you, it's for everyone else. Welcome to America.
I'm mad about other people's poopin' habits! Grrrrrrr! MAD MAD MAD!
============
Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
============
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There hasn't been so much as a clearing wipedown of the seat, just a shutting of the stall, trou-drop, and touch down of mancakes, extra flabby. As if the only other person in there all day was their dominatrix, just click, zip, flap. This is conquered frontier, guys! It's one small step for evolution, one giant leap for common courtesy. Just like keeping your eyes closed when the clown pees on you, SAFETY FIRST.
And let's all revive the Courtesy Flush, can we? That's the flush you make for others so that any noises, from groaning to ripping to splash-down, are covered by the rushing waters of civilization. There's enough shame associated with being in the can without total disregard for germs AND decibel level. It's not for you, it's for everyone else. Welcome to America.
I'm mad about other people's poopin' habits! Grrrrrrr! MAD MAD MAD!
============
Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, June 24, 2005
Snappy Judgment
Some poor kid is stuck at work all day with a parent. The kid is up on this floor going through his Star Wars knowledge as if it's currency for puddin', and my dearest of friends know what puddin' be to me, and I want to tell him...
"Kid, never lose that enthusiasm. Never lose sight of the fact that the only interesting thing in corporate America is the imagination of a virgin working in IT. Your dad here is a cockwad. I've never worked with him, but that many earthtones in one outfit is a pretty fair indicator of boredom in top-siders. You'll never be a professional athlete. One of my grandmas is dead. Your pets will die. And no matter what happens, the next 6 years of your life will be formative, intense, jerkin'-filled, and above all, total bullshit. Accept it now. If you can get through it with a unique personality intact, the only thing you'll be missing is your virginity. Make sure you call your mom to wish her a Happy Pride weekend. Do you smoke?"
Hindsight is 20/20. Hindusight is way better. Chrissie Hynde can kick your ass.
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"Kid, never lose that enthusiasm. Never lose sight of the fact that the only interesting thing in corporate America is the imagination of a virgin working in IT. Your dad here is a cockwad. I've never worked with him, but that many earthtones in one outfit is a pretty fair indicator of boredom in top-siders. You'll never be a professional athlete. One of my grandmas is dead. Your pets will die. And no matter what happens, the next 6 years of your life will be formative, intense, jerkin'-filled, and above all, total bullshit. Accept it now. If you can get through it with a unique personality intact, the only thing you'll be missing is your virginity. Make sure you call your mom to wish her a Happy Pride weekend. Do you smoke?"
Hindsight is 20/20. Hindusight is way better. Chrissie Hynde can kick your ass.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Oh, THIS One Is THAT Issue...
Seattle's most frighteningly incestuous street-rag, The Stranger, has declared that This Week's Issue is the Gay Issue.
How is it different, you ask?
Dunno. Maybe that it's out of the closet for a week, while the Seattle Weekly stands by and says "Yeah, we know. You're blocking the keg."
I would say that it's an attempt by The Stroker to sell more issues, but it's free, so it's an attempt by The Stringer to troll for some of that hot Weekly-on-Weekly action you can only find in Belgium.
You may be asking yourself if you are gay for reading this week's edition. Only if you read it while planted firmly on Dan Savage's column and/or face and/or maypole.
===========
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How is it different, you ask?
Dunno. Maybe that it's out of the closet for a week, while the Seattle Weekly stands by and says "Yeah, we know. You're blocking the keg."
I would say that it's an attempt by The Stroker to sell more issues, but it's free, so it's an attempt by The Stringer to troll for some of that hot Weekly-on-Weekly action you can only find in Belgium.
You may be asking yourself if you are gay for reading this week's edition. Only if you read it while planted firmly on Dan Savage's column and/or face and/or maypole.
===========
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My Blog About My Dad
Give In
The point I am nearly at is the point where I am the only thing that matters in my world. And I say "thing" like I am not even a person, because I want to exclude all nouns, 'cep' for me. My Aquarian nature is to help, help, help others, for the simple reason that help is needed. And I have been fighting that part of the program for the better part of 3 months now.
Almost weekly I feel like I need to Not Do for anybody else. But Doing is what I do. Fighting it is a Fear Response. You may ask "Fear of What, Geoff?" Or you may ask "Was that you?" It probably was. Sorry, it's the broccoli/Clamato cocktails. The FEAR of Doing For Others is that I'm Not Doing For Me. Giving away, not just giving. Giving in a way that is not going to be appreciated. Giving away to a point of poverty. That's how Fear works, it slow-dances you into a corner by the punchbowl until you realize the party is over. Being at the party is cool. You were there, you didn't get drunk or spill anything. You didn't risk the foolish play of setting your ass kitchen-sinkward and asking the host "Hey, does your garbage disposal work?" You walked home alone, while Fear stuck around to cockblock. Why did you even go? To PARTY, yes, friend, that's the whole reason you are there. Let go. Hang it out there. Suck it dry.
And to Not Do, when it's simply part of who I am, is to fight the force that helps me get through days I don't feel like belly-crawling through. Fear held me back from so many things in life that I really should have gone after. There's a term out there, Fear Of Success, that is actually, in my mind, misleading. It's Fear Of Failure with it's arms open. Hug or smother, it's your call. Success is not to be feared. Failure is not to be feared. My fear is that I will give so much that I will have nothing for myself. That has NEVER been the case, and is actually "deprivation thinking" which leads to diminished returns. The key is to let go, and when Fear comes around, throw a shot of Jack down it's gullet, bend it couch-wise, and give Fear a proper kneading of the dough.
Somebody had to get to Oprah's level, it just happened to be Oprah. Scared people to do not Go Oprah. Carson Daly, who is dating his vaginal equivalent in Vanessa Carlton (first date banter: "You like Vanilla Frozen Yogurt, too? Mass."), and Carson Daly has no discernible talent. Ashton is, at the very least, caulking Demi Moore's hot-tub. But Carson Daly isn't afraid of failure. He simply said "I am going to be on TV." And there he is. He has aimed for, and gained, a high-level of mediocrity, per his goals. Fearless.
So here I go again, on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. I am To Give. Simple as that. I will Give, fearlessly. Friendship, love, moustache rides, advice of dating, advice on dating a clown, advice on moustache riding a clown. Do what it is you do. And do it until it is done in a way that doing it let's others know that you Can Do.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Almost weekly I feel like I need to Not Do for anybody else. But Doing is what I do. Fighting it is a Fear Response. You may ask "Fear of What, Geoff?" Or you may ask "Was that you?" It probably was. Sorry, it's the broccoli/Clamato cocktails. The FEAR of Doing For Others is that I'm Not Doing For Me. Giving away, not just giving. Giving in a way that is not going to be appreciated. Giving away to a point of poverty. That's how Fear works, it slow-dances you into a corner by the punchbowl until you realize the party is over. Being at the party is cool. You were there, you didn't get drunk or spill anything. You didn't risk the foolish play of setting your ass kitchen-sinkward and asking the host "Hey, does your garbage disposal work?" You walked home alone, while Fear stuck around to cockblock. Why did you even go? To PARTY, yes, friend, that's the whole reason you are there. Let go. Hang it out there. Suck it dry.
And to Not Do, when it's simply part of who I am, is to fight the force that helps me get through days I don't feel like belly-crawling through. Fear held me back from so many things in life that I really should have gone after. There's a term out there, Fear Of Success, that is actually, in my mind, misleading. It's Fear Of Failure with it's arms open. Hug or smother, it's your call. Success is not to be feared. Failure is not to be feared. My fear is that I will give so much that I will have nothing for myself. That has NEVER been the case, and is actually "deprivation thinking" which leads to diminished returns. The key is to let go, and when Fear comes around, throw a shot of Jack down it's gullet, bend it couch-wise, and give Fear a proper kneading of the dough.
Somebody had to get to Oprah's level, it just happened to be Oprah. Scared people to do not Go Oprah. Carson Daly, who is dating his vaginal equivalent in Vanessa Carlton (first date banter: "You like Vanilla Frozen Yogurt, too? Mass."), and Carson Daly has no discernible talent. Ashton is, at the very least, caulking Demi Moore's hot-tub. But Carson Daly isn't afraid of failure. He simply said "I am going to be on TV." And there he is. He has aimed for, and gained, a high-level of mediocrity, per his goals. Fearless.
So here I go again, on my own. Going down the only road I've ever known. I am To Give. Simple as that. I will Give, fearlessly. Friendship, love, moustache rides, advice of dating, advice on dating a clown, advice on moustache riding a clown. Do what it is you do. And do it until it is done in a way that doing it let's others know that you Can Do.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
A Crap-Ton Of Shitballs
First off, Verizon, your DSL service can lick the back of my fundle.
It wasn't hooked up when you said it would be.
I called to report it and got locked into a retardo-matic convo with someone obviously just following procedure, but that procedure is RETARDO.
She asked me, and I shit thee not, "Where do the phone lines come into the house?"
Dear reader, that is as broad a question as it can get. In my mind there are 100 ways to answer it, bit since I knife-fight with Occam's Razor, I replied with...
"From the lines outside."
Her response was "No, like are they in through the wall, or a pipe, or under ground?" I hadn't ever seen them at this new place, so I said I didn't know, because outside is where the hug monster lives and he wants me to be his lap-cowboy. She also wanted me to put filters on all the phone lines and test the DSL connection again. I told her I couldn't as I was talking to her from a landline. Her reply...
(silence)
(more silence)
(dumbfounding silence)
(acceptance that technology's ease is a wash compared to techtards)
"Okay, so you can't plug filters into all the outlets?"
No, because I'd have to disconnect this call, and that would be fun, but unproductive.
My favorite instance was being told that they could get somebody out to fix the problem on Tuesday, some time between 8am and 5pm. I replied "That's pretty broad, can we narrow that down?"
"Like what, with an appointment?"
Yeah, if you make them, an appointment. I can't take an entire day off of work for internet access.
"Yes, we can make an app..."
At that point my brain white-noised with the words 'THEN OFFER THAT AT THE BEGINNING, YOU DIPSHIT.
I'm going with cable instead, as it's the only access I have in the office at my place. I'm not sure why I'd even do all this. The internet bores me. I'm more into my education than my entertainment.
====
Today is the Summer Solstice. If you've noticed people being a bit weirder, edgier, or more hyped up than usual, today has a lot do with that. It's the end-day of the upswing cycle of your year's purpose. In other words, you're gonna get in a fight before the end of the day, and blow your load, and get f*cking on with life. It owes you nothing, so keep moving. This line has places to go.
====
When in doubt, shut up.
When in the right, speak up.
When in Bothell, shoot up.
When near my cube, smell my braap.
=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
It wasn't hooked up when you said it would be.
I called to report it and got locked into a retardo-matic convo with someone obviously just following procedure, but that procedure is RETARDO.
She asked me, and I shit thee not, "Where do the phone lines come into the house?"
Dear reader, that is as broad a question as it can get. In my mind there are 100 ways to answer it, bit since I knife-fight with Occam's Razor, I replied with...
"From the lines outside."
Her response was "No, like are they in through the wall, or a pipe, or under ground?" I hadn't ever seen them at this new place, so I said I didn't know, because outside is where the hug monster lives and he wants me to be his lap-cowboy. She also wanted me to put filters on all the phone lines and test the DSL connection again. I told her I couldn't as I was talking to her from a landline. Her reply...
(silence)
(more silence)
(dumbfounding silence)
(acceptance that technology's ease is a wash compared to techtards)
"Okay, so you can't plug filters into all the outlets?"
No, because I'd have to disconnect this call, and that would be fun, but unproductive.
My favorite instance was being told that they could get somebody out to fix the problem on Tuesday, some time between 8am and 5pm. I replied "That's pretty broad, can we narrow that down?"
"Like what, with an appointment?"
Yeah, if you make them, an appointment. I can't take an entire day off of work for internet access.
"Yes, we can make an app..."
At that point my brain white-noised with the words 'THEN OFFER THAT AT THE BEGINNING, YOU DIPSHIT.
I'm going with cable instead, as it's the only access I have in the office at my place. I'm not sure why I'd even do all this. The internet bores me. I'm more into my education than my entertainment.
====
Today is the Summer Solstice. If you've noticed people being a bit weirder, edgier, or more hyped up than usual, today has a lot do with that. It's the end-day of the upswing cycle of your year's purpose. In other words, you're gonna get in a fight before the end of the day, and blow your load, and get f*cking on with life. It owes you nothing, so keep moving. This line has places to go.
====
When in doubt, shut up.
When in the right, speak up.
When in Bothell, shoot up.
When near my cube, smell my braap.
=
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, June 17, 2005
That's Pretty Coup
With tons of good intent and some heavy chrome clankers, I am attempting to pull off a sort of a coup on behalf of HAX TV. Fingers crossed, and more to come on that whole deal.
I have had the last two days off of work in order to get my life together after the move and painting and unpacking and what-not. It's a pile right now. I feel like I packed up some of my friend's crap, as if they brought their troll dolls and half-bottles of Pert over to screw with my inventory and thin theirs. I am going to simplify my life quickly, or go crazy trying. Either way, I'm getting a nap and some Tylenol PM.
I found myself today accepting, again, my penchant for internalized judgment. Guilt would, in the past, wash over me when I had a negative thought about someone in particular. But I'm finding that the detractions are held in check until somebody does something truly dumb, selfish, blind, or Republican, which includes but is not limited to: Wearing sunglasses inside, not saying "Thanks" when the door is held open for them because they're on the Nokia, taking an already-crying child into a grocery store, telling me that marriage is the best thing that ever happened to them, dressing poorly, and withholding cleavage.
Today I was at a local bodega-type joint, 5th of 7 in line, and some moustachio'ed RX-7 jockey was trying to warm the plugs of the chica working the 10-3 shift. He's talking, and talking, taking longer than he needs. He's holding up 6 people's lives in an attempt to become the next guy that girl thinks is either "creepy," or at best,"nice, like Uncle Bert without the fanny grabs." Hey, God bless the guy's attempts to liven up the day, but his Yang to Richard Simmons's Yin was just too much. I couldn't decide what was funnier, him standing to the side to continue the forced conversation after his transaction, or my asking the girl behind the counter "Does he work here?" while he stood not 3 feet from me.
I really only feel bad about not yelling from the line "Hey Magnum, I have 75 square feet of low-pile, high-density olefin that has a better chance of getting laid this weekend than you do. Hit your PIN and get back to bending metal. Please. Thanks." If nothing else, we all walk with a story to share.
"Hey honey, this cockholster in line at the Buy&Fly yelled at some Sam Elliott-lookin' fruit who was ..."
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I have had the last two days off of work in order to get my life together after the move and painting and unpacking and what-not. It's a pile right now. I feel like I packed up some of my friend's crap, as if they brought their troll dolls and half-bottles of Pert over to screw with my inventory and thin theirs. I am going to simplify my life quickly, or go crazy trying. Either way, I'm getting a nap and some Tylenol PM.
I found myself today accepting, again, my penchant for internalized judgment. Guilt would, in the past, wash over me when I had a negative thought about someone in particular. But I'm finding that the detractions are held in check until somebody does something truly dumb, selfish, blind, or Republican, which includes but is not limited to: Wearing sunglasses inside, not saying "Thanks" when the door is held open for them because they're on the Nokia, taking an already-crying child into a grocery store, telling me that marriage is the best thing that ever happened to them, dressing poorly, and withholding cleavage.
Today I was at a local bodega-type joint, 5th of 7 in line, and some moustachio'ed RX-7 jockey was trying to warm the plugs of the chica working the 10-3 shift. He's talking, and talking, taking longer than he needs. He's holding up 6 people's lives in an attempt to become the next guy that girl thinks is either "creepy," or at best,"nice, like Uncle Bert without the fanny grabs." Hey, God bless the guy's attempts to liven up the day, but his Yang to Richard Simmons's Yin was just too much. I couldn't decide what was funnier, him standing to the side to continue the forced conversation after his transaction, or my asking the girl behind the counter "Does he work here?" while he stood not 3 feet from me.
I really only feel bad about not yelling from the line "Hey Magnum, I have 75 square feet of low-pile, high-density olefin that has a better chance of getting laid this weekend than you do. Hit your PIN and get back to bending metal. Please. Thanks." If nothing else, we all walk with a story to share.
"Hey honey, this cockholster in line at the Buy&Fly yelled at some Sam Elliott-lookin' fruit who was ..."
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 15, 2005
Schnumerology
Last year I did a lot of nothing at work and a lot of a lot in my social life.
This year I'm buried to my fundle in work that doesn't mean jack to the progress of mankind.
A friend directed me to a numerology website and I fig'red, what the heck, I have 8 seconds free. With no bulls to ride (thanks to my co-worker's involvement with PETA), I did myself up fancy with a numerology reading for how my year's a-gonna go.
I found it HERE. Karen Cornell, btw, is, yes, the Mother Cornell of the musical Cornells of Seattle notoriety.
You wanna know what Your Year is? Add your birthday month and day to 2005.
Here's mine: 2/4/2005.
2+4 = 6
2+0+0+5 = 7
6+7 = 13
1+3 = 4
So a 4 Year on the charts tells me....
4. Work-work-work! This is the opposite of last year! It is a real nose-to-the-grindstone year. One foot in front of the other. This is very slow moving energy. A real plodder! The good news is, you will accomplish a lot. The bad news is, you probably won't see much of your friends as you will be working so hard. It is very low physical energy and your immune system almost takes a nose dive as well, so taking care of yourself is really important. Stay positive and upbeat so all this doesn't get the better of you!
Last year was my socializing year. Next year is my Crazy Energy year. I guess these cycles also work in perspective. Fun, work, cutting loose.
So anywho, the most intensity of the year is felt from January 1st to June 21st, the Summer Solstice. That's a good thing, because I'm friggin' burned out on bullshit. There is a LOT going on that is all a directive towards great things, with the rebirth of HAX, my new place being painted and moved into, family, work, etc. I've got plenty to do to see it happen. But my attitude is much less "oh let's see if this flies." I'm feeling much more like "Do A, then do B, then C & D, call E, and voila! F!" I have no doubts about everything coming to fruition, and I've accepted the constant pace of my life's tempo matching up with a Ramones number. But within that parameter I face my greatest fear of all: Stagnation.
If it's not getting better, then at the very least... it's not getting better.
Changes on the horizon, but first I have a wall to knock down to better the view.
Done by Tuesday.
============
Watch your Blogs.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
This year I'm buried to my fundle in work that doesn't mean jack to the progress of mankind.
A friend directed me to a numerology website and I fig'red, what the heck, I have 8 seconds free. With no bulls to ride (thanks to my co-worker's involvement with PETA), I did myself up fancy with a numerology reading for how my year's a-gonna go.
I found it HERE. Karen Cornell, btw, is, yes, the Mother Cornell of the musical Cornells of Seattle notoriety.
You wanna know what Your Year is? Add your birthday month and day to 2005.
Here's mine: 2/4/2005.
2+4 = 6
2+0+0+5 = 7
6+7 = 13
1+3 = 4
So a 4 Year on the charts tells me....
4. Work-work-work! This is the opposite of last year! It is a real nose-to-the-grindstone year. One foot in front of the other. This is very slow moving energy. A real plodder! The good news is, you will accomplish a lot. The bad news is, you probably won't see much of your friends as you will be working so hard. It is very low physical energy and your immune system almost takes a nose dive as well, so taking care of yourself is really important. Stay positive and upbeat so all this doesn't get the better of you!
Last year was my socializing year. Next year is my Crazy Energy year. I guess these cycles also work in perspective. Fun, work, cutting loose.
So anywho, the most intensity of the year is felt from January 1st to June 21st, the Summer Solstice. That's a good thing, because I'm friggin' burned out on bullshit. There is a LOT going on that is all a directive towards great things, with the rebirth of HAX, my new place being painted and moved into, family, work, etc. I've got plenty to do to see it happen. But my attitude is much less "oh let's see if this flies." I'm feeling much more like "Do A, then do B, then C & D, call E, and voila! F!" I have no doubts about everything coming to fruition, and I've accepted the constant pace of my life's tempo matching up with a Ramones number. But within that parameter I face my greatest fear of all: Stagnation.
If it's not getting better, then at the very least... it's not getting better.
Changes on the horizon, but first I have a wall to knock down to better the view.
Done by Tuesday.
============
Watch your Blogs.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 08, 2005
Ceaselessly Amazed
The pace of buying a home, moving out, storing, moving in, painting, gigs, work, car breakdowns, reading, writing, filming, crinkling my nose at co-workers wearing tear-away pants to work, and general, you know, boolshit has officially taken it's toll on me.
Not but a few weeks ago I felt concern for others. Now I'm back to not really giving a shit if you get your numbers or not. Did I dawdle at a yellow and make you miss a light? Blame your slapped-seven-times snooze button, shit pig. Six would've had you eight minutes ahead of your day, and you wouldn't be back there fuming. And I do so hope you are fuming.
I'm not saying I've lost faith in humanity. That happened long ago. Life ain't all home-makeover shows and winning Lotto tickets, is it? In fact, Life ain't even close, is it? No, Life gives greatly to a few, and randomly so, in order to make us wonder, "Hey, why did THAT shitpile get a new Mustang?" Because God knows that guy who has lost three marriages and 8 kids to drugs, jail, crime, and more drugs should have a sweet car to sell so he can pay, not child support, but for that final, life-ending speedball.
Wait a second... did I just sniff some fairness? Blow me if that dudn't smell like hot apple pie and multiple orgasms the day after your least favorite co-worker gets escorted from the building by turkish prison doctors.
I know it'll all come out in the wash, but I'm humoring myself with my own prickishness for a wee bit. I'm not going to hurt anybody. I'm not driving under the influence of Tom Leykis or teaching blind kids to mime. But I have done the following:
* Closed doors to overly-loud, non-Geoff-affecting meetings on a half-hourly schedule.
* Told people "no" on a regular and frequent basis when their request neither benefits my reputation nor provides them any substantial foothold in being cool.
* Have avoided talking with people who I like while I'm within the sepia-toned fog of a beer hangover.
What I would really like to do now is tell this particularly self-loathing yet self-involved woman at work, "Hey dear... that's quite enough of the stories that affect only you." Yesterday was a 45 minute diatribe in her boss's office (door open) about how raising kids is the hardest thing in the world, how hard it is to be a good mom, how being a mom is like being a Drill Instructor and a Teddy Bear all at the same time... On and on. What I heard was...
"My 4 year old twins don't understand all the hell I go through just to get home and care for them. Instead of just loving them the best I can by being a Parent, I'm going to assume the Martyr role and secretly harbor resentment towards them because, as you can know I am a twice-divorced woman (door's been open other times), men cannot be counted on to contribute to my happiness, regardless if they are drunk on a couch, drunk on a lawn mower, drunk on my sister, or just innocent little kids who will eventually resent women, or at the least, never leave home so they'll take care of me. It's the circle of my life, like the elastic waist in my stirrup pants. Yes, this is a cable-knit cardigan."
or
"Gawd, that guy around the corner should stop wearing headphones. He'd probably be able to hear how much he farts."
I guess it's all in the tone of voice, you had to be there. I literally HAD to be there.
In the meantime, I should sum it up by saying this ain't a pity party. I have too much perspective on my life to get down over the burn I'm feeling lately. I've had much worse come my way, mostly of my own doing, and always came out stronger. That doesn't replace the want to call somebody taking too long at the grocery store a "canopy-dwelling pygmy slow loris," but it is, time to time, a nice balm.
=============
In another part of the galaxy, Jay Leno continues to rack up points in Purgatory for his egomaniacal projects. You think Heaven would book Leno over Hedberg, Hicks, and Dangerfield? And even hell would say "Oh come on, we don't want him... It's already Hell."
Jay has pledged to ride his celebrity-autographed motorcycle 'round the U.S. to raise money for Tsunami relief. Okay, the tsunami... yeah, the big wave that killed hundreds of thousands of pairs of your favorite jeans in December... was horrible. It's a major wake-up call to the rest of the world to start reading their Bibles. Christianity is about as popular in Thailand as having sex with a legal-aged woman in Thailand. Look up. That's the bar for Tsunami jokes. I may be able to best that.
Here's what chaps my Shandling. Jay is doing something he loves to do (blather, annoy others), on a great motorcycle, during the nicest time of year in America. It's for a TSUNAMI RELIEF EFFORT! Tsunami! Waves! Water! Destruction! Death! It's not a thoughtful gesture to have Matt Lauer interviewing you every Thursday to see where in the states your chin has ended up. Shouldn't he have to jump a Bellagio fountain full of his Michael Jackson jokes to make it seem like an effort?
Then again, the Rockies right now? Gorgeous. At least somebody is doing SOMETHING to help those people affected by the Tsunami... 6 months later.
===========
Thanks. I feel better. I guess I needed to write a bit.
BTW, I have no opinion on Cupcakes v. Muffins. They are equally delicious. However, I have serious issues with any pastry that is overflowing their cup all sloppy.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Not but a few weeks ago I felt concern for others. Now I'm back to not really giving a shit if you get your numbers or not. Did I dawdle at a yellow and make you miss a light? Blame your slapped-seven-times snooze button, shit pig. Six would've had you eight minutes ahead of your day, and you wouldn't be back there fuming. And I do so hope you are fuming.
I'm not saying I've lost faith in humanity. That happened long ago. Life ain't all home-makeover shows and winning Lotto tickets, is it? In fact, Life ain't even close, is it? No, Life gives greatly to a few, and randomly so, in order to make us wonder, "Hey, why did THAT shitpile get a new Mustang?" Because God knows that guy who has lost three marriages and 8 kids to drugs, jail, crime, and more drugs should have a sweet car to sell so he can pay, not child support, but for that final, life-ending speedball.
Wait a second... did I just sniff some fairness? Blow me if that dudn't smell like hot apple pie and multiple orgasms the day after your least favorite co-worker gets escorted from the building by turkish prison doctors.
I know it'll all come out in the wash, but I'm humoring myself with my own prickishness for a wee bit. I'm not going to hurt anybody. I'm not driving under the influence of Tom Leykis or teaching blind kids to mime. But I have done the following:
* Closed doors to overly-loud, non-Geoff-affecting meetings on a half-hourly schedule.
* Told people "no" on a regular and frequent basis when their request neither benefits my reputation nor provides them any substantial foothold in being cool.
* Have avoided talking with people who I like while I'm within the sepia-toned fog of a beer hangover.
What I would really like to do now is tell this particularly self-loathing yet self-involved woman at work, "Hey dear... that's quite enough of the stories that affect only you." Yesterday was a 45 minute diatribe in her boss's office (door open) about how raising kids is the hardest thing in the world, how hard it is to be a good mom, how being a mom is like being a Drill Instructor and a Teddy Bear all at the same time... On and on. What I heard was...
"My 4 year old twins don't understand all the hell I go through just to get home and care for them. Instead of just loving them the best I can by being a Parent, I'm going to assume the Martyr role and secretly harbor resentment towards them because, as you can know I am a twice-divorced woman (door's been open other times), men cannot be counted on to contribute to my happiness, regardless if they are drunk on a couch, drunk on a lawn mower, drunk on my sister, or just innocent little kids who will eventually resent women, or at the least, never leave home so they'll take care of me. It's the circle of my life, like the elastic waist in my stirrup pants. Yes, this is a cable-knit cardigan."
or
"Gawd, that guy around the corner should stop wearing headphones. He'd probably be able to hear how much he farts."
I guess it's all in the tone of voice, you had to be there. I literally HAD to be there.
In the meantime, I should sum it up by saying this ain't a pity party. I have too much perspective on my life to get down over the burn I'm feeling lately. I've had much worse come my way, mostly of my own doing, and always came out stronger. That doesn't replace the want to call somebody taking too long at the grocery store a "canopy-dwelling pygmy slow loris," but it is, time to time, a nice balm.
=============
In another part of the galaxy, Jay Leno continues to rack up points in Purgatory for his egomaniacal projects. You think Heaven would book Leno over Hedberg, Hicks, and Dangerfield? And even hell would say "Oh come on, we don't want him... It's already Hell."
Jay has pledged to ride his celebrity-autographed motorcycle 'round the U.S. to raise money for Tsunami relief. Okay, the tsunami... yeah, the big wave that killed hundreds of thousands of pairs of your favorite jeans in December... was horrible. It's a major wake-up call to the rest of the world to start reading their Bibles. Christianity is about as popular in Thailand as having sex with a legal-aged woman in Thailand. Look up. That's the bar for Tsunami jokes. I may be able to best that.
Here's what chaps my Shandling. Jay is doing something he loves to do (blather, annoy others), on a great motorcycle, during the nicest time of year in America. It's for a TSUNAMI RELIEF EFFORT! Tsunami! Waves! Water! Destruction! Death! It's not a thoughtful gesture to have Matt Lauer interviewing you every Thursday to see where in the states your chin has ended up. Shouldn't he have to jump a Bellagio fountain full of his Michael Jackson jokes to make it seem like an effort?
Then again, the Rockies right now? Gorgeous. At least somebody is doing SOMETHING to help those people affected by the Tsunami... 6 months later.
===========
Thanks. I feel better. I guess I needed to write a bit.
BTW, I have no opinion on Cupcakes v. Muffins. They are equally delicious. However, I have serious issues with any pastry that is overflowing their cup all sloppy.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, June 06, 2005
Sense Her Ship!
The previous Muffin-Cupcake post dealt with some pretty tough issues.
I see now that had I never mentioned race whatsoever, it would have challenged me to write more creatively, yet clearly, in order to get across the point.
So if anybody is upset that race was mentioned and talked about, lighten up, and I mean that in an existential mood-sense, and no other way than that. Sometimes, jokes happen, and those who are offended are usually those left behind or those asking "What? What happened there? Why do I always have to ask questions at movies? Where is my walking stick? I'm going to hunt a mastodon because I'm a primitive shit pile! I only call it 'mastodon' because that's what they'll call it thousands of years from now when my metaphorical charicature is used in a 'blog' by 'Geoff Lott,' whatever kind of beast that will turn out like. And never you mind why I'm in the movies! Probably because that 'Geoff' thing is on the train of thought, and he wants you to know that your nitpicking is getting old, REALLY old, so quit the nagging, you seat sniffer."
Hey, anybody know how much a thermostat for a 1999 Chrysler Cirrus and a Radiator flush usually run? Because that's what I'm paying for tomorrow morning around 11am. It's gonna suck dingles, Barry.
We got it together baby...
============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I see now that had I never mentioned race whatsoever, it would have challenged me to write more creatively, yet clearly, in order to get across the point.
So if anybody is upset that race was mentioned and talked about, lighten up, and I mean that in an existential mood-sense, and no other way than that. Sometimes, jokes happen, and those who are offended are usually those left behind or those asking "What? What happened there? Why do I always have to ask questions at movies? Where is my walking stick? I'm going to hunt a mastodon because I'm a primitive shit pile! I only call it 'mastodon' because that's what they'll call it thousands of years from now when my metaphorical charicature is used in a 'blog' by 'Geoff Lott,' whatever kind of beast that will turn out like. And never you mind why I'm in the movies! Probably because that 'Geoff' thing is on the train of thought, and he wants you to know that your nitpicking is getting old, REALLY old, so quit the nagging, you seat sniffer."
Hey, anybody know how much a thermostat for a 1999 Chrysler Cirrus and a Radiator flush usually run? Because that's what I'm paying for tomorrow morning around 11am. It's gonna suck dingles, Barry.
We got it together baby...
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Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, June 02, 2005
Knowledge In Your Eye, Hand, Tummy
Does anybody out there know if the following is an already-prepped joke, and if so, by whom?
I'm not sure I'll ever do it on-stage, as it is a bit too cutesy, if not unfunny, for my sets, which lately have taken on an air of smarm with just a hint of Bourgoisie Masculinity. So here goes.
Muffins.
We call them "muffins" because, at 8:30 in the morning, nobody's gonna eat a Cupcake. You can jam all the blueberries you want in there, cake is cake, CarbLoader.
The only muffin that's actually a muffin is any muffin with Bran in it. You have never had bran cake, have you? And don't say you have just to try and ruin my muffin tirade. I'm not anti-muffin, I'm just anti-muffin naming.
Look, muffins are as much muffins as they are cupcakes, just depends on the situation. Morning, MUFFIN. Birthday party, CUPCAKE. Bedroom, BIKINI.
Like when that mulatto kid down the way is around his boys, he's "Urban." But the cops come around and oh boy, look who can't dance now? Be who you are, either muffin or cupcake. Accept that you may be both. But don't say Muffin when I can see your Chocolate Chips.
Call it what you will, but the truth is the truth. Muffins are for people who's dad would freak out if he caught them with cupcakes in the morning.
And their music is crap.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Consider that button Push-ed.
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Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I'm not sure I'll ever do it on-stage, as it is a bit too cutesy, if not unfunny, for my sets, which lately have taken on an air of smarm with just a hint of Bourgoisie Masculinity. So here goes.
Muffins.
We call them "muffins" because, at 8:30 in the morning, nobody's gonna eat a Cupcake. You can jam all the blueberries you want in there, cake is cake, CarbLoader.
The only muffin that's actually a muffin is any muffin with Bran in it. You have never had bran cake, have you? And don't say you have just to try and ruin my muffin tirade. I'm not anti-muffin, I'm just anti-muffin naming.
Look, muffins are as much muffins as they are cupcakes, just depends on the situation. Morning, MUFFIN. Birthday party, CUPCAKE. Bedroom, BIKINI.
Like when that mulatto kid down the way is around his boys, he's "Urban." But the cops come around and oh boy, look who can't dance now? Be who you are, either muffin or cupcake. Accept that you may be both. But don't say Muffin when I can see your Chocolate Chips.
Call it what you will, but the truth is the truth. Muffins are for people who's dad would freak out if he caught them with cupcakes in the morning.
And their music is crap.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Consider that button Push-ed.
===================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, June 01, 2005
Thankless Little Bastard
Dear Ma,
Thank you so much, again, for all of your help in the final move and clean on Monday... or Sunday. The days run together when I do that much hero... when I don't sleep much. You were a lifesaver, and showed your moxie and muscle with multiple table moves! I can't believe we still have that old dining room table. I used to sit at that thing and taunt Katie, the dog, and probably myself. I've done homework at it. With well over 14 gallons of lacquer coating that old hatchcover, it will surely be around long after the dog dies...
What?
Schatzi's DEAD? WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME??? SHE WAS WHAT, LIKE 23? SO YOUNG!
Oh she died in 1997? -ish? Damn. I really miss her all of a sudden. Remember that time we were watching the Cosby show and I was constructing a diorama of the Last Supper out of glitter, macaroni, and my own blood, and Schatzi bit it right off the back of the couch? GAWD, she acted like she meant to do it, but what a hoot we had! She was a great dog. I sure will miss HEY I found $5 in my pocket!
Seriously though, you have shown a strength and resolve in the past year that can only be deemed as Spirited. With everything these Lotts have had put on our table, as well as those problems facing Sue and Grampa, this is where all of that love we've been banking can really be cashed in. I'm all for ya, Mom. Katie, not as much, she's a Cancer and what-not, but hey, I'm here if ya need me. Even though when I was 3 and I was watching the neighbor dog 'tween the slats in the fence and my big baby head got stuck and you helped me out.
AFTER laughing and taking a picture of me with a stuck big baby head. That's why I'm thinning up top now. Doctor said so.
Too bad Kates ain't got a blog.
=====
Honestly, the simple fact that my mom has done all she's done in the past 4 years as my dad's condition progressed is a feat of Love, Spirit, Strength, and she's done it all 100% sober. She is the anchor of our family. And if you ever want to stop smoking, just ask me to ask my mom to pray for you. You'll stop smoking right after an accident lands you in the hospital, swear to Charles Nelson Riley, it's happened twice.
Love you, Mom.
=====
I gotta go. I'm staying with Alicia, Tony, and Killorn for a couple days and Tony and Killorn want to use the computer so they can upload their latest "couples video." It's likely the one where Tony plays a plumber and Killorn's at home alone and Tony comes in and drinks all my vodka and then drops a 2-zee in the garbage disposal. Part 3. Pray for me.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thank you so much, again, for all of your help in the final move and clean on Monday... or Sunday. The days run together when I do that much hero... when I don't sleep much. You were a lifesaver, and showed your moxie and muscle with multiple table moves! I can't believe we still have that old dining room table. I used to sit at that thing and taunt Katie, the dog, and probably myself. I've done homework at it. With well over 14 gallons of lacquer coating that old hatchcover, it will surely be around long after the dog dies...
What?
Schatzi's DEAD? WHY DIDN'T ANYBODY TELL ME??? SHE WAS WHAT, LIKE 23? SO YOUNG!
Oh she died in 1997? -ish? Damn. I really miss her all of a sudden. Remember that time we were watching the Cosby show and I was constructing a diorama of the Last Supper out of glitter, macaroni, and my own blood, and Schatzi bit it right off the back of the couch? GAWD, she acted like she meant to do it, but what a hoot we had! She was a great dog. I sure will miss HEY I found $5 in my pocket!
Seriously though, you have shown a strength and resolve in the past year that can only be deemed as Spirited. With everything these Lotts have had put on our table, as well as those problems facing Sue and Grampa, this is where all of that love we've been banking can really be cashed in. I'm all for ya, Mom. Katie, not as much, she's a Cancer and what-not, but hey, I'm here if ya need me. Even though when I was 3 and I was watching the neighbor dog 'tween the slats in the fence and my big baby head got stuck and you helped me out.
AFTER laughing and taking a picture of me with a stuck big baby head. That's why I'm thinning up top now. Doctor said so.
Too bad Kates ain't got a blog.
=====
Honestly, the simple fact that my mom has done all she's done in the past 4 years as my dad's condition progressed is a feat of Love, Spirit, Strength, and she's done it all 100% sober. She is the anchor of our family. And if you ever want to stop smoking, just ask me to ask my mom to pray for you. You'll stop smoking right after an accident lands you in the hospital, swear to Charles Nelson Riley, it's happened twice.
Love you, Mom.
=====
I gotta go. I'm staying with Alicia, Tony, and Killorn for a couple days and Tony and Killorn want to use the computer so they can upload their latest "couples video." It's likely the one where Tony plays a plumber and Killorn's at home alone and Tony comes in and drinks all my vodka and then drops a 2-zee in the garbage disposal. Part 3. Pray for me.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Many Thanks, and a Notice
Many many thanks to Alicia, Killorn, Shoogs, Tracy, and Farts Mosey-Moser (not her real name) for their help in the move this past weekend. It never got to the point of pending nor actual fisticuffs, but I did throw up out of exhaustion after realizing I moved the dresser down three flights of stairs without pulling the drawers nor the body parts therein - OUT.
DUMMY HEAD This guy, huh?
Also, I'm gonna be busy as Robin Williams at an Open Mic for the next while, but I'll write when I can. Yeah, big threat, I know you care tons and what-not, but I guess it goes like this:
There's a LOT of useless news and generally masturbatory crap being floated about in the blogosphere, comedy stages, and your mom's sock drawer.... bzzzzzzz...
It is my intent to write something worth reading, and not just flarping forth some slam-dunk essay on Paris Hilton (engaged to be divorced, so popular), drug side effects, hopelessness, STDs, Girl Scouts, and why black people are different from white people, which I'm still not sure the precise factors involved therein. Has something to do with dancing, clothes, talking with polices, and how big a girl can get before she's deemed "unattractive." (I think it's when she can't cover rent)
Stop furrowing your Botox field, if anyone other than a white guy had said it, they'd call it "edgy." I see the line in the sand just fine, thank you.
So anywho, racist stereotype comedy is always a crowd pleaser, I have two storage units that look like a top-down view of Tetris (on Crack!!!), and I'll be damned if Kidd Valley doesn't sog a bun every time around.
More to write when it's useful. Get a drink.
DUMMY HEAD This guy, huh?
Also, I'm gonna be busy as Robin Williams at an Open Mic for the next while, but I'll write when I can. Yeah, big threat, I know you care tons and what-not, but I guess it goes like this:
There's a LOT of useless news and generally masturbatory crap being floated about in the blogosphere, comedy stages, and your mom's sock drawer.... bzzzzzzz...
It is my intent to write something worth reading, and not just flarping forth some slam-dunk essay on Paris Hilton (engaged to be divorced, so popular), drug side effects, hopelessness, STDs, Girl Scouts, and why black people are different from white people, which I'm still not sure the precise factors involved therein. Has something to do with dancing, clothes, talking with polices, and how big a girl can get before she's deemed "unattractive." (I think it's when she can't cover rent)
Stop furrowing your Botox field, if anyone other than a white guy had said it, they'd call it "edgy." I see the line in the sand just fine, thank you.
So anywho, racist stereotype comedy is always a crowd pleaser, I have two storage units that look like a top-down view of Tetris (on Crack!!!), and I'll be damned if Kidd Valley doesn't sog a bun every time around.
More to write when it's useful. Get a drink.
Thursday, May 26, 2005
It'll Take Spinach, Lo-Carb Monster, and Chevy Flatbed
Aaaah, the joys of moving.
What are they?
Getting rid of old crap, that's about it. So far I've loaded at least 3 if not 17 50-gallon Hefty bags (not a plug) full of unused, two years-untouched crap such. Old shoelaces (huh?), 1/10th of a tube of men's body wash (yow!), and an empty bottle of Grey Goose (a plug).
I've yet to pack my kitchen, bedroom closet, or time management. In the meantime I'm closing on my condo tomorrow, and feeling really good about everything. I have written e-commitments from a couple of guys to help me move this weekend (standard pay scale, pizza & beer), and am about to call in and get my cable, phone, and Secret Service surveillance team changed to my new address. I've got plenty to do.
I'm at the point where most things are boxed up, except my TV and stereo, dishes, pots/pans, . And some things can't be boxed, like the entertainment center, couch, coffee table, desk, bed, dresser... holy sh... bedside table, book case, and multiple storage bins. It's all the big stuff, and odd as it sounds, this is the best I've ever packed. At THIS point, of course. That usually changes on that last day of the move prior to cleaning, where I'm running through the apartment at 11:53pm with a Bobcat front-loader, trailing a Zamboni machine loaded with OxiClean, SimpleGreen, Dasani, and toothpaste (double-action agent for ambient odors AND knicks in the drywall).
OH FAWK, the DRYWALL.
It's been a fun little journey, this homebuying thing. My housing payment is actually $70 LESS than my rent payment, for another 300sq-ft, an extra bedroom (don't tell Bradley Lewis), a small backyard (beer swing on backorder), and a kitchen and master bathroom I can gut and remodel. It's the start of what I hope will be a long line of real estate purchases. By 2015 I hope to own most of NorthEast KingCounty. Militia uniforms on backorder.
If I could share any part of my experience with you, it would be this: Do whatever you can to purchase some real estate. It appreciates immediately. It's not as expensive as you think. They don't want the whole $2.3mil for the place (oops, did I slip?) all at once. And if nothing else, you can do this the old fashioned way. It's been too long since we had a good case of squatter's rights.
Right now, I feel like I ought to just jack-up one side of my apartment and snow-shovel whatever's left inside into a dumptruck. Garage sale forthcoming. I have a custom-made bodywash cocktail that'll knock your socks off, and will leave you with that "Just did a rail" feeling!
==-=-=-=-=-=-=-==
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
What are they?
Getting rid of old crap, that's about it. So far I've loaded at least 3 if not 17 50-gallon Hefty bags (not a plug) full of unused, two years-untouched crap such. Old shoelaces (huh?), 1/10th of a tube of men's body wash (yow!), and an empty bottle of Grey Goose (a plug).
I've yet to pack my kitchen, bedroom closet, or time management. In the meantime I'm closing on my condo tomorrow, and feeling really good about everything. I have written e-commitments from a couple of guys to help me move this weekend (standard pay scale, pizza & beer), and am about to call in and get my cable, phone, and Secret Service surveillance team changed to my new address. I've got plenty to do.
I'm at the point where most things are boxed up, except my TV and stereo, dishes, pots/pans, . And some things can't be boxed, like the entertainment center, couch, coffee table, desk, bed, dresser... holy sh... bedside table, book case, and multiple storage bins. It's all the big stuff, and odd as it sounds, this is the best I've ever packed. At THIS point, of course. That usually changes on that last day of the move prior to cleaning, where I'm running through the apartment at 11:53pm with a Bobcat front-loader, trailing a Zamboni machine loaded with OxiClean, SimpleGreen, Dasani, and toothpaste (double-action agent for ambient odors AND knicks in the drywall).
OH FAWK, the DRYWALL.
It's been a fun little journey, this homebuying thing. My housing payment is actually $70 LESS than my rent payment, for another 300sq-ft, an extra bedroom (don't tell Bradley Lewis), a small backyard (beer swing on backorder), and a kitchen and master bathroom I can gut and remodel. It's the start of what I hope will be a long line of real estate purchases. By 2015 I hope to own most of NorthEast KingCounty. Militia uniforms on backorder.
If I could share any part of my experience with you, it would be this: Do whatever you can to purchase some real estate. It appreciates immediately. It's not as expensive as you think. They don't want the whole $2.3mil for the place (oops, did I slip?) all at once. And if nothing else, you can do this the old fashioned way. It's been too long since we had a good case of squatter's rights.
Right now, I feel like I ought to just jack-up one side of my apartment and snow-shovel whatever's left inside into a dumptruck. Garage sale forthcoming. I have a custom-made bodywash cocktail that'll knock your socks off, and will leave you with that "Just did a rail" feeling!
==-=-=-=-=-=-=-==
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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