Bus or Karma

Hey, just a note...

Aiesha Steward-Baker, the 16 year-old girl who got beat up in a bus tunnel earlier this year, was today sentenced to 15-36 weeks in a juvenile detention.

NO, not for getting her ass handed to her.

Instead, it was for an unrelated crime...
wherein she and another girl her age...

ASSAULTED A 50 YEAR-OLD WOMAN, beat her up, pulled hair from her head, and stole her purse and cell phone. She was arrested for this.

Then she was beaten in the bus tunnel.
So heads-up, folks.

Karma rides Metro.


Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad


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

Nopen Mics

For the most part, open mics in the Los Angeles comedy scene are either very early, or rather shitty. I'm spoiled, I guess, coming from Seattle where there was usually some sort of audience consisting of other-than-comics. And I'm still amazed that there were nights at the Underground where 30 comics made the open mic bill and STILL a few were getting bumped.

GAAAAAAA, it's fucking frustrating to be in the midst of it, too. Not just Ego on the keys here. There are good rooms that start too early for me to get to them. There are bad rooms that are open but way the F out in the middle of Asserton. And seriously, here ya go.

FUCK YOU:

• Los Angeles Transit Shitheads who can't synchronize traffic lights, as I leave a green light and approach a red light within 100 yards
• Dipshits in fedoras, you are neither that good of a DJ nor a lesbian DJ
• Valet Parking turdloads who park other people's cars in the open street spots
• Westwood. The whole area. Eat a hot steam loaf.

There's so much more, but I'm too mad to even type well. My fingers are pounding the keyboard.

I am no longer FOR Assisted Suicide. I am now putting all my efforts behind Suggested Suicide. That list is growing longer by the moment.

So now, I'm about to do enough push-ups to drive the house an inch into the ground, and start some old-fashioned prison workouts.

I'm like Heavyset Black Lady on Maury-angry.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

You Can't Write This Stuff

Reality Television.
The spontaneous programs that are made up of people who act how they normally act, whenever they audition for a TV show and then get drunk and half-naked in front of strangers and 3 roaming cameras.

The Writer's Guild is still on strike, aiming for residual payments on digital media. Streaming,
on-line, on-demand, etc. What we watch was acted, directed, produced, and started as words in the air, on a page, written. As media outlets advance with technology, so does the ability to get paid through those

And thus, the Reality Show has taken over. Game shows. Ever'body-in-one-house-and-drunk shows. Voted-off shows. Design it. Cook it. Make it fall in love with you. But don't think about backstory or character development or story arc; just get drunk and roll tape.

The best part of all this is that Reality TV, self-made media, and other attention-whores putting themselves out there have turned the Klieg lights & cell phone cameras directly upon themselves. And guess what?

Nobody cares. People have given us a glimpse into their lives, and those lives we thought were so sexy and provacative are reeeeeeeeeeeeeally... truly... utterly...
BORING.

So anyway, if you watch a lot of Reality TV, you aren't reading this blog. You're too busy with the new color-it-yourself menu.

I hope this writer strike gets over soon. Otherwise, I'll be forced to talk to people again.



Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad