How Do You Feel?

My blog here is about my feelings and thoughts. Sometimes my feelings and thoughts have harsh words in them. I've worked on gripping my feelings with both hands and massaging them to full release, but sometimes it's better if I just let 'em hang loose. I hope not to offend anyone. If you get offended by my ideas and feelings, I'm real f*cking sorry. Feel free to picket my website, which you don't pay for.

---------------------
Just Jokin'

George Tenet resigned this week. We all have the same question:
Who?

Chrysler recalled over 400,000 PT Cruisers this week, after finding a major design flaw: They look f*cking stupid.

---------------------
How Far It Has Gone

The normally reserved and anti-depressant-laced self-styled "Funny Gal" next to me seems to have introduced a new word into her vocabulary. She's used it at least ten times today. It's a major step forward for her, because this is someone who uses words like "oh futzy futz" when her stapler runs dry. It's pretty intense, actually, her use of the new word. She's throwing heavy emphasis on the first syllable and a little vitriol into the tone of it. Dig it:

"DumbAss."

That's it, that's the "new" word. I was thinking that before I could speak. Then again, that was only 5 years ago, but still... That's just wild. WILD. I need rum.

---------------------
I Am Perfectly Unperfect

Not that I've ever figured it all out, but I've come close a few times. I've figured a few things out, but never all of it all at once. If you ever do figure it all out, you probably get killed by a friend playing with a gun to celebrate his girlfriend losing the baby. I saw it on "The O.C.", lighten up.

I recently read an article about "The Search For A Soulmate," and it's been resounding in my head for a while now. After reading about characters and people and ideas and demi-gods and Demi and Ashton and all of these other participants, the article talked of how the search for a "Soulmate," that "perfect someone for each of us," is killing the modern relationship. Firstly, when I hear "soulmate," I want to punch Alanis Morrissette in the cock. Secondly, the divorce rate in this nation for five or fewer years of marriage is disgustingly huge, because kids raised with TV remotes and CD players with skip-to-the-next buttons think it's a great idea to get married. There's no perfect TV show, although "Scrubs" is pretty close. If ever I have a child who, at an age of less than 28, wants to get married, I'll throw them a party where they can get dressed up and kissy-face their half-wit pokin' partner, but I will forbid them from getting married. I'll abort a child up until the 24th tri-mester. Damn, that's two dead baby lines in the first two paragraphs. No more, it's not my style.

It was Charo or my 4th Grade teacher after a dismal spelling test who once said "Nobody's perfect." What the hell is "perfect" when it comes to a person, anyway? Donny and Marie Osmond, that's pretty close to perfect, but they are also made entirely of seafoam candy and LipSmackers lip balms, now in low-carb Chipotle! I accept myself as Perfectly Imperfect. That is, I'm okay with all of me, but always want the best of myself to come forth. I accept the bad with the good. That was hard enough to do, and it's even harder for others to accept. That's a good time to grab a spoonful of Splenda to help the benzodiazapines go down. If you don't like me, odds are I forgot about liking you a long time ago. Unless you sign my paycheck or decide the fate of my soul, I don't give two Pabst Tall Boys about what you really think of me. It's hard enough to deal with my own imperfections, let alone your misinterpretations of Life. If y'ain't For me, you's agains' me. And you better put your back into it, son, I ain't budgin'.

I am in no way perfect, nor do I ever intend to be. There are some things I strive for perfection in, like writing and sleeping more than 4 hours in a stretch each night. The rest, I'm just doing the best I can. I read this weird theory in that Soulmate… damn you Alanis… article about how the intimate/romantic relationship is intensely imperfect in so many ways, that the less a person tries to mold it, the more it will take it's natural shape. And once you see something for what it is, not what you wish it would be, the more clearly you can see the schidtpile in your path. You can then accurately assess and decide where you go. Walk around it, walk into it, you just gotta keep walking.

No, I don't know what Perfect is, so I will never be the Perfect Soulmate. The only perfect things in my life are the imperfections. The chip in my guitar. The double-twisty heart drawn in the card given to me by M, who is like a bomb baby come on get it on. The scuffs on my shoes. They all mean something, they have character and history. To be perfect is to never have been scuffed, to never have learned, to never have gained character. And that is perfectly f*cking boring.

I am the F out of Here. Thanks for coming, get home safe, don't forget to tip your arresting officer.


Take Me Home

It Got Broughten

Yesterday afternoon I got a call from ChiliDog, asking me if I could headline at the illustrious Pegasus Pizza and Comedy Palace. I said I couldn't, as I was taking my dad and his friend to watch the Seattle Mariners get reamed by the Toronto BlueJays. Comedy isn't going anywhere, but there are only so many chances to watch live sports with a man you idolize.

So we go to the game and by the top of the 7th, we realize that a 3-run deficit is too much to overcome for the M's, and we bounce. Turns out, we were right. That team sucks. Oh well. More on why I hate baseball in another blog. So we leave the game and I drop elder statesmen Lott and Masterson off at their car, and decide, "Hey, why not, I'll head to Pegasus and catch a little comedy laugh." As I arrive, one of the all-time greats, Tracy Tuffs, is in the box doing his hilarious thing. The headliner for the night, who shall remain nameless out of respect, was in the house as well. I go up after Tracy and do about 10 minutes, then bring up the header.

After about 7 minutes of hating his own act, hating comedy, and general defeat, the header says "Sorry gang, I'm not into it tonight. The show's over. Sorry. Bye." Drops the mic, and walks off. WALKS OFF STAGE, live mic, moderately live crowd, and leaves. I felt bad for the guy. I've been there. I've wanted to bail so many times. But never on a paying gig. There's money involved, go for it. But he walked, and the mic was hot. So I ask T-Bone Tuffs "Hey, wanna save the show?"

I get on stage, and proceed to do 40 minutes of old stuff, new stuff, just rambling here and there, doing the refined stuff here and there, getting laughs and groans and ad-libbing to keep the crowd happy. I walked off, got paid, and after all was said and done, headlined the Winged Horse Pizzeria and Fun Jungle. Why am I telling anybody any of this? Because of this... Never once did it feel like work. I did what I love to do, got paid, and walked away feeling pretty darn good. I got to hang with my dad, I got to work on some new jokes, and I got some extra scratch for it.

What'd you do? I hope you did at least one thing that was good for your Being today. You deserve it. Unless you are the manager I call PigTit. More on that when I'm not falling asleep on myself.

Hey everyone, thanks for coming out, drive safe, and don't forget to tip your cow.
Take Me Home

Tuesday or Monday or Whatever

So much to write here, but I'll begin later. Let's put it this way: This weekend I did a public show, a private show, I saw love, I saw acceptance, and already this morning, 8 minutes into my workday, I'm seeing an overwhelming anymosity towards the overly cheerful and ignorantly ebullient.
Sometimes I wish the antidepressants weren't prescribed so freely, when the flip side is laughing at EVERYTHING THAT COMES OUT OF YOUR OWN MOUTH.

Welcome to my Tuesday. I'm not even awake yet.

Rosie O'Donnell's a woman?

Take Me Home

It's Not Even Midnight

Memorial Day Weekend, are you set up? What are you doing? E-mail me, don't just say it outloud, weirdo. Nah, say it, weird out the people around you need a little reality check.

So what are you going to do? Hike? Drink? Sleep in? Shop? Head to Emerald Downs... oooh! The ponies! Yes, the ponies are back! If this rain would stop we'd see some real running, but dammit, global warming or El Nino or Terry Taylor seem to be causing some kind of climate trauma. It's raining, two days straight now. But here's another thing on my mind.

My friend seems to be seriously depressed, it's in his act, in his blog, it's live. I know he's not going to suicide, yes, it's a verb, but there's a point when you care enough about someone that you should let them know that they matter. I'm going to call my friends and family this weekend and talk for a bit, let them know I think of them, and tell them straight up that a part of them is inside me. Call it love. Call it too much Merlot (I suggest L'Ecole 2000, it's worth the $35). Call it sentimentalism. But call. It's 30 minutes out of your weekend. Then, back to gathering beads.

Y'all take care.
Geoffers

Take Me Home

How's That Working Out For Ya?

I just read The Mastermind's blog about Monday night, and I'll tell ya... I love that guy. So real, so brutal, so depressed. Go read his, and then read the other blogs there, too. See, blogging is this weird, self-gratifying act of writing your thoughts as if anyone would read them... as if anyone truly cares. It's just entertainment. Hell, I'm sharing cyberwads with Recipes, True Mind Masters, and deviance so deviant it would be deviant to link them here. Get one on your own time, it's America, you have options. Just imagine words like "soaked," "drenched," and "spandex." I'm sure you'll find something.

Anyway, Mastermind's blog talked of how he spent some time correcting the actions of a performer, and I was totally with him on the moment to do so. See, Art's been on stage enough to know that, when you're done, you holster the mic, you SET THE STAGE for the next act. It's courtesy, it's professionalism, it's WHAT YOU FRIGGIN' DO. I told Mastermind I thought it was good opener, just jokin', ya know, seein' as how, golly, it's WHAT I FRIGGIN' DO. I don't know if that rubbed him the wrong way, but if it did, see, that's not on me. It wasn't meant to, but if he took it to heart that's on him. It's called Frame Of Reference.

Some people are easily offended. They don't like loud music, loud clothes, fast cars, slow children at play, or dogs too ugly to live. If you tell them they are wearing blue shoes, and they hate blue shoes and insist, dammit, that those slides are PERIWINKLE, thank you, then you offended them... but that ain't your stressball to squeeze. Let 'em lose it. It's their coronary. If you toss someone a ball and they let it hit them, they either A) have no hands, B) have no coordination, or C) don't like balls coming at them. That reminds me of a Youth Group story, but we'll get into that after I perform the miracle of turning rum into water.

So let's imagine scenario A, they have no hands. You can clearly see they have no hands, what with their reluctance to shake hands, high-five, or offer a reach-around. You KNOW they are at a disadvantage, yet you throw it anyway, they take a restricted-flight to the collar bone, and BINGO, you're the a-hole at the office picnic. First of all, stop drinking at office picnics, even if your boss is pounding PBR, even if she's doing said pounding in your back seat where she's been since just after Happy Hour on Friday. Have some class, get a flask. Okay, so you bopped ol' Hooky, and frankly, it's your fault. It's pretty clear that you shouldn't have thrown a ball at a person with no hands. Apologize, then switch to soccer. Hope that Hooky didn't try and kick those fireworks way back when. Good on you.

Option B, they have no coordination. Maybe you knew, maybe you didn't. It's not totally your fault. You meant nothing by the toss, just to get them into the game because they were, after all, complaining that nobody ever tells them when Happy Hour's going down, especially after their conversation with the Boss lady. That lippy schidt's always a hen with a few pops in the bucket. So Wobbles the Intern has a welt (the uncoordinated always bruise easy, thanks to only eating hand foods, nothing with a fork and some iron, it's for their own safety), and the best you can do is apologize for your part in it, and maybe go 'em one better and offer your skills of retrieving balls, which reminds me of a story involving a corsage, a cumberbund (that's gay, in the non-gay-bashing way) and a can of Aquanet, but we'll save that for when you're sober. Gawd, you drink like a Kennedy.

Finally, C), they don't like to have balls thrown at them. Did you know? If so, then you're a prizzick for forcing a ball into their world, which reminds me of a spandex, but I digress. If You did not know that they detest ball-throwing activities and they get upset, hey, you didn't know and it's either their fault for being in the field of play, or it's their duty to get off the friggin' field, BECAUSE THAT'S WHERE FRIGGIN' BALLS GET TOSSED. It's called Empowerment, taking care of one's own feelings, needs, or withdrawals with conscious decision-making. If they are upset that a ball came at them, cripes, think of how people feel when bombs, motorcycles, or ugly cookie-saleskids come at them. You probably didn't know they were anti-catch, and they probably resent you for being the kind of person who goes around tossing balls. Which reminds me of almost every middle manager I've ever met, but this is going on forever.

In summary, if you ever get offended, you have to come to a conclusion: Did they intend to offend you, or are you easily offended? Only you know for sure. The world is full of offensive images, words, and bosses. It's up to each of us to pick our battles, thicken our skin, and fill our flasks. And for crying out loud, watch your balls.


Take Me Home

My Previous Week

I saw "Cabaret" for the first time. The actual live performance, caught it at a little community theater in Olympia. It was surely a community version of the musical, but it came off without a hitch, and these people were literally in the audience performing, which takes WAY more mangoes than plodding around above the orchestra pit. Face your fears. Then have wine.

I had a show in Puyallup at the Liberty Theater. I MC'ed for a couple of old dogs, Gabriel Rutledge and Brad Upton. I realized how close and yet how far I am from where I want to be as a comedian. I think the real issue is dedication, which I've let slide a bit in the past few months. So it's up to me. That's not funny, that's about as New Aged Cheese as I'll go for the day.

Last night at the Comedy Ubergrind it was "nickname" night. If we didn't choose a nickname - I chose "The Asshole" - then we were tagged with one. Most people chose their own. Including Mickey "The Soldier" what's his who-cares. This dimwit had a bravado that perfectly juxtaposed (I said it) his lack of humor. He ate more crap than a dog on a camping trip. Diatribes about sports highlights nobody saw, using "he/she was on crack" as a punchline, imitating "pigeons" (female crack heads) to show off a silly face and physical mannerisms, then after going over-time and starting a bit about how cell phones are big, which shows he doesn't have one. And not a single segue or linear thought. It was totally scattered, and that's speaking ill of people with ADD. And he EARNED every second of silence he got.

The laughs were more about how bad he was, but he got a taste of the entertainment cocktail, and he just couldn't wait until next week. In fact, he was leaving the club and GOT BACK ON STAGE BECAUSE HE HAD TO SAY SOMETHING. He said it was "good bye," but he was trying to work a bit. So here he is, taking time from the other comics who are funny, taking the mic away from the MC, and being a prick, basically. So we all start booing him from the back, with one guy yelling "beat it" and someone, probably me, yelling "SCRAM" or maybe "YOU SUCK." His demeanor showed that he's got no class, no couth, and no courtesy for the rest of the performers, AND he's not funny, so he's really got zero clout. Comedy didn't start when Mickey walked through the door of the comedy club. He actually called one of us "boobirds" a "bigot." He played that card, as if the color of his skin had anything to do with his jokes being unfunny, and him acting like a dick. I know plenty of very unfunny white people, too, so save that schidt for the bus stop.

I'm out for now. I need to do stuff. I'm looking for a new job. Email me at "GeoffLottRules@yahoo.com" if you hear of anyone hiring, mmkay? Muchas gracias.

Take Me Home

Here's Your Post

If anyone's wondering what's up this week, I'll tell ya… JACK. Alright? I have a job that me no like, and I sit here and make monkey sounds all friggin' day. It annoys some people, and if they ask why I'm doing it? I say "because I don't know how to do a parrot." Then I follow them to their office or cube and rip off a ghost of breakfast past. That's what they get for coming into my world. Stink.

I hate hearing the song "Happy Birthday" being sung. It's another reminder of two things: One, we all get older. And Two: Nobody is giving me anything. Birthdays don't really matter after the age of 21, or 18 if you're a fan of the Olsen Twins.

I matter. I matter a lot to a fair number of people. That's important to remember. And even if there were fewer people to whom I mattered, I would matter to me. If you're reading this, in a small way, you matter to me. Take that with you, for what it's worth, and never forget that somebody somewhere is such a pee-hole that they matter to no one. Never be that person.

Almost zero motivation to be at work today. If I could pick something to do, it'd be this stuff, in no perpendicular order: Perform on the Tonight Show; do circuit workout of pushups, pull-ups, bicycle crunches, and eat from a tube of cookie dough; punch Bam Margera in the neck with a Ford; buy a Mercedes E55, navy blue, light blue interior; It; hang out with Jake Johannsen, Marc Maron, and Dave Attell; look into the face of a child and say "Dear little one, look to the sky and aim high for your dreams, and know this: When you look up there, Life will kick you in the nuts."

It's odd to hear from others that they enjoy reading this here blog. It doesn't in the least frighten me, although it does make me feel as if I'm writing for an audience, at times. It makes me think that I shouldn't hold back all the time, say what I feel here, and do what it is that I want to do. But when it comes down to it, the truth of writing was passed on to me a long time ago. This is the truest element of writing in any form: Sell out and make a shitload of cash, then tell your "audience" to bite it. (Thanks Mom!)

That's all I got for now. I'm actually a little sunny today, too, so let's hope my serotonin kicks up soon, or there will be Hal to pay.




Take Me Home

Get Paid For It

I did a headline set at Taster's Wok last night in Lynnwood. It sucked. But it was just a show. I made a little coin off it, and it was simply a tune-up for my shows this weekend. Check out my calendar if you want to come to either of those. And you do.

I have to lay myself on the altar of the Muse soon. I feel like I have a ton of jokes that are floating on top of the surface of the Sea of Hilarity, and some of them I just can't get a hold of. I guess I don't feel one way or the other about some of the material yet, as I seem to write from my gut. This is good because it provides me the most original comedy, something that is MINE, and nobody else can do it properly.

The bad thing is that some of the stuff I want to talk about I'm not really inclined to discuss at this point in my life. I'm seeing some of the most horrendous treatment of people lately, and there's nothing funny about it, except for when those Iraqi prisoners played possibly the worst game of Twister ever. It's war, f*ck those guys. And if you say "You wouldn't want it happening to YOUR troops." F*ck You. No, I wouldn't, but maybe we need something like that to push the next step faster. Venus and Saturn have returned after an eclipse you freaks, things are going to change for the better, but it's going to get realy dicey for a bit. And if you question my patriotism, believe me, I question YOURS. Knee-jerk Jingoism is pretty close to bigotry and facism and Jenny McCarthyism (that's going to get me on TV, you understand me?). My patriotism is a love of country much like the way you love a child or a pet, depending on your methods of birth control. I love this country and the opportunities it provides, even for the dumb and ugly, but that's no reason to think it is never astray or misled or belligerent. That happens because people are involved, which means anything is possible.

Even making money doing comedy in the bar of Chinese Restaurant.

Take Me Home

A Weekend of a Weak Week

Yo. Whaddup? Thanks fer readin'.
This past week was really odd. I'm at a point in my life where I feel ready for the next stones to be stepped on. I am not talking about "okay, new job, new place to live, yay." I am fogging up the windows of The Big Break mansion, I want to live in the kingdom of the Fortunate.

Luck is when opportunity meets preparation. The first man to say this was then shot by the guys he'd just broke at a poker table. But it's true. I believe we make our own luck. The "cosmic forces" at work put things in order, and if you're open to them you will find them at the right times of your life. If we all have that luck waiting for us, then how would I explain homeless people?
Like this: Without homes or continuous resources of hygiene.
Nah, more like this: Making choices in your life leads you to the next step. Good choices keep your mind and heart open to more good things. Bad choices cloud your judgment and your view of yourself, either through tears of sadness or tears of pepper spray, so maybe you think you're not worth anything, you're no good, you won't ever win a comedy competition, whatever it is for YOU, not me, I'm not talking about me.
I'm not.
Now I am. Yes, I'm looking to move along here. For me, not for the happiness of anybody else. At the end of the day, it's just me, and maybe a kimono-wearing animatronic Koala... cute, huh? How will I do this, make this next step?
First of all, weigh my options. What's heaviest? What will yield the greatest rewards, financial, personal, intellectual, culinary, technical, physical, granular, dairy-like, and/or follicular? What is really best for me? Incorporating the 80/20 rule, if a decision benefits me in 80% of the instances, I should go for it. On the backside, things are going to work out, because nothing is ever perfect, and the imperfections are overcome by your skill and want to grow, adapt, and be pitied and given free stuff. And then the other 20% will either be overcome or cause me a wretched stomach ache of regret, if I'm not an emotionally and spiritually steadfast person, or at least really stinkin' rich.
I think God thinks I'm going to be an asshole if I get rich, and God doesn't want me to become an asshole. All I can say is that not being rich is WAY played, big G, so throw me a little green, and I'll prove that I'm thankful by erecting a golden statue of, who, ME! But I'll at LEAST be wearing a T-Shirt that says "Jesus Is My Homeboy."
Second, in weighing my options for "what's next," I have to assess my skills. I am of the mind that I can do anything well, and a few things REALLY well, and maybe three things so deftly that even the experts call it sublime. One of these skills is illegal in Utah, even between consenting farm animals, so I'll call it TWO things I do really well. Know Thy Self. I am WAY into Self Actualization, (for the Mazlow's Hierarchy devotees), to find the maximum Me that's in here. So get the fear of success out of the way, and the next thing you know, you're sitting across a boardroom table with a schiddy comb-over looking into a TV Camera saying "You're Fired... Up For Insurance Savings With Vern Fonk!" See, I could totally work for an ad agency. Or a pharmaceutical company. Mostly I need to feed my worksoul a little bit. I know what I can do. It's diverse, as long as I'm not working with total f*cking idiots. GAWD, dumb people ruin EVERYTHING in this world. It's a sad fact that some lives are ended before they really start, and some aren't.
Oh, and I just heard this on the TV... "How do improve a Toilet Brush?" Uh, give it to your butler? YEAH, you gots a butler, bee-atch, all things just keep getting better!

I have enough thoughts to fill a Cure fan's empty soul. So now I must go.
You take care. Come see me on stage. I miss you.

Take Me Home

ReCrap of the Week

I haven't done a word of comedy since Sunday night. I'm actually writing again, which is nice. It's been a while since I had any sort of inspiration for the funny. I revisited a couple of old premises I've been working on, such as how technology and dumbasses don't mix, or how our culture is obsessed with body image, and how rough women really have it. I call it "Jenny McCarthy-ism," and you should look at the C-cup as Half-full, don't be such a breastimist. There's a common thread of personality among true comedians, where the desire to create, perfect, deliver, and then evolve is constant. As you do this longer you may not find as many funny things, but what you DO find comes to you in your voice, your style, and you are able to "put your finger in the puddin' " with a little more style. So I'll be working out the new stuff and hope to lap the puddin' up as I have actualy paying gigs over the next couple of weekends.
If you think the puddin' thing is some kind of innuendo, you're dirty. I didn't say you were wrong, mind you.

The woman I'm dating has been out of town, enjoying a well-earned trip to the exotic locale of Twisp, WA. She said they had a great time yesterday watching "Don't Tell Mom The Babysitter's Dead" and making crystal meth in a car trunk.
I keed, I keed. She won a trip for her work efforts and is in the U.S. Virgin Islands (oh, THAT'S where they are), and has reported perfect weather, amazing blues, and enough rum punch to floor Keith Richards. I'm really happy for and proud of her, as the reward is for the top sales performers in her company, and she's only been there one year. However, other people don't really grasp the idea:
When I say where she is, everyone automatically assumes that, since I didn't go with her, there must be some major rift and that I'm a big pussy for not demanding my tickets. That's an external perception of the situation, one where the Perceptor (wasn't he a He-Man villain?) makes a snap judgment and goes apeschidt over what they appear as her slighting me and my taking it with my nuts in her purse. I have this knack for staying the F out of other people's business and not always imparting my "view on the world" into their lives. Discussion is one thing, forceable entry by a mentally deficient whiskey-prophet should ellicit at least one headbutt. I don't expect anyone to care about my opinion, no matter how well I present it and am in a forum for presenting, i.e. the Castle SuperStore men's room.
So M, who's funning and sunning, decided to take her little brother on the trip. We'd only known each other a couple weeks when she won the trip, and were it not for her gesture of thoughtfulness and her brother being a cool guy, he may never have taken such a trip in his life. It worked out best all the way around.
That's the truth, not an opinion.
Perhaps... YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!!!
I just made that up.

Dick Cheney's daughter is a lesbian. Some lesbians are born gay, and some just don't like Dick.

Photos of naked Iraqi soldiers appeared all over the world this past week. First of all, that's what the Iraqis get for passing out early at a Military drunken function. Second, I have no problem with this. Iraqis would do it, and worse, to American prisoners. So the military stripped 'em down and posed them with bags on their heads. There are a lot of people in this country whining that they have to pay $500 for such treatment, and the Iraqis got it for free!
And if some 8th-Century misogynist were trying to put a bullet in my brain and I had a chance to go man-to-"crap with feet" with him, he'd be getting off easy if all that happened was few games of Troublingly Naked Twister with extras from "Ishtar."
U S A! U S A!


Take Me Home

1) The Rotund Mound Of Sound, a.k.a. "Stumpy McWhistlah" just used the word "ludacrousT." He added a "t." This guy is using analogies like crazy today, and none of them are funny. He's a total dooooosh.

2) The Seattle Comedy Mafia is not up to speed on their blogging. Oh my dad, it's already May 4th, update your crap.

3) If you know a good headhunter or someone not scared to hire a guy with a great analytical mind, energy to spare, and enough sarcasm to fill and office and choke the life out of a whistling urethra of a human being, have them e-mail me at This Address, GBLott@Hotmail.com. I'm more ready for change than your grammy's jammies.

4) Example 4,731 of why this place sucks. There's a pretty fair number of East Indian contractors, consultants, and willing-to-work-all-weekenders here, and many of them are taking over the jobs from here when we go Orange. In a gesture of welcome and sportsmanship, some self-appointed "Event Planner" scheduled a BBQ with them. Let's hope the planners remember that India is big on not eating cows. "Mm, good stuff! Ever try your god with gouda?"

5) No more analogies. Bye.


Take Me Home

This Is What It's Come To

I had planned vacation days for today and tomorrow. No work. Play. I'm at work today for a couple of reasons. The main reason is that I have 4 managers. None of them talk directly to me until they F up and need to tell me to fix something. The good thing is that whatever they think is broken probably ISN'T, because I don't do enough work to break anything anyway.

I have a project in front of me that I was handed on the 16th of April. It was going to be due for presentation on 5/13 to a group of people who feel that what they do for this three-legged dog of a company actually amounts to a hill of disposable cell-phone batteries. It doesn't, by the way. So in this report I'm supposed to gather and manipulate the data for the month of March on the efficiency of a few processes we run here at Turkish Prison Cellular, as per our conversation on the 16th of April.

Yesterday one of my 4 managers, whom I shall refer to as Pigtit, because he's bulbous and pinkish in hue... (I just threw up a little)... stops by my desk after a meeting with another Director-level mopey waste of organs. He tells me that we'll need the numbers for April, but that will be odd because the end of the month isn't until Friday. No schidt? aaaand NO SCHIDT! So he's changed the criteria for a deliverable one week before it's due. It's important that I point out to you, dear reader, that I pointed out to him, Pigtit, that I had written down in my notes from the 4/16 meeting that our main priority was March metrics. His comeback?
"Well yeah, but that's because it wasn't the end of April yet."
Does this make sense to you? The words make sense, but the idea, the gyst, the REASON FOR OPENING THE PIGTIT PIEHOLE makes no damn sense whatsoever. Luckily I'm ahead of schedule for the actual work I need to do on this report, because...

later on I get a Pigtit-mail that is a reply for clarification on a few issues so that I knew what I was doing from here on out and made myself look good. It's the corporate equivalent of reverse psychology: This is what you told me you wanted. Are you wrong? Turns out... he was! STOP THE MUSIC, this shouldn't be a surprise to any of us at this point. Other than finding the M&Ms in trail mix, this guy's ability to sift through information is suspect at best. He tells me that the big report due on the 13th isn't due on the 13th anymore. Yeah, that's due on the 6th. They moved the date up a week.

Nowhere in here have I used the words "apology" or "sorry." See, when I goof up and it affects someone else, I apologize and I mean it, because my goof messed with someone else's day or life or happiness, and I am sorry for doing that. Pigtit's head-in-the-hamhock maneuver not only could have REALLY f*cked himself over, but it almost put me in a position to look really bad and maybe get fired. Instead I'm in the office on a gorgeous day working over some files for schidt that means NOTHING to the future of this planet, mankind, or making out with M, who's leavin' on a jet plane in a few days. I don't want to be here. There's really no cosmic reason to be here. It's only a job, not THE job, it's just money. It helps. I shut out the pain and find the hilarity of it all. And THAT my friends is WORK.

I'm checking the company handbook to see if it's true that you can get fired for hitting a co-worker. Pussies.

Take Me Home

Total Friggin' A-Hole

Yeah… go ahead. Whistle. Whistle that nameless, shapeless tune. Formless tweets into the air, go for it assneck, you go blow all you can.
Louder.
I SAID LOUDER YOU DICK!
I want to dance to your jaunty tunes, mixing two-step with high kicks and chokeholds! You are a dick, dude. You can’t stop making noise, can you?
Cough… cough cough, sniff… sniff sniff sniff, cough cough, ahem… ahem./..It’s amazing that the Administrative Staff hasn’t blacklisted you. Next time you try and order a 6-foot sub for your “Team Building” day, you’re gonna end up with a 6-foot tub.
You’re a dipschidt. Stop speaking in metaphors. When your vendor leaves out an upgrade package, say “There’s something out of line here” and fix the problem. Don’t say “They sold us a Happy Meal but forgot the toy,” and then don’t say “We got the pizza with no cheese, ya know?” and then don’t say “It’s like we bought a car with no CD player, and all we gots are CDs.”
Got it, you dropped the ball and didn’t ask a question. Cool.

I hope you’re reading this so I can remain passively perturbed at your workplace existence without actually confronting you on what a truly annoying human being you are.



Take Me Home

I’ve been hammering, hacking, elbowing, clawing, and headbutting my way through a gauntlet that is Excel. Just today I figured out every last calculation I’ll need in order to give the proper metrics to the team I’m reporting to. They asked, I worked, I found, I delivered.
Well, I thought I had. Then management got involved.
In multiple rows of the report there is a section asking for “90% Resolution Time.” They’re asking for a number here, a percentage of the other lump I’ve found, manipulated, and divulged information from. They are also asking for “The Red Crayon” from the box. There’s red. There’s also dark red, bright red, tomato red, harlot lipstick red, etc. So I ask “what kind of red would you like.”
The answer: “Oh yeah, that’s a column we added. Let’s meet tomorrow to talk about it.”

Please see my post from earlier to find out my ideas on meetings.

Take Me Home

Focus On The Job At Hand

I just finished a 6 day jaunt to find the proper formulas for a monstrous spreadsheet. That was 50% of the battle, finding the right formulas to get the data in the right place.
Now I'm dawdling. Doddling. Putzin' off. My apathy is truly inspiring. It's so odd to think that this monstrosity of a company will not be here next year. That's how bad it's been. This isn't like divorce either, where there are a number of reasons for two people to split up. This is like donating your body to science, and doing so while still alive.
To paraphrase Woody Allen:
"Those who can, Do. Those who can't, Manage. Those who can't Manage call meetings." Rome did not conquer the world in meetings! Rome was kicking the asses off of every settlement around it. Why? Because it had an ass to kick off. Rome was led by total a-holes and egotists and self-aggrandizing sumbitches with few morals and less integrity. But they GOT THE JOB DONE. I can only hope I'll be able to win the chariot race at lunch.
Yay Team Building day. Yay.

Realized Something

God has put me in a position of my life where I am not to be taking, only to be giving. I'm open to whatever comes my way, that's the only way to get the good, even if there's a little bad in it. But last night I realized that all the other good stuff that's come my way in the past year now needs to be turned back out to a few people close to me. I'm not going in to details here, yet, but a hero of mine is starting a long fight, and someone else I admire is on the last stretches of hard work and progress. My hero needs some good stuff as a means of inspiration and help. My dearly admired may need it because of all they've been through, it's time for a reminder of how truly awesome they really are.

So do one nice thing for someone you care about today. Buy them lunch or dinner or a drink, send them a card, empty their dishwasher, or just listen to them complain about their day. You'll get your turn soon enough, but sometimes, the wheel just needs a little nudge.

Hey, who's all sentimental today? This guy, the one who's gonna make millions writing Lifetime movies!
Peace in the Middle Earth!
Geoffers

Take Me Home

I am laughing my fundle (Fun + Bundle) off right now about the lunacy of working for a company that is circling the drain while the vultures are over head. Managers are managing through Mad-Libs, that old game where you fill inthe the blanks with a type of word and then the recording party reads it back to you and you cry because the drugs are wearing off and you're stuck in ding-dang cubicle.

There are a lot of folks in moment-to-moment denial, as if another meeting will save this company?
"Things aren't going so well? We should sit down and talk about it. See, we have large day-planners and Blackberry's and offices, we know what we're doing."
I see. Tell me again how people with offices and day-planners managed this company to 1/3rd of it's IPO and into a position for it to be sold? Golly, who knows?

Oh my dad, I'm too tired to be at work today. Report Metrics on THIS!!!


Take Me Home

I Know I'm Not Crazy

And we thought the water in Mexico was bad, check THIS out.

Let the captions begin:
Mmm! Tastes like pollo!
"Dios Mio, hombre, this tamale tastes like caca!" "You are eating the wrong end, mijo."
Gives new meaning to "feed the homeless."
I Went To Mexico And All I Got Was a Lousy Tamale Stuffed With One of Those "CHICLE! CHICLE!" Kids
Oh schidt, that's SICK!

Take Me Home

Take Me Home

Read This Every Day Of Your Life

I want to be this family's dog. You will love them almost immediately. The Dooce!


What I Do

I cook for myself. I rarely use anything from a can. Sometimes I use a crockpot. I almost always use a saute pan, sharp knives, meats, and vegetables. I like cooking for myself. It's a zen thing. I like to cook for the woman society must label as my girlfriend in order to understand that we're together, but she's far away from me, most nights. That sucks knobs.

I prefer good vodka on the rocks with a twist to any other drink in the evening. Merlot's a close second. I don't sit and pound beers. I don't have to do shots of schiddy whiskey to be manly. I like what I like.

The manliest thing a man can do is not care about what people think of his preferences. Actually that's third place. In a tie for First place, in my mind, is be a person of integrity and teaching to those he loves, be they wives, children, friends, or Hooters wait-staff.

I don't shave my chest. I am 30. I am a Man. I'm an animal, a mammal. Grr.

A married friend of mine spent a weekend with his wife, about 9 hours total, shopping for knobs. I think I found two knobs already.

I work out. Not as much as I used to. I used to push iron 4 times a week. I got up to about 255lbs, where I felt like I could lift a house, but I looked like an outhouse. I hated it. I'm doing more cardio and only lifting once a week. I've been a bit chubby most of my life. I'm okay with it now, body issues aside, but I'm working on my "bikini season" look. I'm down about 20lbs since the beginning of the year, and have about 15 to go. Part of me would like to look like one of those Men's Health models. That part is my abs. Another part of me would like to look like another kind of model. You can put that together in your own heads and e-mail me as to which part and what kind of model.

I have a weekly rap session with a licensed counselor. Some folks say you have to be crazy to go. If you think you're crazy, you're not. I don’t hear voices that make me want to kill people, unless you count the chump at work who whistles and people who ask if I hear voices that make me want to kill people. If you are crazy, you would think only that everyone else is. Self-discovery is a vital journey to figuring out the patterns of your behavior, like if you are scared of being hugged, or why you get nervous about having sex on a park bench. I talk to a counselor about the things I can't tell my family and friends, usually about things caused by my family and friends.

I really do have a Psycho Ex. Manic Depression is great on the upswing. Once you hit the crest, holy Zoloft, Batman, hide the knives and cuticle scissors. Nobody does that much acid before they're 18 and then wakes up asking if Bob Dylan had dinner with us last night, then sobs when they find out he was never in the movie "The Truth About Cats & Dogs" when they're "fine." Get the H away from those people faster than you can say "Anne Heche." For real fun, ask them how they get along with their opposite-sex parent! Before doing so, gird thy loins.

As much as I care about my family and friends, I don’t care about anybody more than I care about myself. Think I am Selfish? Then you're a neurotic parent-issue freak. As long as I'm taking care of my feeding, my sleep, my money, my peace of mind, then everyone else in my world will see a happy Geofferson. If you want to see me turn into a badger, take my sleep and food from me for a few days. If you want to see me snap on a kid whining in the store, then let's go to the store! That's for sport. I'm unapologetic about being self-concerned. Sorry! Or not...

If I hear another person use the word "soulmate," I will punch Alanis Morrissette in the dick. The only people perfect for each other are twins. If you want it to work with someone, you have to make some kind of effort to let them share, too.
M, The woman in my life that society labels as "girlfriend" but means more to me than that, is really kick-ass. I've mentione her here before, but nothing too much because her personal life shouldn't be internetted. She's sweeter than she admits. I'd really rather not get into it because if I SCHIDT here she comes, play cool...

I'd be an awesome dad, no matter how much I hate to admit it. I'll probably adopt a 17 year old with a trust-fund and 3.8 GPA. Blue-eye Father is So proud of you Xiang Ziu!

Sometimes I walk through Target, make eye contact with a person, and nod to their zipper. They always look down. Surrealism: 2,943 - Them: 2 (okay, not always)

Hallmark, while handy in a pinch, is run by a secret wing of Mary Kay with proceeds going to fund PAX TV and Makeover shows.

I should have been working on a report the whole time I've been writing this, and I still feel like my priorities are straight. Anybody know how to extract time intervals in Excel from other data? I fear a pivot table is coming my way.

I can never thank the people in my life enough for their blessings, prayers, and shared hours of life. My gawd, how boring it would all be without each of you!

Rock on. Please.
Geofferson

Take Me Home

Tuesday You Freaking Fruits

Aaaaw YEAH, I've done my first headline weekend at a club, rollicking through 45-50 minutes of material last weekend in Bellevue at the Ramada Inn Laughs Comedy Club and Lounge. It wasn't as tough as I thought it may be, as I took my time and allowed myself to be "in the moment." I knew that going up for that long would be a drain on anybody, no matter where they were in the room. So I had to go up and have fun with it, which I did. I didn't have any hecklers. The other comics there were Shoogs B. (in the house, whaddup?), The Mastermind, and Kid Dynamite.

Comedy itself seems to be eluding me lately. I've gotten past a lot of the little tricks that a lot of people use to get laughs, and I'm trying to be a lot more open on-stage. I guess it's that a lot of stories and moments I've been into the last year involve the feelings of and interactions with very real and sometimes very made-up people. Once I sit and write them in story form, with a lesson if not a punch line, I'll begin presenting them. What you see on the stage of a comedy show is usually days worth of hours worth of work. But it's a labor of love, except when nobody's laughing, where it is then a labor of making new ways to say you suck, having a few drinks, and driving home with $50 and a smudged phone # in your pocket. (Sorry I never called you, Diane... Deann... Denny... D9R#, was I getting cruised by a cyborg?)

'Twas fun. And now it's over. Thanks to the ChiliDog for the shot, the Guys for the assitance, and a great group of supporters (Melissa, Carlene, Nikki, Katie, Sharon, Mitch, George, Tim, Jeremy, Kim, Ali, Lauren (all the way from San Fran to see the show!), Dennis, Jean, Brian, Crystal, Mike, Jay, Dave, and Erik. I hope I gave you your money's worth).

Last but not least, a giant Thank You and Love You to my parents, Pam and Gerry. They showed up and surprised me, and it meant a "Lott" (see, because the family name is... yeah) to have them in the audience that night. In the front row, actually. My dad even heckled a little when I mentioned George W. God Bless them. It meant so much to have them there that night, especially when they were off to Canada early the next day. I was so happy to see them I forgot to ask them to grab me some "good" Tylenol. Love ya Mom & Dad.

(in all honesty, I blanked on including them in the Thank Yous. The Divine Miss M, who has to ask for your badge and gun, tipped me to my faux pas'rent. Uh yeah, I meant to do that... because I'm dumbtimes.)


Macros, Formulas, and Power-Drunk Devotees for God

I can't blog much this week or next as I'm working feverishly to figure out how to write a ton of macros for work. I am pulling data from a work-tracking system which holds records of all of our, pay attention... thanks..., all of the work our IT groups do here at Schmireless. Since time is money, I'm basically tracking how much it costs for us to... over here, hey, over here... are you okay? Sleepy? Need some coffee or are y'okay?... okay, so yeah we need to find out how much it costs for us to do our work, which is done quickly and cheaply now that budgets have been slashed and we've all taken a serious reduction in morale. Morale these days means "showing up mostly sober, or at least showered." Morale levels are inversely proportionate to how much you'll drink on a weeknight.

So yeah, I'm here at my desk doing all this fun stuff to keep a job I am overqualified for, spiritually and mentally, but pretty much on-target for when it comes to technical know-how. I've manipulated more numbers than Enron. I've taken out more zeros than heroin! I've found more Averages than a sorority girl at happy hour! I've drunk more cough medicine than that kid in jr. high who's parents didn't pay attention to him and he was crying out for help by drinking a lot of cough medicine!

MA-CRO.......................... PO-LO..............

If anybody knows of any really good companies that are hiring analytical minds with sardonic wit and an unshreddable moral fiber, send them my way. I have a friend who actually likes doing this schidt.

Oh, and if you want to, I'll be Here tonight doing comedy. I can't believe I missed The Swan last night to see the schidt I saw there. It was the cull bin of comedy last night, for anybody here who's ever picked apples.

Push-up contest anyone?

~Geoff


Take Me Home

This Is Worth Every Bead of Sweat on My Furrowed Brow

The company I work for is sending an internal system that keeps track of our Social Security Numbers, bank #s for direct deposits, and other personal information, over to India as part of their "We Suck At Business" plan. India has no privacy laws, at least not to the extent we do in this country, nevermind the spamming, hacking, and calling we endure on a daily basis. I'm not sure what we can do about it, but these are jobs that your friends and neighbors once worked, being given, part & parcel, to another nation. The receiving nation is not to blame. The best we can do is stop supporting the companies that do this.
The schiddy thing is... I still need my job. Until it's taken by the now grown-up kid my family used to send 37-cents a month to feed, clothe and educate. I thought the best he'd do was two goats. Dude, he's getting a Dell.

http://www.cio.com/archive/041504/wireless.html

I'm outta here.

Take Me Home

I Guess You Had To Be There

I headlined over at Pegasus Pizza on Wed. night. I was the headliner, MC,and sound technician. Sound was stellar, btw. MC did a great job. Headliner had a tough time but looked really collected on stage. He ain't kiddin' around.
Anyway, there were only 2 other, uh... people who could get on stage and talk into a microphone (I will not use the term "comedian" for them, although Nicole has potential) so I had to put them up. None of my peeps were there. I started the show kind of late hoping they'd show, but they didn't until I was just about to get up. I started hoping they weren't dissing me, and instead hoped they were caught in a kitchen fire. A-holes. I put The Accountant up and he took a step into an almost too-rowdy room. I would have wrangled it better for him but I was too hopped on cold meds. OTC, though, no Rx's. Sadly...

Rowdy? Why? It's a bar full of regulars. There seems to be a new contingent of blonde girls sitting at the front tables this season, that just dawned on me. They're all really nice, too, and in fact I work with one of them, and she knows what hell it is to be at the Death Star every day. Atkins goes up 2nd and does pretty well just telling a story about a tryst with a drunken engaged gal and her drunken man thing. Nicole's a lesbian, for anybody who's wondering. And she's unemployed. Great comedic potential. She brings along a decent set of peeps, but they were drunk from a full day of drinking and smoking something ya gotta buy from sketchy white dudes with dredlocks and ferrets. Her crew got louder as the night went on and I stopped halfway through a setup to tell them to, if they'd please, lower the volume of their voices to accomodate their neighbors who are trying to listen to the show, but shorter and with something like 19 F-bombs. 2, only 2. They were sideways about that after the show, but it's a free show, for them. I'm working there and people are trying to listen and laugh so if the talkers left they wouldn't be losing any money and we'd all be spared another idiot in a pooka-shell necklace yelling out something in regards to his genitals. Oh, and "From Washington DC Larger Than Life Michael Oliver Carter" better shut the F up after his sets, too. He says he's been at it 13 years, done 1,295 sets, and still goes table to table collecting alms for the insecure. He's a goofball. Really insecure, really unfunny, really really really unfunny. Really. Un..

Funny. Imagine Redd Foxx on speed, in bi-focals and a strap-down cowboy hat. But unfunny. And desperate for attention.

So I go up and did my set and riffed a little here and there and then started playing to the Mafia in the back of the room. I'm not sure what I am to the Mafia, but we're all cool. The riffing stuff did well but I did a joke that fell flatter than a 7th grade girl's locker room and I have NEVER done it as well as the night I first Pegasassed it. It's a joke about how I think I'd like rap music better if rappers were happier. They have pretty amazing lifestyles when they get to the big time, but they still seem so bored with it, and I'd be ecstatic if I'd been able to procure their goods with an 8th-grade vo-cab-a-larry. Then it spirals away from me and blah. So yeah, that's what I know. I'm at Laughs this weekend, 2 more headline shows. I'm not really a headliner, more like a Feature who ChiliDog likes enough to give me a shot. I'll have to thank him for that. Maybe I'll buy him a pooka-shell necklace.

Then Shoogs B (in tha house whaddup?) and Dougles and I went to Weirdo's Tavern and Karaoke Chicken Satay Hut for beersss. I went home alone with thoughts of my awesome girlfriend asleep in "I Walk With A Slight" Olympia, 74 miles away. Hey God, remind me of this one when we talk, mmkay? You were done testing me when that one guy bumped into my leg with a Harley Sportster Oh, and God? Thanks for the good stuff, too, even if Blaine doesn't believe in it.

Oh, and as I finally got my big chance to headline... HBO will be there... 'cause it's free with your hotel room... I'm getting my shot, and this cock is taping his DVD at the Underbelly. Last year I MC'ed for him and he said I didn't suck. I'll take it. Go see him if you get a chance.

It's late. I'm out.

Take Me Home

Also, I've learned that, for me, talking after 11:30pm starts turning into the equivalent of Parallel Parking. If there's a really wide space for me to work and nobody waiting, I'm pretty golden for getting it done. But if it's tight and it feels like the last chance to do it right, the quicker I make it the better chance I have of doing it right the first time, and then I should just shut it off and call it good.

Otherwise I back into someone's life... CAR, I mean car, and there's damage to repair.
Sometimes they park too close, but that doesn't mean I had to park there. I could have kept going.
Sometimes they want you to hit them, but that doesn't mean you have to gas it and total the thing. You don't have to hit them at all, it's your choice.
And when you get a front-spot to park in, take it. It's about damn time.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Take Me Home

The List

Yesterday was a learning day for Geoffers. I was really up & down yesterday, like I'd be totally on the ball for a while, then not only would I slide off the ball, the ball would bounce up and hit me in mine. My watering eyes would keep me from seeing where the puddle was that I was about to step in. It stopped about there, no bleeding or anything, just a few bumps and a small bruise.

I won't go into the details, but here's what I learned yesterday:
1) "Manager" is only a title. It has no bearing on a person's ability to manage, communicate, or know what they fawk are talking about. The best I can tell, at my company "Manager" means "Whoever's Been Here Longest."

2) When writing an e-mail that expresses how someone you adore makes you feel, leave out any mentions, sentences, or paragraphs about how sh*tty your day at work has been. If you are being sweet, make the sweetness about the other person. If your day's been sh*tty, blog it or write a joke about, but don't bitter the sweet. It's not always about you. Another time, perhaps, but this time, no.

3) When you mention that you are imperfect, make the mention only about yourself. Even if you have no malice behind your words it's not your place to skim past anybody else's realizations of their Being. You will likely end up looking like an a-hole, and probably feeling like one.

4) Sometimes the best you can do is apologize and hope you'll be forgiven. Other times you may drink a bottle of Pinot Noir and black out on the lanai. I usually go for the first option, because I've learned that the lanai is no place for wine black-outs, especially if you snore when you're wasted. Especially if you strip to the nude and sing "Friends In Low Places" when you're wasted. It's best to apologize from the gut and let it go into the past.

5) Some days you learn. Some days you teach. Some days you get detention. Some days you make the honor roll. Some days you get the girl. Some days the girl gets you. Some days you peel out in front of people and they cheer. Some days you peel out and your friend flies out the passenger door to scrape and bruise their bumper on the ground and you feel like an a-hole. And some days you come home and there are notes and nudges all around your home that remind that somebody in this world really does like you for who you are, imperfections and all, and you get a feeling that you may never be able to find the words that express how much it meant. If you try, please see #2 above.

Class is in Session
Geoffers

Take Me Home

Rave Reviews

I had a pretty darn good weekend last weekend… weekend. (3rd time's funniest) I'm in awe over the weather we had. It affected my moods, my skin coloration, my sleep patterns, all in good ways. 80 degrees on April 11th? I'm not sure if I should jump for joy or start looking for frogs falling from the sky.
This past weekend I did 4 sets at Giggles in opening for Dat Phan, who won NBC's "Last Comic Standing" last year. It was the epitome of Comedy in America… a contest (you know how I feel about those) being judged by people who don't really know what it takes to be a great comedian. Popularity contest, basically, and that's fine. I followed The World's Funniest Hot-Tar Roofer, who has really made lemonade out of his life. Now if only that lemonade had some Zoloft in it we wouldn't have to temper humor with wild mood swings. I watched Dat's sets as far into them as possible before accepting the fact that his comedy is really quite hacky, even after he's been at it for 8 years. This is why Stand-up is Ultimate Justice: What really matters in Comedy is how you do on stage. Your PRODUCT. Dat's a very cool guy, but his material is very easy and gets decent laughs. The key is to be cool off-stage as well as respected on it.
My sets were really good as I found my voice a long time ago. The person that I am on-stage is an uncorked version of me, which is good for the stage but could cause issues off of it. I couldn't do as much time as I wanted to do, but that's okay. I was reeeeally out there on Saturday night, and so fully enmeshed into my performance that I felt like I was inside of myself, could see myself telling the jokes. Admittedly I didn't eat much dinner, okay, but it was a feeling not unlike gliding on the water in a rowboat; I could feel the work, and a little of it was taking me a long way so that I could enjoy the moment. This week: Laughs Comedy Club! The bastards didn't even put me on their website. I'm adding $25 to my asking price. At the very least, M, who is in your mug like coffee y'all, should be able to drink for free. I hope she brings a traveller cup.

The Highlight!
On Easter Sunday I headed out to Maple Valley, named so because there is an obscene number of Vine Maple Trees there, and because its more charming than a town named "CarTrunk Methlabton." I spent most of the day there with my family and we hung out, ate, talked, ate, watched The Masters, ate, I think I ate something, then we talked about eating. I'm working out extra hard this week.
Later in the day I cruised up to Auburn to see M, who's hoppin' down the Bunny Trail, as she was visiting family in the area. It was an hour or so of chilling with her tribe, all of them quite nice, even the man known as FatA$$ was on his best-ish behavior. Then we headed out and I felt like heading back to Kenmore was a waste of time, since there was nothing there for me but an empty apartment and 75 miles between me and M, who was on the road again.
Attention! Sweet Story Ahead!
I get home and there's a card on my kitchen table, for me, of course. Inside was a funny, sweet card that M left for me, and under the card a Dove Truffle egg with a clue. She had set me up with her very own Easter Egg Hunt, each egg attached to a clue as to where the next prize was. Not only was I finding candy - GOOD candy, chocolate and truffles, yo, none of that candy corn and jelly bean BS - but she gave me a CD that I wanted and couldn't find (Garth Brooks' "Roping The Wind," awesome) and some nice lounging pants in which I can, as you may have guessed, lounge.
Do you read me clearly?
She took time and effort to plan something out for me, from the goodness of her heart. For me. I was and still am more than a little surprised by it. I had butterflies over it. Butterflies! I'm a guy, I shouldn't get butterflies, but there they were. As far as somebody doing something sweet for me, that had to be the top. I can't explain why, other than to say I appreciate her so much that it's almost ridiculable.
And all I got her as a DVD of "Can't Buy Me Love." Yes… I'm a guy… A lucky guy, but a guy none the less.

Then last night I feel like I stuck my foot in my own ass. More on that when the Zoloft kicks in.
(sigh)
------------------------------------------


Take Me Home

What's So Funny?

Wednesday night I drove to Olympia to see M, who loves this bar, and hang with some of the new people I've met through her. Over the course of the night I got up and did comedy at a place called Hannah's, a local bar (there must be 20 in 4 blocks on 4th in downtown Oly, it's awesome), and had a decent set. Scattered but I got to riff a little, do a few new jokes, and had a good response from some dudes. Those who listened were laughing, but it was mostly a pool & brew room. There was an open-mic for music, and after some dude who thinks he's the 2nd coming of a guy who obsessively idolizes but has not 1/10th the talent of Neil Young and looks like a drug-free Ted Nugent, and another guy who knows a lot of Dave Matthews and Pearl Jam songs (dude, you have to stop touching college chicks), I got up. I think the crowd was happy to not hear another song mangled by the "seeking spirit of a wandering soul." Why can't people just say they're un-hireable? Gawd, there are few jobs that are "beneath me," as some would say, but what I KNOW is not below me is making money, getting paid to do what I do. That being said, I called in sick yesterday, and spent the afternoon in full-on Writer mode, reading and writing and being a little introspective. Then I had dinner with M, who felt like chicken last night!, and it was awesome. Then on to Giggles for the open mic night. On home for sleepy. Sweet.
------------

I have 4 shows this weekend, mostly tune-ups for next week's "headline" stuff I'll be doing. I always start freaking out a little when the "have-to" shows come up. I wonder if I have the time. I wonder if I have the material. I wonder how long I can stand on a stage and talk and not pee inside of my pants. I love comedy, but I understand it so well, for myself, that I feel like I'm standing really close to a large picture of a naked woman: I am close enough to see details of a small area, but I couldn't tell you what it is unless I back up, and if I back up too far, what if I find out I was eyeball-to-follicle with a furry part of Roseanne Barr, like her lower back? My coughing's been keeping me up enough, I don't need that burned into my head.

I don't really know what I'll talk about tonight, let alone next week. I have some stuff that I really like, some stuff I love, and some stuff that I think is really bad, but crowds always laugh at. I'm writing a lot about relationships lately, but not the "men and women are differ'nt, boy-howdy!" I think it's so interesting how the interaction between friends is a step below the interaction between people who are dating and emotionally involved. I doubt that I have any actual insight to share, but I know that Love shouldn't be hard, I believe in taking things slow, and other than the opposite sex, you don't need any real skill to get married.

Oh, and every time I hear someone say "I am looking for my soulmate", somebody should punch Ethan Hawke in the dick.

I wonder what's going to happen over this next week. I have an urge to say whatever's on my mind at any time, as an experiment of true honesty and forthrightness. There are so many people who I think could use a compliment or a reality check at any given moment, and I mind my own business and say nothing. I could leave out the negative stuff and only say the nice things, but I don't even do that. If I only point out the yin, that doesn't mean I don't see the yang. And sometimes my yang is hanging way out there, but I have to cover it with my yan to make sure people don't call the cops.

I'm no longer concerned with marriage. In this country, the governing bodies say that people of the same sex cannot be officially recognized as married. It says nothing of the fact that people must be in love, or mature, or ready for everything that follows their wedding, which is NOT a marriage. Weddings are big "look at me" parties that usually mean a bride's parents are out $15,000 to make their "little girl" happy. I want none of that. Give me a wedding on a beach in Hawaii, a few friends and family. I'll post it on the web, you can keep your garter tossing and your Electric Slide.

I'm off to get on with my life. Work so you can Live. Get a buzz tonight, anyway that you can.


Geoffers

Take Me Home

I'll Take "Days That Remind Me Of Nothing" for $600

My respiratory illness is being beat back by a cocktail of DayQuil, NyQuil, Penicillin, Juicy Juice! (100% Juice!), and a lot of sleep. I slept most of last night, but woke this morning to the dulcet tones of my lungs forcefully expelling air and whatever else is in there. I've got some sort of hoofed beast in my manifold, it's horrific. Overall I feel fine. No aches or pains, except the ones that are in my back and abs from the full-body lung-spasms. I'm actually gettin' a pretty good work out in all this. Lots of cardio, lots of abs, and my neighbors are kept up all night by my hacking or crying. Either way, I'm a winner.

So I get up and get moving today, and thankfully my first human contact is with M, who's got your Quizno's right here punk, and not hearing Gary Jules again. Gawd, how can you face a day when the first words you hear are "I find it kinda funny/I find it kinda sad/That the dreams in which I'm dying/are the best I've ever had." I need huggy now.

I get to work, 9-ish, not much going on. I have jack-all to do, a couple of reports to run, which I ran, and really weren't worth the time to run them. But it's my job, so I did it. And that's about where I stand now. Yay. Ideally I would like to win the Lotto, and work at some job I could abuse customers at all day. That's a blown premise, but gawd if it isn't true.

Cool: Coffee ice cream, knuckle pushups, squats, romanian deadlifts, gettin' fonky, open bar, Monterey Jack cheese, BioTest GROW! Low-carb protein shake mix (chocolate), and cool people.
Cold: Trucker hats, pooka shell necklaces, baseball traffic, men wearing jerseys, bleeding ulcers, non-bleeding ulcers, ringer t's, rumpley jeans, Frats, Sluts, and hacks.

Take Me Home

Working Out My Issues

Last week I had a weird encounter at the gym. I was doing some lat-pulls, and was finishing a set of 15, and did 2 behind my head, which as we all know is BAD BAD BAD, right? Compresses your vertebrae a little more than is necessary. As I'm walking away from the machine, a "trainer" comes over and says to me…
"Hiiii! I'm Angie, and I've been here about 3 weeks now as a trainer. I noticed you were doing lat pulls behind your head which can cause some strain and injury to your cervical collar. Try to do all of your pulls in front of your head to protect your neck, okay?"
Apparently Angie gets her exercise from jumping to conclusions. All I could muster was "Hi Angie, I'm Geoff. I've been lifting weights for the better part of 15 years. I notice you like cheap make-up and home perms, which turn your skin orange and your hair to Easter grass. From now on, try not to answer questions I didn't ask, and I won't damage your cervix, mmkay?"
Canyon Park Fitness has an opening for Personal Trainers, if anyone's looking.

Opening Day Of Pro Baseball...

Today is the first day of the Major League Baseball season. That means for 81 days, at the least, traffic into Seattle will be 4 times as crappy as usual. It means little else to those of us who could care less about baseball. I don't like pro baseball. In-stadium, okay, but not on TV, not on the radio. BO-RING. Since I'm not frequenting the park, but 45,000 other people are, that's an average of 7 million more cars on the road, and not nearly enough entertaining if not horrific accidents involving Semis and Mariner car-pools.
If you're a big baseball fan, good for you. I'm sure I could tell by your pull-over, t-shirt, socks, cap, pins, sweatbands (sweatbands? you have a desk job), and SoDo Mojo decal, which is now 4 years too late, I think. Anyway, this marks the end of many nights for me at the Comedy Underpants with the Mariners are in town. It will be harder to find parking than finding a straight guy wintering in Ibiza.

Take me out to the ball game, take me out with a bat.

Take Me Home

The Weekend In Review

I had myself a great weekend. It was way more relaxed than I thought it would be, but that's good, as I'm soldiering through the SARS-like chest cold that everyone else beat about 6 weeks ago.
I played a little pool on Friday night at Jillians. Here's a quick transcription of me playing pool, regardless of how easy the shot is:
"7, corner pocket, (breathe, breathe), >PLICK< SH*T!"
We almost ended up at some dive on Cap Hill, a bar that has an awning that says "Typewriters" (and why wouldn't it?). It apparently serves only imported beers from Belgium, Denmark, and North Dakota. I didn't want to go in at first because the billowing smoke was reminiscent of a couch fire, but we were there to meet friends and were going to play the PR and be like dat.
I was there with M, who wants to Rock&Roll All Wednesday, and we bailed after 5 minutes of waiting on the friends who suggested the place. We hoofed it to B&O Espresso, which has a very café-like bar and a dessert case that would shame Anna Nicole's breakfast menu. She apparently Trim Spa'ed her way to a leaner bod. That's no big feat, when you consider Trim Spa is in pill form, and she was already downing more pills than a test-rat for Bayer. "Take one more? Okay, but I gets to wash 'er down with buttermilk! Eew, this one taste like the green food." Bluck.

Saturday comes around, and I head to the state Capitol, then South-ish for two towns I've never been to. I got to see a little of Satsop and the Mini-Mart in Brady. Great night of chillin', chattin', and serious eatin' in Satsop. Met M's mom, M's brother and his fiancee, and threw darts against a jail guard with a penchant for do-it-his-own-damn-self woodfire stove installation. The amount of smoke that thing emitted INSIDE the garage/workshop/dart arena, compounded with the Friday night Typewriter joint's smokiness, probably only exacerbated the amount of lunggage I am carrying. It was funny to hear them say "Close the door, you're letting the heat out!" Guys, that's not heat, that's lactic acidosis from asphyxiation. At the risk of sounding like a weenie, I'm not down with monoxide-induced bronchial spasms. Call me fickle, pickle, but my brain cells are leaving in clown cars every other hour. Dig it.
Sunday started late due to not setting the clock an hour ahead. I wasn't paying attention to the clock anywho, but I think the time change figured a bit into today. Read on...

I SCREAM FOR THIS STUFF!
Last night we got some iced cream, a treat for me as I'm usually adhering to a strict high-protein, low-fun diet. I opted for Godiva Chocolate Truffle Raspberry, and M, who could kick it if it needs to be kicked, grabbed a pint of Ben & Jerry's classic Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough.
The CCCD is always a crowd pleaser. I had a hankering for something fruity with a kick, but there's only one David Lee Roth. So I grab the Godiva Chocolate Truffle Raspberry, plop on the couch for a viewing of Cold Creek Manor (wait for it on GameBoy), and settle in for a-viewin'. Damned if I didn't eat 3/4ths of the pint. I don't even feel bad about it. It was good. NAY, it was spiritually erotic, or erotically spiritually. It was a delight for all the senses. Don't eat any, it will kill you. If you eat a bunch, I won't be able to have any, and I will pants you at lunch.
Try me, jerk-hole.

More Hacks Than The Tacoma Underground
Holy Lumberhacks I have a chest cold that is working me over like Ike on Tina. About 4-6 weeks back it seemed EVERYONE had this cold. It starts in your face and makes your head feel like it's going to pop, but not the fun "One more DayQuil & Cran, bartender!" kind of floaty-head popping. It feels like a quick turn of your head could cause inertia to take over the contents of the nasal passages, and sling it back to the other side while your face collapses. I suggest Claritin, lots of water, and not looking at stuff.
So I get past that part of it, and for 2 days I am golden-retriever healthy. Good color, cold, wet snout, peeing outside, plenty of yard-time. Then it hits me. Last Tuesday night, WHAM, this chest cold lungjacks me and won't leave. It's taken up squatter's rights in my bronchial tubes, and the only way to get it out is through the spasms my lungs are running through. This isn't "tickle in the throat, time for tea and honey!" coughing, this is full-diaphragm, red eye bursting, back cracking, ab-tightening lung assault to break this up. Last night I would sleep for 40 minutes, wake for 20, and cough for 10 of those. I'm surprised I wasn't asked to sleep in my car. Don't think I wasn't gonna volunteer.
My plan of attack for tonight: DayQuil and 1 Tylenol PM, OR, Cherry NyQuil over Godiva Chocolate Raspberry Truffle Chocolate, a.k.a "The AnnaNicole."

The Straight Dope
There is almost no more liberating feeling than realizing and accepting your parents as People, not just Mom & Dad. It makes it much easier to see where they've been in life, how we can affect each other with the smallest gestures of love and kindness, and how much it's gonna suck to put them in Shady Pines Adult Center. That sounds kinda saucy, if you aks me.

Go ahead, aks me…
Geoffers

What UpHomey?

I had a good set last night at Giggles Open Mic. I still think comedy is a joke. I once had grandiose notions of being part of the revolution of comedy. It won't happen. Too many styles fitting too many people's ideas of funny. Comedy reminds me a lot of what it takes to make it in great in the Budoir:
Do what you think is funny.
Something like that.
If you see me on stage and you're offended, I don't care. At least you got the joke. Next we'll work on your definition of "joke."

Take Me Home

Creating Memories One Mouse-Click At A Time

I'm at work today. It's gorgeous out, and I'm at work. You, too, are in front of a computer. I don't want to be here. Unless you're tracking al-Quesadilla operatives with your computer, then you should be doing THAT instead of reading this.
So here's what I'm dealin' with today. Got a couple new reports I'm supposed to run for a couple of teams that are spread out all over. These reports reflect how much time it takes teams to accomplish the work they are asked to do. I formulated an equation which I bristle at divulging, but here goes:
TIME = $$$, where $$$ = money.
Keep the time down, keep the cost down, keep the people happy. Long story short, this is not going to amount to a hill of fiddled beans when I'm 50. I know this. This is a job. That's it. Not a spiritual quest. Not a calling. A job. Justification of the ways and the means. I'm doing what I don't want to do. Me and every other person out there is doing it about 40 hours a week. I should be commended for the fact that I don't have a drug problem, neck tattoos, or a Benadryl addiction. I'm a winner, even if I'm working for a Loser.
In the meantime, my company keeps the people down, and the money down. I hope to be on the next train to LayOffBerg. Time will tell. Or is it Money? I better run a report.

Not funny.
Geoff

Take Me Home

The Freedom of Not Giving a Sh*t

Today, I do not give a sh*t. This may be temporary. It may last a few days. But for today, I'm riding shotgun on the Apathy Express, the 9:09 out of Olympia, and I'm embracing it.
I'm at work running a report nobody cares about for reasons nobody can remember. This morning I was in Olympia with someone about whom I do care (it would be untoward and grody to say "about whom I give a sh*t," pardon the break), then I had to come in to run these reports. An hour of driving so I could engage in a staring contest with this ridiculous database that can bite my honeybaked. All this technology sh*t's really cool if you give a sh*t, but I don't, so it's basically sh*t.
I am fully in touch with the fact that I am the most important person in my life. If you think that's selfish, guess what I won't be giving? Did you guess "a sh*t?" I have no kids. I have no wife. I am solely responsible for making my life as close to not-sh*tty as I possibly can. When it comes to your life, I don't give a sh*t. When it comes to mine, I take all the sh*t I didn't give elsewhere and I build a protective cabin with a hammock with it. It doesn't stink, because it's not real sh*t, and also because when you don't give a sh*t, your non-given sh*t don't stink. I just told you I'm living in a sh*t cabin, dear reader. Yes, I'm in therapy.
The truth is this: To the extent I am here doing my job, and I left M, who thinks you're fakin' it, in Olympia to be here, I give some semblance of sh*t. The nice weather outside, the lovely woman with whom I should be picnicking or trying to impress with consecutive push-ups or swing-dancing geriatrics before snacktime (pleeeease let it be butterscotch anything), the mild headache and chalkboard/fingernail laughter emitted from a conference room (ROME DID NOT CONQUER THE WORLD IN MEETINGS...) behind me remind that until the day I can truly act out on my not giving a sh*t, I need to at least fake like I have sh*t to give. Even if it's left in a flaming bag on a doorstep, at least when I give, I mean it.
And if you could see videotape of the mutilation of Americans in Iraq or Janet Jackson's tit for an hour a night, which would you TiVo? Vote with your heart. And Ryan Seacrest should be punched in the d*ck.


Geoff Lott, on your side, right after this nap.

Take Me Home

Go Up Early, Drink Up Late

I haven't much enthusiasm for comedy right now. Rephrase... here...
I love comedy. I love performing. It's how I express myself, looking at the idiosyncracies of idiocratic idiots and realizing that on any given minorly hungover, underfed, vitamin deficient day, I AM that idiot. I am no worse than the best around, but I'm way better than the worst.

This is what's up with me. I did this contest where I knocked out 19 sets in 9 days, and a total of 23 sets in 21 days total. That's a lot of time listening to yourself talk. I was on auto-pilot for delivery, but my heart was totally in the moment of the Finals week. Fully in-tune with the audience, riding the wave of my delivery and confident that I was going to get both cheeks into every punchline I swung at. I was parking punchlines in the cheap seats, leading the wave, AND bringin' hot dogs to your grill, you gifted little creature, you. I was in it. I was on it. I f*cking BROUGHT IT, I dug a hole, I planted it, it rooted and grew to give you shade and a place to hang a tire swing from.

Now I just wanna sit under the tree and hope that I get Newton'ed by a comedy apple. That may very well happen, but the meat isn't cooking while I sit in shade and anticipate in-spur-ay-shun. It's time I get back to the kitchen, bring forth the squashes and the sauces, brulee the creme, and fire up the grill. I'm doing that tonight. I'll be working on new recipes. I'm inspired, focused, and getting back to Fearless. I hope you brought a bib and a bucket. The main course is gonna stick to your ribs, full carb, full fat, full flavor. You don't like what's on the menu? Fine, eat from here.
Otherwise, grab the vino and loosen your belts.

Dig in.
Geoffers

p.s. YES, I am in counseling. Don't worry, all's well. I'll write and talk more later. In the meantime, enjoy your baggage.

Take Me Home

Take Me It's Not As Bad As It Looks... It's Probably Worse

Whistle Stumpenlegs behind me here at work has some sort of brain disconnect. This is a person who is frightened of silence. As if his thoughts will never manifest if he doesn't make some sort of noise at all times. He observes a strict open door policy, which is to say "Well hello, this here fella is one heck of a fella to know and to be a fella with. Come on in and we'll ring up a few whistly tuney tunes! WOO HOO WEEEE!" If I had an "Open Door Policy" it would be this: "If my door is open, close it."
I'd be way more upset if I weren't blogging about his bass-ackwards attempts at being "folksy" or so obscenely wine-drunk right now.

What's That Guy's Deal?

I encountered a complete a-hole today at Starbucks. The guy two spots ahead of me in line gets to the counter, and as he's ordering, he's got his face turned downward to his hand while he counts change, likely to be used to pay for his coffee. He's likely muttering, as the gal behind the counter says, "I'm sorry sir, I didn't get your order." His head snaps up and he leans with one hand on the counter, and repeats, in a condescending tone, "GRANDE DECAF NON-FAT 2-PUMP SUGAR FREE HAZELNUT NO FOAM EXTRA HOT LATTE."
The only man who should drink something that complicated is either Ryan Seacrest, because he's a teenage girl, or Geoff Lott, because I order whatever the frango I feel like ordering.
So the dude pays in change, even though he's wearing a pair of Cole Haans and the outfit of a man who is desk-boundly employed. In CHANGE, is this a Summer Camp? NO, it's a friggin' Starbucks. Hit a Coinstar first, use a Debit Card, or just steal a fresh drink off the counter, but don't pay in Change, Skippy, 'cause then they gotta count it, and my life is getting shorter than Joan Rivers' eyelids.
As the drink is placed on the counter, the cockstomer and the barista have a clash. The barista, already backlogged and dredlocked (how Now! that's What I Call Hip Hiring!), reads the order outloud, the way they've been taught, and leaves the "no-foam" part of his recitation. The asstomer says "No foam, right?" Barista dude - "Yeah, sorry, no foam." Dickstomer - "Are you sure?" Barista - "Positive, you can look and see, sir." Cockstomer - "Because I don't like a lot of foam on the lattes that's there." In the meantime, my drink is sitting next to the drink of a man who has an aversion to all things frothed. I carry some pretty colorful baggage, my friends, but I know when to leave them in the car, and YES, I usually crack a window.
I decide that I'm going to get my drink, even if someone ends up with a bruised kidney, because hey, I'm not sure how FoamHomer is gonna react. I will throw an elbow if necessary, in Starbucks or anywhere it's called for. So I stand as close to the guy as possible, reaching across him, my arm about 8 inches from his face... 8 inches,yeah, I measured it, heh heh... and say "Excuse my reach, I'm in the way." I didn't touch him, I didn't yell at him, and I even held back from hugging him and gently petting his balding bird-like head, whispering, "There we go, you're safe now. The foam won't get you."
The dictatertot throws a lengthy order into the hopper, and one bit of it, the least-important bit of it, next to "In a cup, please," is left out. Pop the top, check the foam levels. WTF? The point of this story is this: Whenever you think your Iced Grande Non-Fat Light Ice Latte is pushing boundaries, there's some change-paying waste of bladder space crying over foamed milk. You're fine.



p://www.geofflottrules.com/index.html">Home

This morning I sat on my couch and began meditating. I try to start the day with some inner-searching to allow my spirit catch up from the dream world it was just in. Some people call it hokey, but nobody's ever died by my hands. At least not since I started meditating. At least not with a garden trowel... Never you mind.
I began to meditate on the energies of my friends and loved ones (they're the same, actually), to radiate love and happiness to each of them. I imagined each of their faces, heads bowed, hands open to the prosperity and joy of the universe. Each breath I took lifted me higher into a state of conscious unconsciousness, to be awake and alert yet deeply removed from the Daily World.
I began to understand why some of my friends are angry at life. I began to see how I can encourage other friends. I could see myself making changes I've wanted to make. I could see one very special person's arms opening to allow love and happiness surround them, as their hesitations and fears were broken down by the strength of self-belief and incoming affection, fully in tune with their own ability to Love. We hugged each other across the planes of existence.

My breathing flattened my energy out to wrap around my Life, an entity I was once frightened of, the potential to be Great, the accompanying prosperous living of nice homes and things, with the right woman, perhaps children. No longer frightening, I embraced it and implanted thoughts of Who and What I want from my Life so that my beacon is set to address those things.
I understood fully that we can not be fixed, as we are not broken. Our souls cannot be damaged if we hold on to them and follow a moral compass. We each have a little bag where the slights and hurts of interactions past reside, and unless that bag is emptied and the contents placed in order and promptly burned, we carry our "baggage" and knock into others along our way. I imagined my bag, a black canvas bag. I opened the drawstring and poured out the contents. I saw how one hurt resembled an older one, but the colors of the newer one were much brighter. The older one was still solid, yet the color had faded. Carrying it around only added to the weight of the bag. I began to pile these items into a pyramid. I asked the Divine Power to take these things away from me. And they began to dissipate. They began to disappear.
As the love I sent to my dearest people radiated over me, as I allowed my spirit to open to the good of Life, as the hurt of a lifetime or more fell away I realized something in the middle of this universe, of which I am for my own existence. I realized something profound, something true, something grounding in the middle of my quest for Higher Consciousness...

People like dick jokes.
====================
Nice day out. How about shutting that computer down and doing something for YOU right now? I DARE YOU.

By-eeeeeee!
Take Me Home

Accomplishments
~ Showered, Shaved, Cologned, Dressed, Fed (Trader's Joes Apple-Cinnamon Cereal, non-fat milk, 45g protein shake)
~ Meditated on "remaining centered, remaining light, remaining hey folks thanks for having us here tonight at the Tacoma Sheraton where I'll be a pork tenderloin and that wine last night was so freakin' good I hope I have the bottle or the cork because holy shift supervisor at Alfy's Pizza when I was 16 was a total cock-a-doodle dog doo or doo not, that's not funny, there's no joke there, as long as I can get to work before 10 I should be able to get some decent parking lot attendants can kiss my honeybaked and look me in the I remain calm, remain as one with the moment, remain as a breath in, a breath out, remain as love, be as love, beastie beastie boys, aaaw yeeeeeah... did I eat yet?"
~ Deny that I have A.D.D.
~ Drive to work. Road Rage 743 - Me 2
~ Review action plan from yesterday. Ooops, I missed something. #3-A: Give two sh*ts.
~ IM with Shoogs-B
~ Question again whether or not I'd be a good father after almost choking on water.
~ Talk with M on the mo-bile 'bout nothin' I can put on here.
~ Review set-list for tonight (friggin' GOLDEN)
~ IM with Kilo G.
~ Almost miss a team call where we dialed-in and used the password "SUCKAGE." Review how to use webtool to track all time used on projects and other items of daily work. It's micromanagement minutiae.
~ Update webtool with "Blogging, bite me" project. It has no budget, yet I feel that since they won't lay me off, I'll just throw extra slack into the day. Call it a "rolling Layoff."
~ Read some of THE MOST REAL BLOG EVER, www.DOOCE.com
~ Despise Stumpy Von Whistlechunk for being stumpy and whistling and coughing and sniffing like an 88 Escort.
I think that's all of the parts left, anywhere.
~ Went to Quizno's... stop the singing!... for a sub. Honey Bourbon Chicken, it's gone now. Big sandy, it was the size of my head. And that's big.
~ List my goals. One of them is This. Another is This.
~ Forget the funniest thing I was gonna put on here, making it almost totally moot. How can I forget some of the things I want to dark chocolate is better than milk, any day. Frigging Valrhona will kick you in the nuggets. I could totally go for some 45 miles to Tacoma, 40 miles an hour avg., I should get there by Tuesday.
~ Realize that I'm not as big a player in the comedy scene as I thought I was. Take solace in that fact. Lightly brush hand past the grocery bundle.
~ Drink 53oz of water already today. Feelin' moist.
~ Fart. Sorry Aspenwood Conference Room... sorry it wasn't occupied when I did it.
~ Stop blogging.

G




Take Me Home