Pre-Weekend Wrap-up

Let's see here, what to do this weekend...

Well, PosterMidget has come through and is printing up all kinds of posters for the HAX-TV Premiere Night Happygasm... you'll be there. I got that to do tonight.

THE Marc Maron is supposedly at Giggles Comedy Club, but I'm not sure who exactly will Terry that I used the word "supposedly." I hope Maron's there, because he is a phenomenal comic, in the sense that he can make you laugh by talking about the everyday things and how they affect him.

Frankly, I hope he's there because I could stand me some Maron. Mishna Wolff, his wife, is gonna be there, too, and she's a great comic, as well. So it's a good weekend of comedy here in Seattle. I have no idea who is at the Comedy Underground, but only because I can't remember, not out of any spite.

If you go to a comedy show and see a comic who is non-white, you can count on a few things being said while that performer is performing:
Funny ways parents of other cultures talk, financial problems based on skin color, financial problems while young, silly and/or crazy food eaten by their famiry WHOOPS- famiLy, a scenario in which a stereotype of their culture comes back to haunt them, and the use of words "White People," "Caucasians," and whatever derogatory term is used for their ethnicity.
Those are the basis of most non-white comics' material. It is the sticky rice, the collard greens, the frijoles, if you will. And I think that you, as a comedy-goer, deserve better.

So as I sign off with my blonde hair and blue eyes, I will say this:
Stereotypes are not assigned, they are earned by mentioning the observation of repetitive actions of large numbers of people that look like you do. To break them, we have to stop eating dogs, stop having sex with fat white women to cover rent, stop not doing anything, and stop trying to blow things up because we're mad at the court. From here on, we're all one big happy family, so look out Gay People!

I'm Geoff Lott, and you can hands-free eat my ass.
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I'm Too Busy, Spank Your Own Self

I haven't written in a while, very busy with the HAX-TV Premiere night, comedy, and acting like work matters. I'm enjoying the weather, a recent run of strong sets, and learning all that it takes to get a production like the HAX-TV Premiere Night Extravagasm fired up.

I know I said I would try to make every blog count, but I ain't got the cheese today, dear moppets. I have too much else going on to talk about how www.tonx.org was voted as Seattle's best blog (read it for yourself. Totally the best blog about Coffee Shop Life that you'll ever rezzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.....). And I'm far too busy to discuss the fact that bitter old queens don't make for very fun people to be around, especially when they need constant dabbing and changing of their ego diapers. Check my schedule and you'll see that I have NO TIME, sorry, to tell you that we can help the police in our neighborhoods by handling our own business like adults, who have guns, or attack cobras. And wow, it would be impossible for me to fit in the fact that recruiting a squirrel army is harder than you'd think, especially when it comes to organizing meetings, filling out paper-work, or even telling them apart without itty bitty fur-sticking nametags.

In the meantime, get your plans together for the HAX-TV Premiere Special Blowout Of Your FunnyBones And Pants. Hit the Media page, get ready for the Advertising blitz, and start conditioning your laughter holes.

And quit telling me what to do. I'll get my army together if I have to give every last nut.

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The Church Of Wit and The Guiding Light Of Funny

Interminable story-telling.
Need for attention.
"Look at me!"
"Keep doing that!"
More stories nobody cares about.
Bitterness.
Mindless drinking.
I'M NOT LOOKING AT YOU, so shut up.
It's not about you.

Life will be around to write your check when it gets done with the those who have died from ethnic cleansing, drunken drivers crossing the median, and being born with a bad heart before ever having a name.

I don't like telling people what to do without it being solicited, but the way you take yourself so seriously is the funniest thing you've ever done. I see why you play your Game For One. It's the only way you can never lose.

What am I thinking? You always beat yourself!
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Bob, Tony, And Cake I'll Eat, Too

Anyone who takes themself seriously should be forced to watch every Ethan Hawke movie on a 6-day reel. Because on the 7th day, they are going to be strapped into a seat listening to Alanis until they either grow a vagina or theirs grows a skin flap.
And that only kind of was intended for the person who restricted my access to a doorless hallway full of pictures while the FedEx guy peeled off with BOXES, the number two method of potential scary time, and wasn't even questioned.

"Well, he's the FuxEd guy, I mean... HE HAS A CLIPBOARD." You can't argue with that logic.
Oh dear, if anyone needs me I'll be "in my place." (braaaap) Gotta make sure people like me don't go wreckin' the Alan Jackson displays.

Now... BIG Thank You to the Bob Rivers crew for having me on this morning. I get a little nervous about radio because it's a small crowd and they all know each other. But I let go of the fear because I'm a comic and can make the best of a bad situation. I once gave a 45minute Excel presentation and was getting laughs, so radio's no sweat. Some people go on and eat it, but I got a total of 3, count 'em, 3 bells this morning, including a DOUBLE-DINGER. So while I got one bell, then got no bells for a few minutes, I made up for it with...
oh hell, who gives a rip? The point is that I had fun and hope to be back with the Bob Rivers gang again in the future. Those guys are great! Sadly, they compete with my other favorite morning show of MadFab and Maynardo but like my grampa used to say, "Some days, it's all you can do just to get the body in the trunk." Got that right.

Giggles, Tonight, 8:30 and 10pm. 206-526-JOKE for reservations

Tomorrow is the party for Tony "SteakLimbs" Moser who is a phenomenal video editor and a grade-A SakeBomber. He likes it hot. We're kickballing until our balls get kicked to kingdom come, granted that Killoojy O'Handwrappascar will be plying us with wrapped weiners and a tapped pony keg. Standard rules, no skirts on the ball field, 3rd inning is In Your Cups inning, where the infield has to play while holding their Solo, both teams. 5th inning, if we're still alive, is Double in The Gap, where we chug at 2nd before advancing.

That's the kind of intensity I like to see at the Cobra-Kai dojo.
www.haxtv.com
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Like A Hickey

Whaddayoo mean you ain't seen The HAX-TV Promo Reel yet? It's never going to work without YOU!!!

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Buttons, Knobs, and Globes

I often find myself walking up to the line in the sand that says “Cross, and… well, I don’t know what’s going to happen.” For a long time I have been a firm believer that if you shake your own Sno-Globe before some-one/thing/a-pipe does, you are never going to be unable to handle thethings coming your way. And by “shake” I don’t mean that you should go to the extremes of pet adoption, jingoism, or divorce. Hey, you marry Gay, YOU STAY GAY. Challenging your own status quo is a great way to grow at your own pace, instead of being racked and rolled.

The first half of last week I lived like a man on a mission. Tons of phone calls, some of my best writing, fearless comedy deliveries, planning my future, re-working my budget, trimming the bustle in my hedgerow, etc. I was getting things DONE, people. Then, come Saturday, I hit a wall or a pothole or a bump or a dip or a crater. I dumped the tanks on the “Balance Cruiser” and spent Saturday night in a haze, and Sunday in a weird state of confusion and dread. I felt as if I was being either punished or tested, for what I did not know. So my head started making laps like qualifying for the Freud 500, and every gauge was showing low pressure, but redline revving.

I felt like I had no shields to deflect any thing coming my way. My sensors needed re-calibrating. Some were wide open, some dim, some just read everything as incoming artillery. I then started wondering if what I was feeling was of my own creation, instead of someone else’s . Ah, the thin line of Rational Thought and Emotional Presence:
If I Choose To Be Happy, Do I Become Blind To My Troubles, or Do I Light The Way For Others?

And THIS my friends is the bane of my existence. Since I was a kid I have been able to see either side of an argument quicker than you can say “Michael Jackson, Guilty Of Thrillin’ You.” Thusly, I rarely see a benefit in taking a side unless I have some throbbing, purple-headed reaction to the sitch. I see small decisions having giant ripples, and big decisions as flaccid and shriveled. And why the hell am I being told what this person is telling me? How can I be told such a thing and be expected to stare back, blankly, when, isn’t it obvious, that this is the kind of information that someone tells you when they WANT AN EMOTIONAL REACTION? And if you are attempting to elicit a reaction, you are reaching under my console to push buttons you shouldn’t push. One of them is, after all, The Button. Boom.

Perhaps yesterday was a Perspective Day. It was the Blink that cured the Highway Hypnosis of my “Business side.” I gained insight into some key areas of my life that I would not have seen had I held blind allegiance to the Happy Nation flag. I re-established the link with things and people that are most important to me. But I did realize how little I like to feel tested, and how much I truly care about the people in my life. I’m not always right, but I can at least see when I’m wrong. And I’m rarely wrong, although I am often mistaken. I can’t sweat the small stuff. And if my small stuff is big stuff to you, remember, I’ll always think it’s smaller than it is, until I think it’s bigger than it is, at which point somebody will tell me, no, Geoff, it’s not that big.

Stuff, I mean.

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Of Accountability and Satchels

My debit card was one of a trailer-load that MAY have been compromised when somebody left their IM open at a bank and threw most of King County into terror.

I got a new card a week ago, but no PIN number, as something went to, then back from, my old address. The one thing that I needed, that PIN, was returned. I have a shiny new card, money in the bank, and no access to it without, gulp, filling out a withdrawal slip.

I had no idea the revolution was going to happen so soon. I had it penciled in for early October, but I've been really busy, so...

In the event somebody DID steal my identity, I'm only gonna say this once:
You do so much as ONE hacky joke, and I'll personally Horse you Enumclaw-style.
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In response to the tragedies of the London transportation bombings, New York City's police and/or Port Authority officials are going to start conducting random bag searches.

"WHAT?!" somebody exclaims. "INFRINGE ON MY FREEDOM?!?!" No. Infringe on Privacy. Big diff. And if you're trying to hit the subway and tell a badged person to "put (their) head in (their) ass and a bag and search THAT for a sign of intelligence, DoucheNozzle!" or something to that effect, well gosh, you just ain't gettin' on the train.
People don't want to trade privacy for security. The invasive searches step all over privacy, and by privacy I mean the right to hide embarrassing things in a bag or sack. These Peeky Petes are looking for bombs, explosives, hazardous materials such as guns or children. It's a measure to keep things safe.

Take a deep breath. It's not illegal to carry a bag. Nor is it illegal to carry, in that bag, something that makes the search-party question why they even took the assignment. In their search for boombooms, they may come across a pickle jar filled with a gooey, brown substance interlaced with Romaine lettuce, the jar be-labled "July 5, '05." They don't have to know it's only brownie batter. It's a hassle, it's annoying, it's invasive, and until people stop acting batshit-crazy in the name of their false god, it's 100% necessary. I don't think that ALL Muslims are psychotic suicide bombers. I don't even think .001% of them are.

Don't worry, if they do it right, only the shifty Middle-easterners are going to get searched, every friggin' time. Profiling? Yep. The extremists who are blowing things up and killing innocent, hourly workers, 99% of the time, have the same complexion, hairline, and belief system. YES, white people blow shit up, too, but the subway staircases are too narrow for "Something Ray Something-kins" to get the rental van down it. Eventually, if done correctly, the searches will take place in our homes, where we'll be surprised and stripped down, then made to dance like a tiny ballerina, dooty doo ballerina DANCE FOR FREEDOM.

OR, we can fast forward 10 years and say "These bombings could have been avoided if they'd just started checking people's bags, I mean, who wouldn't stop for 2 seconds just to, hold on... yes, please fill my StarBucks Bag with 1/2-caff and one Sugar pill, I'll turn the drip on later." Win or lose, I need to stop carrying the alarm clock and road flares HA HA HA HA HA thank you Open Mic skills!

I speak from experience when I say that these added security measures are inconvenient. Each time I fly somewhere, I get stopped and wand-searched because I have a rod in my leg as a result of an accident that the government said was due to terrorists. The guy piloting the motorcycle that caused me to have a really shitty Thursday morning was high on heroin, which probably came from Yakima or Kabul.
His decisions back THEN caused me to get searched each time NOW, and therefore Terrorism affects us all, so sayeth the Gubment. I guess they have to be careful.

Whatever, I'm tired. Put weird shit in your bag so they can search away, don't wipe your ass for two days before flying, and you'll be fidgety enough to get strip searched. F*ck You Right Back, Patriot Act. Look into my ass-eye.

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The Kid Stays In The Picture, His Dad Can Eat It

President Bush 2: Son Of Ridicula, nominated John G. Roberts, Jr. for Supreme Court justice sometime in the past few weeks. I don't watch much news unless I'm on it. So John G. Roberts, Jr., who may be even whiter than his name belies, brings his family to the White House for the announcement by W. of John G. Roberts, Jr.'s nomination.

The nation that kind of cares watches as the Prez recites what is written for him on a Kid's Menu from Air Force One (re-named Air Force Fun on Saturdays). And as John G. Roberts, Jr. stands near the 6th Most Powerful Man in the Nation (behind Jordan, Dr. Phil, and the alien controlling Cheney's pacemaker -tie- Tom Cruise, and whomever has Lance Armstrong's preserved jingler), Robert's son starts GOING FOR IT!

YOU WANT A HERO, YOU F*CKING GOT A HERO




Let's go over this picture, clockwise.

Left to right, dad's trying to keep his composure. He's realizing that he can't do the normal beating of the boy on TV, even if the President would be cheering him on, but he's planning a good guilt trip the boy will take with him into his career as a GloryHole. Daddy John's got a sort of sick pride in the boy, and likes that he's rambunctious enough to off-set the queer saddle shoes.

W., well, he may be oblivious. It's not uncommon for him to blank out when kids fidget, if you remember story-time on that fateful September morning. The script doesn't say anything about acknowledging child-like, gleeful seizures, so words words words "say, I sure could go for a twirl myself right now."

Wifey's mortified. That boy would be stifling sobs right now if it weren't for the 3 Xanax she chewed down with the mimosa. She can't even look at what her loins have produced. She's either counting backwards from 10, or trying to remember the name of that homeless man she gave a dollar to in hopes of plotting a child abuction. "the code word is... damn him... the code word is FootLoose."

The daughter's got a death-grip on mom, trying to kill little John with her thoughts, knowing that if she so much as sighed she'd get a Richter-scale shaking. This is one moment that will be replayed when she's found at a party with a joint and 4 hickeys, two from her gym teacher, Ms. Danskin.

And finally, our Protagonist, Little John. Crunkin' the conference up like it ain't got nothin' to do with nothin' but sugar and a Little Titans marathon. He's a mascara smudge and tear-drop away from the first-ever televised Honky Krumpin'. And that soundtrack that kids have when they are in the flow, oh man:
"My dad, is the KING and my sister is a FART, and my mom is a BRAT, and I can DANCE like a ROBOT and a ROBOT goes like THIS and I FART and my sister SMELLS it because she is a FART BRAT and I go pee on the CAT that my sister cannot HAVE because Daddy ran it OVER in the car that Mom THREW UP inside, after all that JUICE at Uncle DAN's party farty farty fart fart BUTT BOOBS..." (to the bridge)

Unhinged, unsolicited, unconscious. The kid's got style. Rock on, little weirdo. You may never be able to drive a car or understand why your first family left you at a Toys R Us, but I'm in your corner. I hope your dad gets the appointment, and I hope you dance so well that someday you get Britney Spears' sister pregnant.

I hope you dance.
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the preceding blog is a challenge to other Seattle comic bloggers to Krump my Blog. Whatchoo got?
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Shopping list: Sponge on a stick, Spray Deodorant, Apology Cards

Last night I went to the home of A-Bomb, Moses In JamShorts, and The Ghost Of Warranty Past. The Ghost done sliced up her hand this past weekend, her right hand. It's giving her troubles, to say the least. I'm happy she's okay.

That being said, the weather's been warm, unkind to the mammals of the planet who perspirate. Let's just leave it at this:

When your right hand is bandaged and needs to stay dry, sometimes, just sometimes, your left armpit can pack quite a wallop. Compared to that, my nose has been more delicately punched.

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Customary Disservice

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ACHTUNG!

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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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.

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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.


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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."
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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.

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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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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.

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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!

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Peter Johnson would prefer you call him Pete from now on.
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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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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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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.


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