Fan Fiction: Competitive Erotic section

From time to time my brain conjures something so far afield that I leave it to fizzle out before it breathes fire unto itself. Sometimes it's so embarrassing I would rather nobody see it, rather not be associated with it. But sometimes it's so embarrassing and gross and weird that I'd rather just admit this is a part of my psyche that should get entertained and let the dogs run themselves out and over the hillside and be free.

Last night I read the following piece, which I wrote (big "Sorry guys" to my boys), in a Competitive Erotic Fan Fiction show in Seattle. I tied for first place. It is a tale of Jeffrey "Bloeharten" Steingarten, Paula Deen, and Guy Fieri gone wrong. You read the rest. In the voice of Jeffrey Steingarten. A good meal can leave one feeling as euphoric as a restful slumber, waking mid-dream only to drift back into sleep, into the dream of laying under a glass coffee table while Rachael Ray squats over you. As a food critic I have eaten in the top restaurants all over the world. I have sipped 800 year-old beers. My olfactory senses have run headlong into the still-beating heart of a Nile-born crocodile. Once, in Massawa on the Red Sea, an elderly Croatian eunuch who had been force-fed only persimmon and organic brown rice for 2 decades, shat into my hands a product that I can only liken to what God must use for toothpaste. Tonight was different. I was redlining a sensory overload rivaling the time I had to knife-fight a coked-up Anthony Bourdain for calling his taste in cuisine "as influential as the Ramones were to orthodontia." This night, this hazy timewarp had me reeling. There were flavors, not just something my mouth could relay to my brain, but multiple layers of taste and smell. Butters. Creams. Foams. Organ meats. Desserts. Sex. And porkfat. Oh dear... You see, you haven’t had bacon until it’s been run under the sweat-drenched breast of Ms. Paula Deen. "That's ryt, sugar, you just let mamma do the cookin', and you do all the eatin' you can handle. I loooove it when you get a hand in my mixin' bowl and go to work. Hooo hooo, my Mrs. Butterworth done sprung a leak HAWT GOLLY." Wading in and out of consciousness every time she pinched my nipples or drizzled hot clarified butter down my stomach, the booze-drenched coffee cake we’d put away was wrapping me in a mahogany haze of rum and insulin. My senses were crackling like funnel cakes in a deep-fryer thanks to the Ecstasy-infused crème fraiche I previously tongued from Paula’s open mouth. Sure, we’d gone full-sprint into Hedonism a few times, but this was something special. In the past, it wasn't unusual that Guy Fieri would drop in and hang out if he were in the area. Guy liked to do a bump, kill a few White Russians (he once actually choked a half-blind Ukrainian girl to death in Memphis), wait for things to get hot and heavy, then sort of blend into the background – as best a guy dressed like Ed Hardy’s special-needs step-son can - and Guy would tug at his vienna sausage while Paula and I hit the passion buffet. I have never figured out why he wears only one sweatband on his wrist. Paula brings tons of food and asks only that I bring half a Viagra and the Morning-after Pill. As a food critic it’s a pretty great gig. I eat great food all around the world for free, and when it comes to Paula, it’s really all you can eat, if you know what I mean. Or as she calls it, "Drinkin' from the gravy boat." My medically-induced soupbone is throbbing to the point of near pain, and she’s rocking back and forth on me like she's churning butter. At one point I'm pretty sure a testicle went in there. She’s telling me “No don’t you drop the batter on the griddle, hun. It’s not hot enough just yet. Yew hold onta that fer me, sweetloaf. When I need yer frostin', my cake'll be ready. I'm gettin' up on my third orgasm herrrrr, HOLY WAFFLE HOUSE.” I glance down to watch her stomach hit mine as she leans into me, then rocks back, separating us with a gossamer sheen of butter and Bacardi and a dark… what is that… is that chocolate syrup? I black out again and my mind goes to a previous encounter of ours. For a while we used butter and olive oil to saute our main course until she got a blue-ribbon yeast infection, which was probably kicked into high-gear by actual yeast and flour from the floor of her kitchen. For a while her crotch smelled like an old pair of Mario Batali's Crocs. Still, that was literally the best loaf of sourdough I’d ever had in my life. Now and again we mix up a batch for the diners at her restaurant “Lady & Sons.” As I come to, I see a reflection in the mirror. It's the shaved, spray-tanned, Tazmanian Devil-tattooed calf and DC Skate Shoe'ed leg of Guy, off somewhere to my left. I sit, tied to a sticky, fluid-soaked chair with my purple root straining skyward from within a cannoli, my entire carcass glistening like a honey-glazed ham. The air is thick with musk, Malibu rum, peanut oil, an odd metallic scent, and a Glade Plug-in... "Cool Serenity" I think. Paula returns from the bathroom with a stemmed glass, pouring in a Tawny Port to top off our fleshy dessert. I glance over my shoulder and see Guy sitting backwards, but slumped over a chair. His shorts around one ankle, his shoes covered in a glossy red... I take a sip from the glass pressed to my lips as my lover, Ms. Paula Deen, spits in her hand. She reaches down to twirl her fingers around the head of my GAAAA T THTHTTPTPPTTPHTHHFHFHFHFFF I spit out the wine. It's gone sour or it's drugged, I can't tell which. It has a heavy smell, like a handful of old pennies... Like an animal. Like blood. "Okay, sugar," she says, lowering herself to the floor, her sweat-matted head of lavender hair tickling my full stomach. She takes a big sip of the bloody port, spits it onto my love mushroom, and begins crunching through the cannoli. "The griddle is ssssMOKIN' hot, sugar… Let's have that batter."

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MC, HOST, CORPORATE, COMEDY, SEATTLE, GEOFF, LOTT

Battle Of The Blands

Revelation last week. While watching a comedian I really like and respect perform a very similar bit to one of mine, my lap felt cold. My joke-boner fell. Frankly, it's true that I have re-hashed too much work within my comedy. It's been too long since I introduced anything truly new, a chunk or a bit or a longer-form run of humor. It's important that I write what I think is funny, but lately all that comes out are lamentations.

About the state of this country (catatonic stupor/corn syrup insulin-crashing).

About religion and those who adhere to it as a lifestyle instead of a guiding light. Loving The Lord is a different expression than Paranoia.

About childless couples throwing shit-looks when my gorgeous and well-behaved son and wife and I sit down near them in a restaurant. Leave, fucko. Eat at the bar.

I'm a happy man and a fed-up American and a bored comedian. That has to amount to something. I'm not boo-hooing the passion I have found in Stand-up Comedy. My reverence for Sahl, Martin, Pryor, Cosby, Hicks, et al fuels much of my desire to accept gigs. My ego thinks I have something to say. So I'm probably just putting too much pressure on myself to make something count for eeeeeverybody sitting in the room at a comedy show. Instead, I need to go back to the drawing board, and draw the shapes of letters that become words and from there, jokes.

I need to do what I think is Funny, that's the trick. Like any work, it's important to do what YOU think is Good Work. Otherwise you're wasting your time and the time of the person paying you to check Facebook just reeeeeal quick. Comedy is a privilege and a passion to be part of. I'm lucky. Sadly, I've also been lazy. Time to turn that around and put it on its knees and tell it to say my name.

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I Do Not Give A Shit, And That's Not Good

Rebecca Black, 13 years old, untalented, was rumored to be pregnant. All she did was become a public figure with her hit song "FRIDAY," about getting high with Chris Tucker in the front seat or the back seat. Video at the end of this blog. Amazing. CNN spread a fake report about her pregnancy. Is this NOT bullying? If CNN were a freshman in High School it would be prosecuted for that action. We need to stop talking about celebrities unless they die filming their movies, because I don't care about them. And by "I" I mean "smart people." Rebecca Black had a dream of getting famous and making music and eventually perhaps getting Bieber-pregged, but that'll never happen. And even if it did, I wouldn't give a shit. However, 141, 360,000 people HAVE given enough of a shit to watch her video. Wow.

Arnold "The Austrian Oak With A Root In Guatemala" Schwarzenegger made a deposit in the family account of a non-family member. He fathered a child with a woman he was not married to, but paid to take care of stuff around his mansion/house prior to being voted in as The Man Who Would Finally Destroy California. Apparently this revelation was brought to Maria "Inward Shrinking" Shriver and she decided to get what's left of her dignity and ass outta the house. Arnold's a known philanderer (Austrian for "serial dong depositor"). And even if he wasn't, I wouldn't give a shit.

There's an old saying that goes "If you don't have anything nice to say, start a blog." Well here it is. I have to find whatever that line is between "Not Judging Others" and "Disinterest In Whether Or Not Most Of Everyone Else is Alive." Maybe it's the pending Rapture (did you buy tickets? REPENT!) or age or the desire to see the lead BA of this project I was put on get publicly embarrassed, but something's amiss. Unless I'm freaking out and angry, I'm not happy. Anger motivates me, inspires me, impregnates me with a syrupy-hot goo that builds a sac of embryonic disgust, birthing-forth in an ass-tearing avalanche of comedic preciousness.

So unless I start caring again about people I don't give a shit about, I'm going to be happy, and that makes me miserable.

Rebecca Black - "Friday"

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Corporate Training & Obedience

Hi, good morning! Everyone?! Good morning, hi...
My name is Denise Szbarski and I am aaaa certified corporate training specialist here, and today I am going to lead our class on the Unified Requirements, Intentions and Negotiations Gathering, or URING, as we like to call it, heh heh heh... NOOOO, not the other word, come on now...

Does anybody have any questions at this point? No? Okay, then why don't we turn our cell phones off or to vibrate, probably better off so that your business emails and important phone calls don't take us away from the focus today while we're all... working through the process and knee deep in URING. Is everybody able to connect to the network? No? You're not? You? No, no, no... huh, 7 of 10 of you can't get on? Okay, well keep trying. Okay then.

Okay, then normally we go around the room to introduce ourselves and say which department we're in to kill time that I can't fill, but instead of doing that, okay let's dive right into our work today. By the time we get to the last person most of us forget who was first anyway and it doesn't really impact our job nor this class, okay then.

Okay, then now the URING process was created out of a need for Senior Leadership like Daniel and Marlia and Steven to impart some change to an otherwise barely-flawed process we were all comfortable and knowledgeable with. After being confused about the actual details that go into planning and design they found a need to get everybody on a new page instead of the same page. Instead of having no answers as to what all has transpired during the gathering and design phases of projects, they now have an acronym they can refer to and feel as if they are at-one with their organization. They don't know any of your names and don't particularly care to, okay then.

Okay, then when you get to the last 72 hours before a project you have worked on is supposed to launch, the URING process will be referred-to. Usually this will happen by one of the Senior Leaders who hasn't attended any of the calls or meetings, and they will ask questions at random times. The answers to those questions will likely, or may not be, in the URING document, so keep it on-hand at all times, okay then?

Okay, then OH is that a phone? Please... please let's turn off our phones again real quick, guys I hate to interrupt class like that, okay? I'm barely qualified to substitute-teach a quiet-drawing class, guys, okay, let's make sure our phones are off. I have control issues, okay then.

So we're going to go ahead and dive right in for the first 2 hours, is it cold in here? Can we turn the heat up? Are any of you guys cold? No? I am freezing, I'm going to get this heat going, I will be freezing up here, okay then.

So we're going to go ahead and dive in for about 2-and-a-half hours as an intro to the URING process, then a 10minute lunch and bathroom break, then we'll wrap up with 3 hours after lunch. Ah, there we go, I just heard the heat turn on. I set it for 78 so if anybody feels warm just imagine you're in Maui on the beach with a Corona, okay then.
===-=-=-=-=-===--=-=-=-=-===

Corporate Training: When done well, it sounds nothing like this. Usually it sounds like this.


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Day Dream Job

I always have loved stand-up comedy. Some of my earliest memories are seeing Steve Martin, arrow through his head, goofin' it up on stage and watching a room full of adults cracking up about it. The people on TV were loving him. He looked like he was loving it right back. That looked like a lot of fun. It wired me, perhaps, to "get" comedy. It tuned my Sense of Humor. Like how blindness accentuates the other senses, or a how dullness of taste excites one's love of Daughtry's music or buffet dining when not in Vegas, my Sense of Humor has always been prominent.

What the hell does it matter? Why pursue COMEDY as a hobby, career, second job, or passion? To make people laugh? I don't like people all that much, in a general sense. As dumb as I project most of them to be, almost every audience I've performed in front of has been nearly 100% people. And I'm supposed to make THEM laugh? They expect me to give them some sort of levity from an existence that is routine, by rote, a rut from their mid-twenties until they go cold and limp in a chair 4 years and one Easter dinner after retiring from Accounts Receivable. And honestly, who deserves it more than them?

I pursue comedy for the same reason some people pursue celebrity cupcake-making, or giving it their all as a Real Housewife on TV.... they have bills to pay and demand attention.

I kid.

I can't NOT be funny. At work, in line for coffee, on the phone with a customer service rep (even if English is one of their top two languages), with doctors... Funny happens with me. And I feel blessed to be able to do what I do, get paid for it, enjoy it, and have strangers enjoy it, also. It's not always great.
Sometimes it sucks. Sometimes I hit a stage without any energy at all and have to be professionally pushing myself to be a bit louder and more animated until I finally HIT with the audience. Non-comedians know it as "every single day." But it is my passion and I can't NOT do it. I no longer question "why" our society - American, that is - has shows that embrace what seem to be waste-of-time pursuits, either. I get it.

Honestly, do we need a SINGLE show on TV, paid-for by advertising and cable bills, that solves the ages-old dilemma of whose group is the most dynamic at dancing? DANCING. If it keeps the kids off the streets and out of malls, great. And they love it. Perhaps they'll learn to appreciate other people's creative passions and shut the fuck up at a comedy club and not send useless text messages while the comedian is talking about how dumb young people are.

But the other part is that until it all clicks, The Passion pays dick. Especially if you're married and have a kid and a mortgage and other things you wanna do. While those inspire comedy, and work, and love, and provision, and Life, they also require a finely-tuned management of schedule that usually escapes most comedians. I've been a lazy joke-sack for a couple of months. And that's not something I love about comedy. It doesn't need me as much as I need it. Until I go to an open mic and hope the audience doesn't think comedy doesn't need me. Because, wow, some people are better off just judging comedy instead of doing it.

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Driving, Me Crazy

We have one car at the moment. It's not a new thing for us. We're not being self-righteous in our single car'edness. In Los Angeles we had one car that we scooted around in. It was convenient for both our budget and parking. This was before our son was born. This was before the demands of life as parents could really use both of us being auto-mobile. Times have changed. We got the one car, and it's a good car, and it's not a commuter, for the most part. Instead, I ride the bus to and from work on an almost daily basis. That's a travelogue for 5 other blogs, mostly centered around how being driven around is as liberating as it is lockdown. Being at the mercy of public transit's +/- 3minute "on time" plan isn't as fun as living with a bi-polar pitbull. Not that I'm calling out any of my ex-girlfriends. They probably all have their licenses by now.

I have the car today... Driving to work this morning was incredibly freeing for me. I've driven since I was 15 years old, most of the time, very well compared to those around me. I took the California written test without studying and got 34 of 36 CORRECT. I can drive. But it's amazing how the timing and judgment of the traffic flow can keep you on your toes, literally. The individual yet combined neuroses of a thousand drivers converging on a time-point preceding a dayjob really ought to result in far more violence. It's amazing that we're as calm as we are. The cars protect us from ourselves, I suppose. I imagine we'd all be road-tackling each other were it not for the amount of insurance paperwork and hassle required after a car accident.

And in driving to work I found myself riffing jokes from news stories, finding the humor in the relabeling of prostitution and how it objectifies both parties, and ripping farts like I was in the World Fart Championship Finals again. All things the bus frowns upon. Self-talk, prostitution, intelligent conversations. Farting, from what I can tell, gets a full GREENLIGHT on the bus. Welcome to the world's cultures in 9 miles, who likes curried broccoli and chickpeas?

In that 30minute commute I feel the drive defogged windows of my brain. Some wiper fluid and a few swipes opened a view of my mind I have been mostly unable to access during my 78minutes of commuting to and from work, listening to some guided meditation (Stop Caring Now!) or a Marc Maron WTF podcast. Accepting the responsibilities of car ownership at 37, yes, I will do it. I have perspective as my license to drive. And I'd like to smell only my own gas being burned. The American Dream; single-occupancy, single farter, single-minded.

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Backing Up

It's been a while since I was regularly on-stage. I don't really know why, but I can easily misdirect any number of reasons to my job, my disinterest in my act, being wiped-out, lacking a stage-hunger, being happy, or any combination of those. There's something lacking in the FIRE department, wherein most of my act should be scrapped while I build up something meatier, more reflective of my attitude towards society. At least the parts that most folks wouldn't label as racist.


After headlining in December, I decided a lot of my material just isn't fun to do, or should be more deeply extrapolated, if not looked into further. I think extrapolated is a great word. Recently I went to a chiropractor for the knot in my back and the displacement of my hips. Turns out that sitting on a wallet for 25 years has pushed my right hip forward and under. It's a half-inch lower than my left hip, causing some issues that include tingling in my leg, a strained right erectus muscle in my back, and mild bigotry. Pain can push us to horrible places. Pile that on top of all the stuff in the first paragraph, and you can start to see why I don't hit the Tuesday night bierhaus shows for 5 minutes between the 2 guys who just broke up with non-existent girlfriends and smoked pot at their sister's wedding.
NOT
INTERESTED


So now I have 3 weeks of shows to handle. Feature work, headline work, and a headline gig at a bar. 2 clubs, one bar, one private show. Mostly I am at the point that the best thing for me is to stop relying on material that works and just let-fly with what I want to do. This of course is the same for Life, overanalyzing every little move to the point that I ruin my Gavin chinos instead of just going into the open stall and gettin' some Tank time. Drop that shit, kid, you have LIFE to do. And a big part of my life is stand-up comedy.


So as I look forward to, and at, the next 10 shows I hope to get some new material to share as it goes along. This includes being able to just go in and riff and be loose and let whatever happens, happen. Being tired, happy, and sore is how much of my life has gone. It's part of the gig. And I have learned to embrace the moments of calmly explaining to people why they are fucking up the process for everyone else. If we let ONE person bring their dog into the store, soon we have to let EVERY Eastern Bloc trashbag bring their Mastiff-boxer mix into Babies R Us, or else it's discrimination. People are not generally good, people are generally BORING. And many of them are decent. But those that stand out are either attractive or annoying as shit. And that's where my comedy comes from. I know I can be that annoying. I just have to try harder.

So really, what I am saying for now is that I am maxed out. I can't take on any more work from the day job. I can't do any more work in comedy. I am at the mercy of a changing, incommunicative bus system (and a socially retarded driver on the 7:23 255 route), and basically unable to do anything more than make money and not power-drink at the bus stops. I am doing all I can to find time to work out to keep the nervous energy low(ish), and operating on adrenaline and the love of/from my family and friends. Without those cornerstones (Love, Effort, Faith, Chocolate), this isn't a workhouse, it's a tent in the wind.


This was pointless. What a crybaby I am.


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Short Stack of Hot Shots

Busy. That's what's up. Good-busy. Money-making-busy.

Busy as all get-out. Busy as heck. Busy busy busy biz-eye. Already, just this short bit of blogging feels good inside my brain, like twiddling nobs at a mixing board, trimming back that hum, dialing-down that buzz, plugging in your SuperFuzz BigMuff and gettin' ready to lay down some tasty licks. Sustain your tone. Alriiight.

I'm a believer but not really a loving follower of Henry Ford's saying, "Lose the shoes, honey, you're walking silk runners from here til Sunday evening when the wife comes back from her hot springs."

Also, "The harder I work, the luckier I get." It's true, and for me it is very much the gasoline additive to the engine of the Law Of Attraction. The Law Of Attraction works by paying thousands of dollars to self-help schysters to sit on a dais and vaguely eschew the value of visualization and intent. It also works by deciding what you want to receive, visualizing it in your head with as much reality as you can - such as the feel of a steering wheel of the car you want, or the crack of a leather riding crop across the flanks - and feeling positive and happy about it. THEN, most importantly, letting that go and doing something else so you don't keep hashing it over and over in your head. That's noise. Static. Brain farts.

Just had my first chiropractic adjustment. Post-workout stiffness last Friday, while on my vacation, ushered me into the office. My right hip is about an inch lower than my left, rotating under, and thus shortening my right leg's stride, and causing much of my back tension, shoulder pain, foul language, and barely-veiled racism. Also, there's a major problem with my posture in that I need to be more erect from the head down. It all starts top-down. I need to make sure my head is up and I'm better aligned. No telling what's going on with my language when I'm not paying attention poopassfuckanoodle.

And some other shit happened and basically my entire home is an ergonomic nightmare.

Bye.

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A Bus Ride To Downtown Perspective

This morning I walked outta my place without getting to moosh the face of my son, had a good-bye kiss from my wife, and about 5 minutes to hoof it a half mile to the bus stop. Just after 7a.m. it was about 22 degrees. So said the display across from my bus stop at the fitness club when I arrived. But I was up for the challenge having missed the 5:15am workout.

I had to do 2 short jogs to make it on time, which isn't easy in moderately-cushioned lace-ups with a 15lb backpack. Save your military story about humping a 90lb pack through the shit, I'm not enlisted, I understand perspective... MOVING ON... I arrived at my stop about 45 seconds before the bus did. Missing it would result in waiting 15minutes for the next one. 15minutes x 22degrees = 5 hours, so my hustle was rewarded.

As I stood there fishing out my change, a dark Suburban with tinted windows rolled up. I thought for sure that They'd finally come for me, after all my subversion and subterfuge, it was time... the TSA had come to screw up my morning! Instead, a petite gal in a nice outfit hopped as the bus pulled up behind her ride. She shot a "Yeah, thanks" over her shoulder as I moved toward the bus, happy to not be waiting out here, and thinking she wasn't really hearty enough to handle the cold, the walk, nor the rigors of a 20-hour work-week.

So I pay my fare and move to a seat when I hear the gal who was not willing to catch the bus elsewhere, nor walk-to, nor wait-at the bus stop, tell the driver "Oh what? The fares went up? Gawl..."
Yeah. They went up a quarter. They went up to make some money back that people like this chick... CUTTING TO THE CHASE...

I really should have said "You just got dropped off while I walked a half mile in sub-freezing temperatures," and let her process that while she grumped about how awful that she should have to work, being white and somewhat attractive. I hope her work with underprivileged, walking youth whose parents only drive sedans is fulfilling.

Either I got easily red-assed over this chick's inability to equate a car ride in bad weather to being worth an extra quarter and I mis-read the situation and acting "holier than thou," or she's a turd.

=========================
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Take Up A New Career You're No Good At!

Holy shit. I just read one of those stories where somebody went from a great job to the figurative - and literal, at times - dump shack, but rebounded with a big win! They went ahead and did what they love to do and Fate sat on their face!

Not only did this Big Pharma employee (well, HR...) work as the "Severance Administrator" when her company was acquired, she was responsible for making sure people transitioned to a new stage in life without a return trip to the office after a 5-day waiting period. With that kind of work under her belt... SHE MADE CAKES.

And not just any kind of cake... SHAKILY DECORATED CAKES! With uneven lines and easily-criticized versions of recognizable childhood figures! If I come off like an asshole, it's because Patti's throwing out a more expensive version of Safeway's mid-level work, and being lauded for not gobbling a handful of Oxy with a Belvedere chaser when she had a rough quarter at work. Ya-fucking-ay.

This is renardaloo. My sweet chocolate cheese-centered saboteur... these people are going from crotch-poaching to feeling better about their shoelace dyeing/taco-truck venture, and getting press for it.

I believe Arlington National Cemetery has a few plots opening for these heroes.

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Scan You Believe It? (WITH PICTURES!)

The Safety Assholes have implemented a new "security" procedure you will be forced to partake in the next time you decide to fly instead of drive to Vegas.... OOOH, LOOK AT THE HIGH ROLLER! Between a dose of radio waves shot at your carcass - in hopes of finding that bootknife ticked nicely 'neath your man-teat, or perhaps a few extra ounces of Pert you think you can't live without in Iowa - or gruff pat-down by a TSA uniformed person who passed their most-recent drug test, we, as American travelers, are safe at the security checkpoints. I would like to believe these agents are all cast-offs from the CIA, having missed that Director position by just the sliiiiightest of drug tests. They needed someplace to go, someplace to work for and with the United States of America, and the TSA is way better than work-release programs. Usually.


Due to an unplanned interaction with a very sober motorcycle being ridden by a very intoxicated assclown in 1998 and my left tibia, I have a rod in my leg that sets off airport metal detectors. It has done so in all but 1 scanner I've gone through since 1999 (Oakland, CA, 2006). I'm pre-9/11 "Homeland Security" Agent-bait; white guy who usually flies alone in coach with one unchecked bag. Oh yeah... Danger. By now I should be in a database when I check-in for my boarding pass that says "This guy's got a rod in his leg, and acts like it's a stick up his ass. Take it easy."

Usually I get pulled aside, stood in the glass corral and made to wait until the "Male Assist" shows up to frowningly lead me to another area where he waves a wand over my entire body to make sure I'm not lying when I say my body has a rod that cannot be trusted. Takes a minimum of five extra minutes each time. The wait is entirely dependent upon how quickly the Male Assist makes it over to the pen to lead me past other travelers wondering why I'm getting yanked aside, do NOT pardon the pun. It's not fun. It's a nuisance. And it's usually me or some old broad with a re-built shoulder waiting to be given back our effects and get to some airport DRANKIN'. There's a brief pat-down of my bod, then I get to put on all my shoes and belts and grab my stuff and think of jokes to write about how lucky I feel to be getting on a plane where I won't be troubled by dignity. It sucks, I understand why it's done, and issuing me some sort of government-approved card/bar scanner with my photo-ID that says "Cleared, leg/ass-rod" is not an option, because eventually somebody will F up and try to smuggle some beverage on-board instead of just buying the $6 Skyy.


The new TSA scanners grab pics like this one:
This is a test-photo wherein the scanned woman (I believe it is) was digitally reduced to a glowing white, giggling, .22cal-packing ghost. She was not allowed onto the plane in this state of being, deemed by Virgin Airlines as "underattractive." Sorry there, Backfat, better luck on Southwest.
The scanners emit 10,000 times LESS radio activity than your average cell-phone conversation, which is still 100,000,000 times longer than mine, I'm sure. Still, you should be opting-out for the pat-down. And YES, it will include a feel between and under the lady's breasts, and a firm-but-fair hand-saunter through your undergarden. Grandma needs a go, I guess. You're welcome. MEN, if you're truly worried about the radiation, do the right thing: TUCK YOUR FUNDLE UNDER & BACK.

Or if the pat-down is your thing, just sit back, and with a blissful look on your face, repeat the words to the 4th Amendment of the Constitution (link there is for a t-shirt version you should wear):

"The right of the people to be secure in their persons, houses, papers, and effects, against unreasonable searches and seizures, shall not be violated, and no Warrants shall issue, but upon probable cause, supported by Oath or affirmation, and particularly describing the place to be searched, and the persons or things to be seized."

I do believe that a "reasonable" (i.e. a pre-targeted and ethnically-profiled) search of people getting on a plane is perfectly fine and legal.

We do complain about being REACTIONARY instead of PRECAUTIONARY, going all-out post-facto before the fan stops spinning the shit off itself. However, after 11+ years of groping and wanding and extra time sliced from my calendar with these measures, I have but one thing to say...

http://artsytime.com/x-ray-by-nick-veasey/

Nobody wants to look at your ass any more than you want to have it waxed AGAIN, you beast.
Get the fuck in line and shut up. I've been living this crap for over a decade, and nobody came to my defense, not one time.

And another thing, when you DO go through every metal detector's buzzing alarm and you get used to it time after time for 49 years... that ONE time it does NOT go off... don't say "Sweet, it didn't go off!"

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Time For Potted Meat

No, it's not easy.
Working full-time, being a husband, dad, and comedian equates to a lot of time management. If I had my druthers I would be able to sleep about 4 hours a night and be fully powered to work out every morning, get my son up and play a bit before work, work, come home and play with him more until bath time, put him down for sleepytime, go do comedy, and at least twice a week, have a civil conversation with my wife about how Reality Television is the #1 cause of divorce in this nation... so stop watching it.

But I have to make the most of what time I have. My wife started her own business this year so there are duties for her work, also, on top of being a Full Time Mom!, which is not easy. I've spent days with our son while she's out of town, and it's exhausting. On the days he won't nap, forget it, don't even call me, let alone wonder why I haven't responded to your text about what I did/did not see on the news last night. Thankfully, we have some help with the love of Grandmas (Mimi and Granny-H nearby) and some great friends to watch The Guy when we need a break/drink. But even that requires juggling schedules and attitudes. A friend offered to watch him one weekend, then said "Between 3 and 4."

No thanks, I said, but maybe next time. Honestly, I appreciate the offer and the thought, but the time constraint was too narrow for us to do anything that weekend and...And frankly, I shouldn't have to f*cking explain it. I responded with a "Gosh, I think we're elsewhere at that time, we won't even be home. Maybe next time, but really, thank you for offering." 3pm is not 7pm, and never will be, in the same place at the same time, check your Swatch.

Her feelings were hurt like I'd said "you're a rotten person and you can wrap your hour in a latex sleeve covered in broken glass. And SHOVE IT HOLE-WARDS." Some people can't stomach potted meat. Some folks love it. If you offer it, you can't expect EVERYONE to love it, try it, or be okay with its presence at the potluck. Don't expect an apology if your best effort doesn't meet the standards. You offered, didn't get accepted, move on. (I wish somebody would've laid that on me while I was dating)

What's up with all these analogies and metaphors?
Just tired of the bullshit, that's all. Getting red-assed over the shunning of your potted meat is as mature as being upset that you didn't get a compliment from a stranger on your new haircut. While your efforts should be appreciated, by yourself at the very least, needing constant approval is the sign of a well-developed, oversized lack of self worth. I hope it appreciates, but I can't invest right now.


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Conference Calls - The Townsquare of Corporate Life

If you have ever had a corporate lifestyle, this video will resonate in a painfully funny way.
* late-joiners
* non-mutes
* roll-call
* miskeyed re-joiners
* screaming babies
* screaming parents (my favorite in the past includes a budget-planning meeting interrupted by an irate co-worker/dad reminding his kids that they were to "TAKE THAT SHIT INTO THE GARAGE, DAMMIT!")

Enjoy!



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Dad About You

I had no idea that I would appreciate being a dad, nor my parents, as much as I do. Blessed I was to be raised by people who truly did the best they could with what they had to work (me)... I really put them through some sheeeit. If they knew the whole story, wow...

WOW....

I mean that in a Federal sense.

Wow.

So as I move forward in my life with the intent of being the best father I can be to my son, and maybe another kid in the future (homemade or off-shored), I'm learning a lot about the wounds we suffer as we grow. Science tells us all that before about 3 years of age our minds are incapable of hard-coding as much detail to memory as we have now. Do YOU remember all of today? No. Because it was snore-inducing, and that ridiculous excuse for a manager/man-ager/JCPenney shopper should have been kicked in the hamstring until his leg purpled up like his neck sores. And if you remember THAT, you need to get thee to a new job.

There's no real pause in parenting. I'm probably hovering too much - a Helicopter Dad - when I'm around The Boy. I like watching him, playing with him, and discussing what he did today, and what tomorrow's plans hold. (ayayaayayyaaayaaayaaaayaSHISHISHISHAYAAYAAAA! for the record) And anytime he's not in his crib asleep, you better be on your damn toes. I lost sight of him for 7 seconds tonight. Count 'em off....

I found him with lifting wiggling his hand under the toilet seat (With lock in place!) and splashing the water. I had only to hope that it was NOT yellow, and was NOT left to mellow.

There's no rest until he rests. For now. And I'm cool with that. It takes involvement and energy and intent. I can see where parents go nutlog during this time. I can see how people thrive in this pattern. I can see a bottle of Blueberry Vodka waiting for me in Salem, OR in a few weeks when I hit it for a road gig. I can see 5 years from now really missing the time when Graham "was" this age and how easy it was then.

I'm not a benevolent being in all this; I'm a human being trying to do what I think is the best I can with what I have. I didn't take parenting classes for this. I can change diapers and feed him By The Book, but everything else is gut-reaction. When it stinks, get rid of it. Choking is bad. Fire is worse. Spiders are everywhere and are all trying to kidnap the baby. So are Eastern Bloc immigrants, looking for a facial mole antidote.

I don't expect an award or some bullsh*t mug declaring ME as "The World's Greatest Dad." It's incredibly subjective as a competition that shouldn't even be taking place, and scoring is always biased to the older guys who are emotionally detached from work, and multiple kids and distant wives. All the same, there's a different kind of satisfaction in getting my son laughing than there is getting 500 audience members laughing. A bigger one. A better satisfaction unlike anything.

Then again, I haven't made a baby with Salma Hayek.

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Where's The Sugar, Baby?

(secret surprise at the end!)

My son Graham turns his first year-young on Sept. 23rd. It's been a really interesting year, to say the least. His journey towards being frustrated with the public education system began in March of last year when we were told Graham's due-date was September 19th. I immediately did the right thing, got on the internet, and found that to be the day that the legendarily crooked USC Trojans were visiting the vaunted, hallowed UW Huskies in Seattle. And I prayed. I prayed to God that Graham would be born healthy, happy, and 3 days late. And God answered that prayer! As a bonus, God threw in a 16-13 win by the Huskies. Take THAT, Stephen Hawking.

In the past year I've found that a lot of people share a lot of their wisdom about raising and caring for a child. Many of whom have decades of experience without ever being a parent. Oh sure, they've kept a couple of parakeets alive through a cold winter or two. Or they are an Aunt/Uncle to a few nieces or nephews. And that's, hey, that's a solid foundation for making the childless look like an asshole by offering non-comedic parenting tips. No, we're not going to let him try wine again. Thanks for your input. Enjoy sterility.

I've also heard a number of people say that they don't like babies. Or specifically, they "hate" babies. Wow. Not that they hate MY son, just babies in general. Everyone knows the grave demands babies place on people who never interact with them, so I can see where the roots of that hate have taken hold. I never hated babies, I just was scared that I would break one. A year in, no breaks, minor fears, and all's great.

What's also side-F'ed is that some people feel that they can do things while holding a baby that somewhat endanger the baby, because a mis-hap wouldn't officially KILL the child, but it seems like it should entertain your baby. Like get them to touch a ceiling fan. Or swing them around by their tiny hands. Or hold them aloft with one hand while lighting a cigarette off the grill.

Won't KILL the baby? SHOULDN'T EVEN MAKE ME THINK THE BABY MIGHT BE EVEN A BIT UNCOMFORTABLE. There is no official Baby Police, but nobody has the right to endanger your child for their own attempt at entertaining themselves by trying to get the kid to smile near a snarling pit-boxer mix. This secret hate of babies is more bothersome than the outright hatred. Old women in a grocery store are the worst. Keep your dirty nails away from his face, Bernice.

So as Graham nears the One Year mark, we are gearing up for the Birthday Party, and a number of people have asked me what kind of cake we're getting him. My wife, foremost, has done a great job of introducing healthy food to Graham as he grows. We don't feed him sugary stuff or ice cream (maybe a tablespoon here and there) or a lot of processed food. He eats a lot of fruit, loves avocados, and digs salmon. Washes it down with a nice chug of jasmine green tea. He won't turn down a Mum-Mum, either. For a kid who eats a lot of healthy, whole food we're not going to jam a huge cake in his face so we can laugh at the mess and the sugar-rush. I think it's actually pretty cruel to jack a kid up on that stuff just for a few pictures. "Tradition" can eat my Bavarian ass. Maybe a little cupcake to have fun with, but 500 calories of sugar and fat, I just can't do that to my guy.

He'll have to wait for public school.

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Eating Out: 2nd Hand Canlis

I've eaten at Canlis ONE TIME. It was ethereal. It is the Highest of Classes. It is expensive. It is worth it. Every moment from the valet to the final check to walking out with most of your understuff not exposed, worth every bit of the $190 I spent on appetizers.

Kidding. They don't have "appetizers," dirtload. Frigging great food. They do a few things and they do each of them perfectly +2 (including "surprise" and "butter.").

We have a "dress code" where I am consulting.
It basically can be summed up in these words:
"Don't wear jeans before Friday."

Not $180 jeans. Not $20 jeans. Not well-washed, properly-fit-to-flatter jeans. Not baggy jeans wit' yo ayass hanging 'bove da sagg. Nuh-uh. No jeans.

Cargo pants? Sure.
Luau shirt? Aloha.
Smell like a batting helmet? No problem.
Khakis that upon closer-look are denim? Okay, nobody's gonna tattle.
Utili-kilt? Evenutally I will find out.
Utility camping pants that zip-off above the knee to become shorts? YES.

This last choice was made by a guy who works as a database blah-blah and wears his beard and hair "unkempt." Skullet to a ponytail. Long beard. Usually eating loudly somewhere. Grumpy. In pants that could zzzzzoooooooeeep! into a pair of pasty leg-baring shorts in a heartbeat.

Long story short, the eye-test doesn't show him to be somebody who would saddle up at a 4-star restaurant long-known as THE 4-Star in Seattle (up there with Rover's) and settle into a well-versed meal. Yet he DID that over the weekend. Then walked around complaining to people all day about how expensive it is. And the service was bad. And how he felt uncomfortable.

You dine. You do not EAT. There is no GORGING. You ask for a wine suggestion if you're not sure. You don't point to the cheapest and say "THAT."

You can lead a horse to water, but you can't make him understand that not all horses should be drinking at that particular trough. High prices keep the riff-raff out. I'm sure a pair of well-pleated khakis and a shirt with long sleeves was in order. Now damnit, bring me my cheese stix.
I've been there. I knew what to expect. And I was half this guy's age. Sounds like he wasted his time and money. Next time, zip those pantlegs off and get you some food on a stick. Leave the dining to those who'd rather not see your skullet.

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Not For Tiger, Nor For Elin

Elin Nordegren, the now-officially-ex-wife of Eldrick "Tiger" Woods, Jr., has already come out to speak about her divorce and the affairs her ex-husband perpetrated... perpetuated?... skanks he boned while married. She is devastated. She is shocked. She is also rich beyond belief. And I'm not sure I recall any story of her doing a normal day's work in her life.

I'm not saying modeling isn't a tough hobby. And perhaps the time she spent as a nanny for golf professional Jesper Parnevik was as trying as it can get for a wealthy, well-traveled family. And perhaps not having much of a working life as an adult is NOT justification for being on the blindside of infidelity. She "had no idea," according to her People Magazine interview. No, nothing is sacred.

She has now walked away from the marriage to the most recognizable golfer ever, as well as the top-earning athlete since Michael Jordan. She will likely have the majority of the custody of their two children. At 30 years old, divorced, and a mother of two with no discernible, revenue-generating skills, I wonder what Elin will do from here on out? Charity work? "Get away from the madness" with a few months in Belize? How about some Community College courses on bookkeeping and home-ec, get some life-skills to show your kids that Shit Happens, and you're not always going to be golfer-married as a fallback plan.

I think Tiger Woods is a dumbass and a cad. And that's it. He went for skanks, he fooled around on his wife and wanted to justify it for any number of reasons. Not my business.

But who gives a shit? In any of this? If you feel bad for Elin Nordegren, you better cry blood for those women with 4 kids and the abusive husband who will NOT leave home. Elin Nordegren deserves as much sympathy as a person whose car breaks down on the side of the road because they didn't put any oil in it. She had no idea. She never suspected? It's either a lie for sympathy or she is negligently ignorant.

Elin Nordegren and her hundreds of millions will be fine. She may need some counseling about Life.
Tiger Woods will be fine and still needs some counseling about being a Person.
Their children, if loved and guided well by their parents, could turn out to be the most gorgeous athletes of all time.

The most fly-attracting plop in this pasture is that the media cannot stop talking about it. I won't be watching it or reading it. But that won't stop me from blogging about it and talking about this on-stage. It reeks on all levels.

Hurting sucks, and I feel bad for those kids who will have cameras in their faces for far too long. I hope they go on to lead normal, happy lives free of ridicule from jealous, low-rent classmates whose parents don't know any better than to raise sociopaths.

It's Football Season.

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A Five O'Clock Foreshadow

I headlined at Laughs Comedy Spot a few weeks ago and quickly tired of my own voice. My act is touching issues I truly believe in, specifically the ridiculousness of a "Death With Dignity" act being voter-approved (yet we want nobody to say anything about our bodies), and how being nice to people isn't really worth it if you want to feel good about people in general. But I just cannot stand to hear myself talk about that crap anymore. I am seeking a deeper connection to my material, and that is exactly why I'll probably never be a big stand-up comedian star power who they speak of by last name only. Lott's in town, dude, let's see if we can get in for free and sit in the back. Maybe he needs an opener. I cannot believe "Avatar" was made for a half-billion, and we have so much more in this country that is side-fucked beyond Amercian Standards.


My life is Good, really. And that's a tough-shelled egg for the spermatazoa of comedy to burrow into.


I guess since the other car broke down I have "that much more" to ponder. Down payments, dealers, schedules... it's different now that we have a baby but no car to put him in... and all that comes with dealing with a car. And nobody knows anything but they know it all about buying a car. So we got it narrowed down, and the narrowing is harrowing because of all those issues of gravitas of Monthly Payments and Financing and Insurance and Being a Grown-Up. And I'm trying to not bring any of it up at work because, instead of advice, I would get stories about all the problems they've had with dealerships. Except for the TimeJacker, who would weave together some horsefeather story that included Self Aggrandizing, Misogyny, Homophobia, Narcissism, and Outsmarting The System. Sheesh. No thanks. I'd rather suffer a bit in my own silence.

Maybe I'm dehydrated. I'll have some water and see what comes of it.



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Mission: Control

Before I begin, I have to tell you that one of the most-annoying laughs of all time is the "Double-Gasp." A guy at work here does the short inhale-wheezing exhale-sans guffaw. From what I can tell, he thinks WAY too many things are funny. They aren't. He's not laughing-laughing, mind you, it's a nervous laugh to let ya know, hey... he just acted like an asshole!

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The need For and To Control is a familiar, annoying concept to me. It's that 'weeeee' of mosquito I can sense in the area but can't touch until it burrows into me and leaves an itch behind. I have seen it manifested many ways throughout my life, from Mind Control to Bladder Control. The control over the daily running of a household. The control over every second of another person's schedule. Most folks who truly desire Control shouldn't have it. They crave it like a drug to calm their anxiety over something being out of their grasp, wasting their time and GASP... stirring up an unresolved issue with their past.

We call them "Busy Bodies," "Anal Retentive," "Uptight," "MicroManagers," and "Assholes."

They call themselves, if self-actualized, "Control Freaks," with a giggle. I work with a number of these people. It's annoying. They love meetings. They love knowing all there is to know, instead of what they probably really need to know. And they have to guide, influence, allude-to, re-calibrate, re-direct, and lay the groundrules for whatever activity they are causing delays in by not allowing The Flow to take over.

This usually is a sign of Fear. Fear is a real bastard. Fear Itself, as has been said, is the only thing to be afraid of. And for good reason. It stymies people. Fear punches a hole in the gut of Comfort which can only be filled by Control, and madness begins. Look at Hoarders, for example. There are many kinds of Hoarders.

• Love Hoarders; can't be alone, can't really make relationships work, abandonment issues, sex addicts possibly, in need of attention and validation.


• Food Hoarders; afraid there may not be enough, they store and store and over-run their homes with food. Or they over-run their bodies to exert control of it.


• Item Hoarders; the TV show "Hoarders" sums it up awfully and bleakly - people are burying themselves in their own CONTROL, wherein, actually, it is a lack of Impulse Control. Again... madness has begun.

The Need to Control comes from that little voice in the back of a person's head that remains quiet, until they FEAR they are in a position to be hurt or bothered. They overplan. They micromanage. They dig their fingers into places that don't need digging. It's an issue from childhood that they need to throw a lasso around before, you know... they feel the judgment of a non-present parental figure lay across their shoulders. Somebody MUST step up and HELP these other folks...

If they don't, well, people may not have any idea what to do on the trip to the resort and could end up just spending too much of their time at the pool or playing golf or riding the bike trails and if that happens then they won't see what a fantastic trip planner they are and how they thought of everything, everything except RELAXING which is really just SITTING THERE and how could you SIT THERE and do NOTHING when there's so much to do can't you see that really REALLY... I am only TRYING TO HELP YOU DO WHAT I THINK YOU WOULD LIKE TO DO?!!?!?!!
Madness

This could be a new "NiceHole," the "ContrHole."
The emotional leash that ContrHoles throw on other people is only as short and restrictive as those who are lasso'ed allow it to be. Often times it's a matter of keeping the peace. Sometimes you're on your way to Put The Cheese In The Fridge while being told to Put The Cheese In The Fridge, and the Control Lasso falls away. Whatever the cheese, whereever the fridge, don't forget that the only real control we have is over our own actions and reactions. Any infringement on that should be met with a kind word, an empathetic smile, and handful of fart slapped onto their nose.

This would have been better if somebody had forced me to outline it first.

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A Few Thoughts

• Truth is, you're not gonna find better prices for pantry-staples than at Trader Joe's. Bread, eggs, dairy, coffee, cereal, sun-dried tomatoes, the entire pasta/sauce family, frozen foods, etc... (but not cheese) are, across the board, a better price and value than most any other store you will shop at.
• The internet is as good for researching and diagnosing a problem as it is at creating paranoia and confusion over a proper diagnosis of said problem.
• There's no excuse for a grown-man with a desk job to smell like a batting helmet.
• Every fitness product is aimed at getting you to feel that your quality of life would be better if you were more comfortable taking your shirt off around strangers. In fact, that mindset would reflect a mental deformity no amount of AggroTrim could burn off.
• Sometimes you're slowed down because the guy in front of you isn't driving well. Sometimes you're slowed down because you aren't driving well. Sometimes the guy in front of the four guys in front of you is driving poorly, slowing everyone down. Odds are you can relax and not tailgate me. If you're reading this, you probably don't tailgate others. This may have been pointless.
• Time is one of the few resources we have, that we can actually decide how efficiently it is used. The best way to use it, often, is to remind somebody that they aren't allowed to waste yours, then put your headphones back on and finish your blog.
• Though the Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intentions (who bid that job?), I truly never want to lead anybody down it myself. I've had good intentions when talking with friends or loved ones about an issue they seem to be tied-to, and it doesn't always go well. But sometimes you have to wake the person up to tell them their house is on fire.
• I hope, in the end, I don't have the lingering regret that I didn't do something which could have greatly helped somebody else, just because I thought they may take it the wrong way. (See previous statement)
• I really kind of feel like I wasted most of my 20's, but I did bring some key lessons of Life out of it. And I probably owe some apologies to a few people.
• I think I'm an Ayurvedic type-B, but a Blood Type-A, which are similar dietary types.

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