The Super Beyond

The painful illness of my friend's father has cut-loose enough of an emotional oil-slick in me to devote some time to a Life piece. My blast on Justin Bieber's ridiculable haircut shall wait for another day.

Having lost my dad in November of 2008, and later becoming a father, I have a much greater appreciation for life, babies, mommies, and the duties of parenting. I see how much influence I may have on my son some day. And how difficult it can be to live with integrity and coolheadedness when you haven't slept much and can play 183 arrangements of "Old MacDonald" on a 1-octave plastic piano. And this is WITH technological advancements as outlets of frustration and socializing.

As I'm wont to do, time to time, I pray to God about my life. Usually I am thanking Him for keeping me alive after a litany of moves equivalent to Justin Bieber's haircut (it seemed cool at the time, but then we went on two wheels, and the gas can tipped over, and my cigarette...). Seriously close calls in my life that would have given my parents synchronized cardiac arrest had they known about it. And for some reason I am here with a beautiful wife, wonderful baby guy, awesome friends, and a bright future in a number of careers. And I have to Thank God for a lot of it.

Some people love to jump off their Agnosticar or Atheistar Van long enough to bash and/or ridicule my choice of spiritual pursuit. I pray for them, too. I don't point a finger back and tell them they're wrong for believing - or not believing - the way they do. I accept them as people, and move on. But all the same, I don't condone nor defend the Crusades, the Catholic Priest scandals, nor any other atrocity committed by a person wrapping themselves in the gossamer layers of Christianity, Religion, Islam, or Professional Wrestling. Every group's got their shit-heads.

And for every shit-head there are 1,000 fantastic people. And knowing that everybody, great and not-so, good and bad, weird and conformist, will all biologically die some day just makes me realize that our relationships to one another are the MOST IMPORTANT thing we can have in life. Especially if they are good, healthy, self-actualizing, loving, and mutually beneficial. We don't have to be close to step on toes. And we don't have to step on toes just because we're close. And I only ever wear close-toe shoes.

So if you're gonna live a long time, have some stories to tell when you get there. If you're not gonna live a long time, give everyone else a story about how you went out big. But for the sake of dead rockstars, don't just muddle about doing squat in hopes you'll just make it to 90 with a full tread on your tires. Nobody wants to hear about how you never swam the rapids or farted in your hand to smother your friend's face when camping. Especially God. No time for it.

Go live. Do one thing today that scares you or somebody else.

Justin Bieber's hair is really stupid, though. I'm happy my dad isn't alive to see it. And if I'm a "hater," I include Bieberfolliclegate among my other instances of "hating," including "Dane Cook's Act," "Fans of Insane Clown Posse," "Guys Who Make That KissyFace To The Camera," and "Misquoting PseudoJournalists Obsessed With MurderCases."

Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad


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

Do Me A Flavor

The past year of living in Los Angeles has been weird. I've grown a lot as a person. I've had to learn to ask, persevere, promote, and deliver comedy in weirder situations than I've ever been in. That includes the time I did comedy in a cut-out of a wall over a bar, standing on a 12-inch ledge. And everything I've done in Tukwila.

I read a book earlier this year called "The Go Giver." My friend & helper-angel Ann turned me on to it. The premise of the story is that when you can, Help. It greatly changed the way I look at helping, being helped, and the entire WHAT Helping Is. A subtext that I picked up on is that there's a BIG BIG BIG OPRAH EGO-HUGE difference between Helping, and Imposing Your Will With Best Intentions.

Somebody offering to swing a hammer to erect your weekend bone-shed, that's a Helper. They are there to help you get Your thing done.

Somebody bringing a set of blue-prints and one shovel and asking you "Why are you doing it that way? Shouldn't the drain be in the middle of the floor? Are these walls sound-proof? What grade are the leather restraints?" That's a NiceHole. They are coming to help you get things done the way they would like them to be done.

And if you question their intention, up their own ass they go, pursing their lips and saying "Well...
I WAS ONLY TRYING TO HELP."

Would you let somebody pay for your groceries for a month?
If it meant they got to do all the shopping, also?

Would you let somebody buy you a car?
If it meant they chose it, but you had to gas and insure it?

Would you let somebody get you a job that paid pretty well?
If it meant you didn't know what the job entailed?

I believe deeply in helping somebody when you can, simply because you can. It just MIGHT put you out, but you can handle it. Not talkin' kidney-donation, or even any kind of organ trade.
But never, ever helping somebody "on your terms." There is help, then there is Politicking.

Nobody elected you to be a Friend.

Give. Or Get. Graciously.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Bus, STOP!

Riding on public transportation, one is bound to see a number of abnormal happenings.

Guy staring at the floor while mindlessly sipping from the largest-you-can-legally-buy can o’ Iced Tea? Check.

Woman eating a single Reese’s PB Cup, though it’s been squished near-flat and she’s scrapin’ at it with her bottom tooth-stumps to get the what’s-left out of the cup? DING.

Black guy rollin’ his head and finger-pointing to the beat of music only he can hear… though he’s not wearing earphones? PO PO ZAO.

Mexicans? AY AY AAAAY!

Blacks? Unh. (na-na-na-nAAAA)

Asians? Hai.

White(s)? Yeah.

The Journey of Life is much like dealing with public transportation. Not everybody has to share the same journey, getting in and out, off and on here and 3 stops ago. See, what happened to me a few times the past 2 weeks is this. There’s a schedule drivers are s’posed to keep, from stop to stop. It keeps them from being a giant bus train all over the city, and keeps people from congregating for an hour until their bus comes… or doesn’t.

I was about 3 minutes behind schedule leaving work on foot a couple weeks ago. I walk a quarter-mile to the bus stop at Fairfax & Beverly, home of CBS TV Studios and the occasional transvestite slap-fight. At the corner I get to, I have bus option 1, the 217 that takes about 25 minutes in rush traffic to get to my home-stop. Option 2 is the 780, the Express that takes about 19 minutes and has fewer stops on the way to my destination. They arrive, usually, 7 or 11 minutes apart, then NOTHING for about 15minutes. So if you miss ‘em both, you got 15minutes to contemplate why you left work 3 minutes late. 780, 7 minutes, 217, 11 minutes, 780, etc. Miss one, and your evening drinkin skej goes pear-shaped.

Today, walking home from the store, with a schedule in my head to e-send something to My Wife!, I decided to make it faster and catch the bus. This time it’s a 3minute bus ride or a 20min walk. Bus runs every 12minutes, usually, so even if I miss one, I’m gonna make up the time. Well I hit the stop and wait. 8minutes past when it should’ve come, not bad. Took me 5min to walk to the stop and no bus passed me, so the bus is running late. I waited a few more, then realized, hey, by now, I could be WAY the hell closer to home and further from what botanists call “probably a hobo’s drying pee.”

The bus is late, way late. And things to be done are waiting. Where da bus is, yo?

And I said “well I can’t wait for this power trip, I gotsta GO,” but to myself. In a very H&R Block-friendly voice. And I started walking. I cross the street, parallel to the bus lane o’ travel. The bus stop, not 1minute behind me, is empty. Just me, a bit East of ‘er. Walking.

And then That Bus blazes by. I’m 100 feet from the bus stop. The bus, now 8minutes behind on the day before damn-near ever’bawdow has a day off and traffic is lighter than Heidi Montag’s “Thought Book,” rips by me. RIPS. 50 in a 35. Ain’t my fault.

And a theory of Life hit me as the wind rolled up my back while I said, “Mother ASS BITCH POO STAIN.” It may have gotten racial. Sorry. Public Transit is piloted by some WEIRD people. Would YOU wanna drive strangers up & down the street all day? No. You’re too busy thinking of ways to cook loin of venison with a red wine-cocoa nib reduction. So what was I talking about? LIFE.

We have stops in life. Moments. Milestones. Wait points. Who knows when you’ll get off at one. When another bus comes around, it may not be y’all’s. But those stops are there. As you wait at your stop, some may think, “Look, that sex-diesel is waiting for a bus!” or “If I were at that bus stop, I’d keep my distance from that one. But then again, my raw food diet means I rabbit-fart day long.” But there you are. Bus Stop Waiting.

Because you could just start walking, too. You could up and go. Sun on you. Wind at you. Rain soak you. Breeze cool you. Tiring you out. Because you cannot wait. You can’t. And That Bus isn’t coming around, or hasn’t, and if you walk, you’ll be closer to your destination, and can likely pick up a bus at another stop down the way there.

Or you could wait a bit more. Because when it does arrive, you’re then speeding along at a much faster rate than you can walk (no offense), and back to reading “The Outliers,” ironically, for your present sitch.

Do you know when it will arrive?

Or do you just Know it will, and when it does, you’ll be ready for the ride?

Sometimes it’s better to just hoof it and get there.

Sometimes you miss it by a second and your effort closes the distance.

You may wait much longer than you want.

You may hit it at the right time.

You must know it will come for you. Have Faith. You’re on your way, even if you aren’t moving. But… You can walk and get tired. Or!!! You can wait while others think you’re lazy for not just walkin’. Your faith that it will arrive can save you the effort of “doing it yourself.” And just a bit-more waiting as you read your hot book gets you to where you’re going much, much faster.

Or you can walk and see where a homeless guy OBVIOUSLY took a shit in a Von’s bag and didn’t seal it in front of what was once Culver Nissan.

And no, I’m not saying God is a Bus Driver, nor Black, Mexican, or Multi-ethnic. But he doesn’t have all day. Pay up, get on, and shut your taco-catch. If you can't enjoy the ride, at least enjoy your read.

And some. Well. Some never get on that bus.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad