Good Decisions All Around

In looking for some artwork for an angel tattoo I am planning on designing, I found one that reminded me that words in tattoos are never a good idea.

Good. Friday!

Today is Good Friday in the Christian/New Testament Religions. It is the day Jesus was crucified and buried in his tomb, when the ground shook, the seas ran red, and Hollywood found a cornerstone for blockbuster films.

This morning I'm rafting on mixed emotions. It's my family's first holiday without my Dad at home. I have epididymitis, diagnosed last night by a guy who, were it not for introducing himself as a doctor and wearing a white jacket, would have been touching me inappropriately. I am working from home - unquote - today, and I am quite happy to not have to go into the office. I have a ton to write about, but little time to do it. My friend Ryan Hamilton is a finalist in the Sierra Mist "Next Great Comic" contest, and after listening to the other dudes, he's got a really great chance at winning. Please check out that site and vote for Ryan. I entered that contest, and didn't make it to the finals. I am really freaking happy that Ryan did. Couldn't have happened to a nicer guy, myself included.

I have a hard time asking for things, but I'm getting better at it. I used to suffer through somebody else's moving day, then when it came time for me to get out of the halfway house, I would just make 200 trips in the Buick Skyhawk and hope somebody would want to grab a beer later. I realized this at work recently. I asked 30 managers to each send me a list of who they manage. They sent me Adobe PDFs of charts with 1500 names on them, and said "I'm in this organization." Lazy shits. That added to the confusion. I ask for very little at work, and that's what I get. Since then I realized that I'm not doing anything extra for anybody I work with. Not a new spreadsheet, not a test-run of an application, zilch.

I'm ready to get on with my life. My dad's condition's progression over the past 18 months has got me feeling a little anxious, realizing that life is short, especially if you're going to keep living after what you knew as Life is gone. Thankfully, and oddly so, my dad's condition brings on apathy as if it were the norm, he cares very little about anything, shows few emotions. He likes the Inn he's been moved to. He likes it so much that he doesn't really relax when we're with him outside of it, and usually gets anxious and wants to go back. We cannot reason with him or calm him down much. This is what Is, now. It's a new Normal. It sucks. Being defiant of it will not help any of us move on. There is anger and hate and compassion. And a lot of Love and prayers. And at the end of the day we just hope that Dad's happy and healthy, and that our feelings of guilt and anger subside.

You should leave work early today. Make it a Good Friday.

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It's A Question That Had To Be Asked

Listening to LoveLine right now, and the comedic genius who is Adam "Ace Rockola" Carolla is fielding a question from a caller with either a drug problem or... who am I kidding... AND a head injury. For sure, the kid's got a bunk smoke detector that's chirping at 1-minute intervals, Adam timed it a second ago. How punk is Adam? The guy don't even gots a website, BE-AH-YATCH!

The kid on the phone said he was getting some sort of allergic reaction after getting oral sex from his girlfriend.
The guest says "Dude, you're allergic to fellatio?"
Adam asks the question I wish that had to be asked, from a comedic standpoint but would never fly on stage:
"How long before America's got a black kid named Fellatio? Or whaddya think, think there's already one family out there named a kid Fellatio?"

I had to share that with you, it simply could NOT go by the wayside.

Reacharound Jackson

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Testing, Testing, Is This Thing On?

By now we all are aware of the Terry Schiavo case in Florida. I expect it to be a punchline in many comics acts very soon as they attempt to appear edgy and "Stanhope-like." But here's how I figure we can end the debate.

Terry Schiavo's brain activity is near zero. Her EEGs are at zero, showing no thoughts or firing of neurons towards cognition of surroundings and Life as defined by medical experts. Her spirit, her aenima has left. Her body is being biologically wheelbarrowed each day by people who are split between dying with dignity, and hoping for a miracle. The Congressman on Capital Hill who is heralding the re-insertion of her feeding tube is also the biggest supporter of the Death Penalty, so that doesn't seem to work out for me. Both subjects, in that case, are being removed from life support by judges.

Anyway, if you wanna see if Terry's still alive, play her an audio cassette tape recording of the works of the inexplicably popular "Larry The Cable Guy."
If she does not react, there's your answer: She's Fine.

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Comedy, Harmony, Tony Moser's Bottom Lip, And My A.D.D.

I would like to give a giant "THANK YOU!" to everyone who came over to Laughs Comedy Live Show And BYOB Lounge this past weekend! You helped sell out both shows, yet had some trouble with the bar staff. I hope you got your money's worth out of the show.

My hair looked really awesome, thanks to Jeni at Salon Rivera in Bellevue. Go check that place out on 3rd and 105th, just to see how tiny a dog can actually be.

Blue (from Canada) was great. He didn't pander Canadian, had a great, loose set that had the crowd going from the start, and really helped kick the night off.

Fahim was Fahim-enal on Friday night, again bringing new and funny stuff to the table. He could really go somewhere with his talents, as long as he doesn't let his mechanical engineering degree trip him up. From his last few blogs, I think he's trying to tank his education so he can go on the road in the next 18 months. Good play, Fahim. Check and mate.

Travis Simmons, hey bud, thanks for doing 15 minutes. Also, thanks for stretching it out over 25 minutes and pushing the end of the show out to nearly 10:45. Again, you took a comedy show and did what you could to make it about you. The best thing I heard from you all night was the sound of your car starting. Be cool to the other comics by not eating that much time with nothing to really solidify your set. Ridiculous.

Didi McCarty had a great set on Saturday night. Everyone was talking about it after the show, wondering who "that first girl" was. She was actually the only girl, unless you count Charles Darby and me. Nice work Didi! I hope you got some ayse this weekend, like you were hopin' for.

Dan Moore eased into a great little set. He's gotten better since he slowed down. At one point he was going backwards. I was surprised, and happily so, to see Dan in attendance and center-stage. Thanks Dan!

Charles Darby did an admirable job with a crowd that couldn't tell if they were ready to laugh or not. I think the bar service threw people off on Saturday night. 3 people making drinks and nobody taking orders or running them, that's what caused the line at the bar. Charles, I hope it all went well at Misty's for ya. Did you see Didi over there?

Yes. I'm kind of a dick.

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Yesterday I was floating in some sort of abyss, emotionally. I didn't have much to give by way of creativity, likeability, focus, or energy. I would just as soon fold laundry and stare at a wall as lay in bed and stare at Pink Floyd's "The Wall" mirror I have hanging eternal on my ceiling. Anything sounded like it would have been fun to do, but nothing was so fun as to jolt me out of my blueness. I had a caffeine rush that kind of got me moving, but after 80 minutes I crashed back to my reality that is Kenmore:
Tomorrow, I have to go to work.

So here I am again. Last night I dreaded this place. And this morning it's been worse than I imagined. This company is paying some people upwards of $85,000 a year to manage 2 people. And those 2 people are self-contained, technical survival units. So basically the Manager is getting a ganglion cash-cyst for hounding holy hell out of me for numbers they don't really fathom. I'm overpaid for a baby-sitter, but underpaid for making a lot of these turds come up smelling rosey.

I read an article last night about the number of thoughts and brain activity quotients people work within during the day. An average person, such as me, has 3,000 to 4,000 thoughts each day. That ranges from associating a shoe with its color to how much money you have left in that jar under the floorboard next to the ammo and canned soups. The most successful people in the world, such as the top-level athletes, investment bankers, stock-swindling muffin mavens, and Travis Simmons, have a different number of thoughts each day. In fact, they have about 1/3rd the number of thoughts. Why is that?
Confidence? Intuition? Fearlessness? It's a "Thought-Act" process, I believe. It's being "in the zone." Playing loose. Michael Jordan's tongue would wag when he was in it. Relaxed performance, the mind has slowed to process what's important NOW, and not what needs to be done on THURSDAY (Ikea trip) nor what went wrong this weekend (rusty build-up on a few jokes). Letting it go and getting NOW handled.

I focus more when I'm writing. Creating. Producing something from my brain's recesses. I feel more balanced with that happening. Blogging, some days, is my only respite from the MBA-tards I work with/for. I've come out of the abyss, and know what I have to do for now. And that is, sigh... work.
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Dave Attell tickets go on sale at NOON today.



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Respite

I have to blog right now because I have no other escape hatch in my day.

So far this morning everyone at work seems to have either the "Short Friday Hurries," cramming as much in before noon so that they can leave early and flop ass-wise into their favorite Starbucks chair, or they're doing what they normally do (nothing, other than annoy me) and therefore they don't actually have to be here, but they would have felt guilty staying at home. I've seen 4 people wearing velour sweatsuits today, and only one of them is female, and that's NoMakeup Sandie who is half-human/half-turtle.

Do not invest in the Orange Jack Phone Company. It is management-heavy, light on leadership, and filled brim-side with too many people who believe it matters. I can't say I'm one of them.

The reporting system I use apparently got corked last night, as it went face-down for an hour, for no reason. Yesterday afternoon I was using Excel, tried to save a monster of a worksheet that was three weeks in the making, and suddenly I get a

"Windows is attempting to install Microsoft Office Professional.

Please wait while the installation puts the brakes on your life."

So, I was using a program within the Office suite, yet it wasn't actually in-use, because it wasn't even installed on the laptop that work shoved off onto me? Every day, The Matrix and 1984 meet for drinks in my kitchen, laughing at the simplicity of Office Space. I am officially burned out on this job as of Wednesday night. I literally stared at a computer screen for 38 minutes straight, blinking but not seeing anything of import or value after that split second of eye-wetting Valhalla.

So anyway, my job sucks, and if anyone wants it, they can have it. Doing the work is not difficult. Finding enough motivation to do it for people who don't remember screaming a request into the phone for it once they get what they want, now THAT will take a special person to fill this chair. I'm looking for a new job, perferably making Dave Attell money for comedy and writing, like $20Gs a pop.

I'm headlining Laughs all weekend. The other night I riffed around at Pegasus with moderate success for 55 minutes, only going through a few real bits. I'm excited to see what happens tonight when I can really drill down into the material and find a new vein of comedy gold. Hope you can make it to a show! 9pm Friday and Saturday.

Pink velour sweatsuit, likely not a new one, probably one that was hanging around since they were last popular. I think she's roller-disco'ing, too.

Live the nightmare.

this blog has been as entertaining as my day at work.

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And Another Another Thing

If anyone thought I was the only person who thinks The Stranger is an incestuously "self-made hipster" rag of Biblically Gay-But-Not-In-A-Homo-Way proportions, check out this week's "I, Anonymous" entry.

Compare it to my previous blog regarding that fibrous melange of lines and pictures.

And then wipe your pipe with the local music reviews. And the "Drunk Of The Week" horsecrap of a feature is probably just a bunch of their exes they want to out for being tanked too often. Real drunks don't get their pictures taken while awake. Get with the program.

I stand by my previous quote that "Celebrity I Saw U" is the only thing in that diaper-liner worth reading.

Happy St. Patrick's Day.

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How To Tell When Somebody Is Lying

You know that feeling you get in your gut that says "there's no way this prostitute isn't a cop."? Yeah, check in with that.

If someone tells you a trait about themselves, an intrinsic trait, not something visible like pretty eyes or a well-tucked fruit-cocktail, then that person's probably lying to you.

You can usually tell something about somebody because you have a sense of decency and smell to let you in on it. It's a gut reaction to the way someone walks, looks around a room, and picks up the tab every time.

So remember, if somebody has the need to tell you a trait about themselves, like "I'm funny," or "I'm a great guy," or "I don't need attention," the exact opposite is true, and they will be on stage in a few minutes.

Behold the finest knifeholder created. At www.viceversa.com





I Care,
Lott
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Putting The "Con" in Conference Call

I "rushed" into work this morning because, like a lot of days, I had a conference call. The factors of timeliness and building-presence don't affect me emotionally. If I could do my job from home, I wouldn't; I don't want any of these people to know where I live, not to mention that I'd be waist-up naked and likely wine-drunk most of the work day. My focus wanes from moment to moment after the badge scan, even more-so when I know I don't have to be back here for 16 hours.

My "team" is based in California. Perfect. My original boss in this organization is about 12 feet away. The manager I had following her is about a quarter-mile down the road in another building. My current manager is in Calafournee. My next manager will be a naked mole-rat/human hybrid who lives near the center of Sugarloaf Mountain in South America. It helps save $$$ in facilities when the middle-managers are middle-crust dwellers with daylight problems. No cubes, no offices, no badges.

Thanks to technology, I am brought together (interlocking fingers, head tilt, slight smile) with my teammates in California. This conference call is the work-a-day equivalent of a car-wash hangar: Follow the instructions and you can do it yourself! No, now, don't try and throw a curveball, just get it done with and look back at it later to see how many spots you missed. Oh crap, and you've scratched living hell outch-yer protective coat. Wow... was this necessary?

It's the ever-necessary Preview Of The Year's Goals Call. It is vital to have a call of this nature so that we can each look back and say "It was horsesh*t at the beginning, too." As we cover these goals and platitudes to be worked towards, it was made clear to me that the "Scoring" system that a lot of teams are on is based on the work I produce.
And all this time I thought I was powerless.

The work I produce measures workload, efficiency, and trends of each. I pull, format, and produce these reports, or "metrics" if you wanna be corporate about it, for Four teams. I fell into this job as a back-up to the previous guy. The database he built was a house of cards, and one day someone walked by too quickly and it came a-tumbling down. Too bad, because it automated the work I have to do now, with keyboards and mouse-clicks, teeth grinding so hard they barely let any Jameson pass. The work is entered from a raw format into a... hey, wake-up... into a spreadsheet that I have created with formu... hey... are you snoring? Forget this part.

So now here I am. Rock you like a hurricane. My work will affect the scores (imagine grades, but with a mortgage payment attached) attained by many a co-worker. The technician's scores will roll up to the scores hanged by the names of their managers. These are the same managers who, when asked for a list of people they manage, sent me a 3MB org. chart so that my mailbox would be clogged for a week while I found that they manage 2 of 743 people in their regional office. And I get to decide how it all goes!

I have to go now. I am going to send a note to managers to alert them that the scores their salaries and therefore their self-worth are fed from the system that they never use, by people they have minimal communication with, by a guy who is unaffected by how well... or how pathetic... it appears their team is doing. And these folks haven't clued in yet that I can, if necessary, and with fully ethical practices, make it appear that of their 5 direct reports, only 2 of them even work for the company, and that 3 paychecks are all going to an offshore account in the Sugarloaf Savings & Loan Bank for a Mrs. Chandira Rolemat. I found the Golden Ticket, Gobstoppers. Willy Wonka's power is no match for somebody willing to float a Baby Ruth down the chocolate river.

Gotta roll, phone's ringing. Oh look, it's a manager! Unless the first two words uttered are "FREE LUNCH," I see someone with a long Q2 ahead of them.

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I will be headlining the Wednesday Show at Pegasus Pizza in Kirkland, 9:30pm, as well as the entire weekend at Laughs in Bellevue. Shows Friday and Saturday night, 9pm, and one Brunch Showcase Sunday morning, 10-10:30am. Enjoy a blintz!

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Somebody's Trying To Tell Me Something

Monday again?

Last week I printed out an article from The Onion written by a fictitious author, Jim Anchower. Jim's a late-era hesher, living in a world of broken cars, bad weed, broke friends, and low-paying jobs. I don't know if he's ever been a comic, sorry.

So anyway, I forgot the printed version on the tray and somebody left it on my desk some time between Friday afternoon and this morning. I had the article in an e-mail window, which, when printed, had my mail profile name on the top. I'm stupid sometimes.

The funniest part was that somebody had stapled a note as a cover sheet that said:

Hello,

This was left on the printer, and is not the first document like this. Fortunately, it was found and given back to you by somebody concerned for youre well being. If you are having troubles with work or general life circumstances, this company offers these resources to assist.


So here's what I think is so funny:
1- the cover-sheet person thinks I wrote the article, and/or
2- the cover-sheet person thinks my life is the subject of the article, and/or
3- the cover-sheet person thinks I am having a problem with somebody named Wes, not having any beer, scoring bunk doobage, my car breaking down, and getting evicted from an apartment, if they read the entire article, and/or
4- they also think I call myself a "lone-wolf," which I do on occasion, and/or
5- they have zero sense of humor to have never heard or the ability to appreciate The Onion.

I'm too busy making other people think I give a flip about this job, but the person did write my old manager's name on the paper. My old manager would get a huge kick out of the incident, so I really hope they called my old boss, who has not contacted me. But I do have handwriting to match to, so now I have to peruse the fridge to see who wrote on their lunches, because friggin-A, when you're on a suicide watch at work, you need the sustenance that only a meal in a cheese-sauce can provide.

My job sucks and is beneath me. It's time I look elsewhere.
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Whoopadoop Ramanaploop

My current managerial umbrella is open, indoors. You know what that means!
Six more weeks of answering dumb questions.

It is because of their lack of vision that I almost quit about 10 minutes ago. Truly, I envisioned myself standing up, running a program to wipe-clean my computer and network shares, and going to the desks of each person I cannot stand and telling them exactly what I thought of them, their clothes, their laughs, their hair, and why the are a-pipes for bringing a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper and SunChips to a potluck.
It gave me a fantastic erection.

But I can't walk just yet. I am reminded of the funniest Red Meat cartoon for my situation:
Titled, The Buckling Beams Of Your Hopes And Dreams, it takes on great significance today. I cannot imagine working for anybody for 40-ish hours a week to make THEM look good. I'm ready to make a move, emotionally, but financially I'm shackled to the oar of the SS WindBreaker for a while. Row, Row, Row... your... bo(siiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigh)
Oh yeah, and here's another Red Meat 'toon that sounds like a great idea:
Geoff Lott's Exit Strategy

Instead of having one manager, I am reporting directly to one in California, indirectly to four in Washington, and round-aboutly to 15 across the nation. A secret of management is that the more you know about corporate buzz-words and PowerPoint, the less actual work you have to do. You end up with a little office and a door and a little jaunty walk like I get after a good dump. Because that's what Managers do: Crap.

Managers have a way to escape from my prying questions; that's why I envy the door. It's little more than having your own cell in prison. But the door, it's a good status symbol if you're into meaningless status symbols. That, and it blocks annoying laughter, microwaved BBQ-cod, and I could finally fart in peace. But then again, I don't fart at work for relief, I fart at work for revenge. Thank you broccoli and Lo-Carb Monster. But I would not rip in an elevator, because that should be a capital offense.

I dump you not, there's a misManager at the Executive Admin's desk next to mine requesting to be moved to an office with a window. There's the bigger toilet in the cell I mentioned earlier.

I know they are "busy" with meetings. These are meetings set up by other Managers. The organizer of the meeting probably just read some new book on a Management technique that includes using phrases analogous to getting work stalled, held-up, debated, and then denied. "Synergy" is another word for kissing ass and nodding along. "Mission-critical" means the manager actually had an original thought, and gawrsh-durn'it, that new vending machine is going to be installed, even if it is not needed, budgeted, or filled with broccoli and Lo-Carb Monster.

I'm not meant to be here. I don't mean "here" is in this planet, I mean this place of employment. I extract 5000-item spreadsheets out of an archaic system to them manipulate, format, sort, and pivot the data in them so I can tell managers "Hey, this one guy you manage is working less than Larry King's last wife. Drop the conference call, open your door, and get in the game."

In case you're wondering, YES, I will be filming my last day. And NO, this time there will NOT be news coverage. I learned my lesson: Sell Advertising, as it helps pay for bail.

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Masturblogtion

I'm happy that more people are using blogs these days. It saves paper. And paper, as we've been told for nearly a decade now, is what trees are made out of. Therefore, not using paper means that trees are not being cut down for diaries that go tucked away, cradling ideas and dreams, funny drawings and fantasies, Polaroids that shouldn't see the light of an FBI Mag-Lite when the Feds come-a knockin' because, brother, that "woman" you met in the chat room wasn't a "woman"... she was a panda.
And now, you're a Panda-pounder, and they have enough trouble getting them to mate with each other, because you're swooping in with your DSL and your Queer Eye sensibilities and delivering not bamboo but Annie's Organic Burritos, the staple of the panda with cash. Look where that got you. Reading my blog, wondering to yourself "This guy either has been reading between the lines, or 30 minutes ago his glycogen levels dipped and he could use a gram of carbohydrates or 20."

"Supposably" is not a word. It was noted as such on an episode of "Friends" back in 1996 or so, when the one in the closet told the mook that the mook's use of "Supposably" was wrong, since it's not a word. It's Suppos-edly or Oppos-able, meaning "Pretended, alleged, or expected" or "to be in opposition to," respectively. I guess Supposably could mean "Expected to Opposed," but we already have a word for that. It's called "Me At Work With Good Ideas."

In the event you hear on the news tonight of an Indian-burn assault in Bothell, perpetrated on a woman in the early afternoon, you can be damn sure that CackleSnatch Sandie has uttered the phrase "Get 'er (sorry, I almost threw up, can't finish it)" and I have reacted appropriately.

If you've never used the =VLOOKUP function in Excel, you don't know what you're missing. Basically, anytime you have a list of data that you want to associate with another type of data, say "State - TimeZone," then you can use the VLOOKUP to quickly make the association for you. The best part is that you get to make the reference sheet by hand, especially if you use Remedy Helpdesk, work for a cheap-ass company, and are really rather drunk at your desk riiiiiiiight... NOW.

I'm headlining at Laughs in Bellevue next weekend. Their website is chips-up right now, but the details are as follows:
Show is at The Ramada Inn on 8th Ave NE and 112th in Bellevue, on the corner. Walk into the lobby, and the club entrance is to the right of the stairs. If you see old people eating Country Fried Steak, you've gone too far.
Friday and Saturday, 9pm, $10 at the door, $5 if you're on my guest list, which means you gotta e-mail me HERE and I'll add you to it.

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I'll Give You $5

Today is the 2nd day in a row that I got up and worked out in the morning. I feel really up and at-it this morning. I've also refocused my eating towards some higher-protein, lower-fat, plenty of veggies...
Chimp attack... two headed baby... GAAAAA
This is bullshit. Here's the deal.

NoMakeup Sandie is over 100 feet from my desk right now, hanging half-way into an office. This "Unofficial Office GleeClub Member" is laughing so loud that a guy BEHIND ME just shut his door, and he's at least 117 feet from the offense. A Sandie-dampening door is the only reason I envy management here.
My dilemma is that I know people love to laugh, it feels good. They say laughter is the best medicine. She's over-medicated, she's an addict. We need to have an intervention. I need some help, people.
I can't find it in myself to go up to her and say "Heeeeeey kiddo! How's it going? Sounds like you are having a really, uh... FUNNY day today, yeah? Alrighty, great. As a favor to someone you rarely talk to but can hear every word you say, I'm hoping, oh gosh... I hope this gets really uncomfortable for you, but could you force-jam your head ass-wise until you can see yourself, like in 'Being John Malkovich?' That would really be GREAT! No, no... I'm not here to talk about the John Markovich movie, as you call it. I'm here to try and hold on to my sanity. MMkay? Repeat after me... SHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Great then. Wait... why are you laughing? You laugh even when you cry? This has to be Hell, or at the very least, Tumwater."

Here's another problem. She KNOWS she's loud. She acknowledges it, almost prides herself on it. Kind of how Tony Moser prides himself after flopping a set "on purpose." Granted, her resumé states that she was raised in an Abrams tank by braying donkies, but we are nearing a time where we can finally live on the moon or under water with our aquatic mammal brethren, and she's going to be our leader because her laugh can be heard a quarter mile away.

If you have a tactful way of telling her that while her "Up Up UP!" attitude is appreciated while her volume is f*cking-A NOT, send me an e-mail HERE and I'll do what I can to balance myself out. Take care now. I'll be in the file drawer until noon.

Oh gawd, she's got bronchitis now?
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Mazeltov!

Hey there BeanieWeenie!
I have a lot going on right now, mentally and emotionally, and one thing I'm trying to do is let go of negativity in my life. Shun it, ignore it, set fire to it. When that fails I'll just turn a mirror to it and hope Negativity starts a fight with itself or flies at its reflection for a while. Negativity is all around our lives in different forms, and unlike somebody getting torqued at a Jimmy Buffet concert, second-hand neuroses just don't pop the same high they once did.

The crappy thing about me right now is that I have seen what other people are doing well, yet sliding on my responsibilities to myself. It's time for me to stop the chatter and move forward on what I want to do. Reality tells me to shut off my brain and go inward. What do I need to do more of, in order to accomplish my daily/weekly goals? That's what I'm assessing right now. What do I really WANT? What can I dedicate myself to mastering within my parameters of "mastershippage?"

While shunning negativity has helped me see what I don't like about People (that's capitalized so nobody starts getting and itchy Comment finger or moving metaphors around on their "RISK-The Blog War Edition" board) as far as Personalities go. I'm wearing glass-colored glasses, but the glass changes color depending on the amount of incoming Goodness. My brain collects positive growth signals like some guys collect Star Wars Figures: Sometimes I appreciate them, but overall I just like seeing a person enjoy what they're doing. Not growing is the equivalent of dying. Better, or worse.

So while I step back and assess what my shortcomings have been, I need to be really honest with myself. I've made some good changes, I have things I want to and will work on, and for the most part, I really hope that stain comes out of the carpet. If I can get THAT up, there's no telling what I'll be able to accomplish. I'm going within for a while, and sharing when I need to. In the meantime, I really hope you get some good things moving for yourself, or at the very least, stop stepping in other people's spotlight long enough to applaud for them. Your turn's right around the corner. Especially if you can get grass stains out of a blood stain off a chocolate/cabernet splotch-like stain.

Don't ask, just feel bad for not accepting the evite.
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Leggo My Ego

I have to begin by giving a warm Thank You to the people who have commented to me, electronically or in-person, about the blog regarding my dad. We are all witnessing loved ones getting older, and suddenly I feel like a grown-up and I wasn't ready for this degree of maturity. But we have no choice. Life brings you a new normal like it's counting to a random number in Hide And Go Seek, and I was lulled to believe I had found a safe, warm place to hide and grow in. Ready Or Not...
The friendship, care, and love people have shared with me is returned to each, and I wish you and your families health and happiness. Be good to those close to you. Some day you may need them without knowing you do. And they may hand you power of attorney.

Okay, get off me, people are staring... wink
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Making a conscious effort to put your self to the side and to listen to someone opens you up to a whole new world. First off, people think you are really nice. This is further evidence against the power to read minds.
Second, you can really learn the subtleties of a personality with how they talk, what they talk about, and how often they use the words "I," "me," and "my mom's only child."
Third, when you are open to a new perspective on life, you begin to take a quick inventory of yourself, and realize that listening to some people is not only a triumph, but a huge mistake.
Finally, if you don't listen and learn about other people, how will you ever be able to manipulate them? And isn't that what you want? Because you just bought a cattle prod and ball-gag off eBay, so let's not beat around the bush, mmkay?
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I'm off to Canada with the Amazing Alicia for her friend Rachel's wedding. All I know is that it's in Whistler, B.C., I'm wearing a new suit, and I finally found my passport after searching for just over 2 years. For those wondering, your passport is good for 10 years. Thank you Sweet Jesus, because my picture shows me with hair and no crow's feet.
My feet are really ugly.
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My new boss recently asked myself what my ideal position and profession would be. I told him that I've always dreamed of being a satirical columnist who gets paid to shed light on nuances of dead-ends in Western Civilization.
He feigned amusement by asking me if I ever proofread other people's e-mails. I didn't have the heart to tell him that my name isn't George. My new boss and co-workers are all in the same office, about 800 miles away in California.
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If you're looking for the hottest releases in Blues Music compilations, classics, and can't-miss discs, you need to go where you KNOW the broken souls of poor, Southern, hard-living black folks can be felt: Starbucks.
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I'm out. Check out the new Mars Volta release, "Frances The Mute." Keep the lights on when ya do it, though. It's non-classifiable music, what David Lynch would call "Uh... this is pretty far out. Punch me in the crotch again." Rock, pop, punk, trip, funk.
Gotta go, the turtles are fighting with the T-rex again.

======================

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

A Quick Lesson In Greed

The former CIO of a large Cellular communications carrier was hired by that carrier to lean it out. That is, cut jobs, costs, expenditures, etc. Why? Because it was top-heavy and hemmorhaging cash to pay for the Officer's flights and a boatload... literally... of contractors and off-shore work. Thus, the boat.

Ex-CIO comes in and does what he's known for: Squashing growth. His contractor buddy mismanages a major project costing the company upwards of $250,000,000, all while the contracting company walks with their full payment.
Losing $250-million cripples the Carrier, while the officers begin saying "work harder, and it will all work out in the end."

The Carrier never gets better, and becomes bait for larger, healthier, more bureaucratic Carriers in the world. Finally, someone bites, and the wounded Carrier's mismanagement of projects for 3 years (only 3 since it split from it's parent company) keep it flopping on the deck of a new owner. The Officers of the company, the same officers who caused the problems nobody could fix, all walk with upwards of $9,000,000 in severance packages, while the CEO walks with over $20,000,000.
Do the wrong thing, cut jobs, become a millionaire.

Some people got $140 out of the deal. And a new boss. And a new badge. And a new set of rules and regulations to learn. And they still have their jobs. Damn it.
So Corrado, Zieglis, and the incestuous Turkish Bath of managerial cronies can gargle my groceries. Hell was created for people like you, and deserve to be locked in a spinning HoneyBucket filled brim-side by Motorhead roadies.

If you don't have EBay stock, buy it now. Corrado is the new CTO at that company, which is losing money and pissing off customers. The stock will drop, someone will try to buy it, the stock will go up, you'll make upwards of $140!
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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Two Heads Are Better Than... WHOA....

Why NOT follow up a blog about my dad with stories of freaks and whores?
Because I don't know no bettah.
Plus, This Guy And His Big Throbbing Blog followed a Happy Valentine's Day/Cock-touching command with a picture of his daughter's Valentine.
So enjoy the yogurt.
You bettah/you bettah/ YOU BET.
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Because not many folks believed me or heard of it... here's
a photo of the Egyptian baby with two heads.

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And if you didn't think they were re-tarted ho-bags before, perhaps this story from the AP Newswire about The Britney and The Paris will convince you:
Nevermind the catfight -- make that dogfight -- between Britney Spears and Paris Hilton. London's Daily Mail reported earlier this month that Britney dissed Hilton's Chihuahua, Tinkerbell, by claiming that her own three dogs "are stylin' and profilin'. ... Von Dutch just sent them the coolest little clothes. My dogs are so much cuter than Tinkerbell (Ruff! Ruff!)." Now Brit has backtracked, saying on her Web site that "I hope none of you really took my comments seriously when I was talking about Bit Bit and Tinkerbell. I was just being silly and of course I think that Tinkerbell is very cute."

For those scoring at home, that's another 2 points for the Dark Overlord Of Evolutionary Regression.

Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Time To Make A Move

Attensheeowness...
This blog is not about comedy at all. You may laugh, you may cry, but I didn't want to spring a very important writing about my dad on you without some sort of heads-up.
Okay... enjoy your scone.
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Today, Sunday, February 27,2005, my family and I begin moving my dad out of the home he's lived in for 22 years.
We are moving him into a "long-term care facility," or a "rest home," or an "old age home." My mom, sister, and I are facing these fears like canoeing towards a waterfall. We're pulled and tugged and it's scary and people wonder why we don't just get out and DO SOMETHING... we have. We did. We tried. We tried again. We keep trying. Currents move without you in mind. They dictate.

I'll write more when I can. Right now I have to drive to my home town and... damn it... start saying "goodbye" to another part of my life.
Mrs. Garrett never covered this with Tootie on "The Fucts Of Life."
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Okay, more now.
I've decided that I will be writing more about my dad in this blog instead of the other one, which will have exclusively my dad-related writing. This is part of my life and shouldn't be squirrled away as if it's shameful or undeserving of equal exposure.
If you have not read any of that blog, please do. Especially if you have parents who are getting older, and you happen to love them, or ever have loved them.

One story that exemplifies my dad's nature and method of "dad'ing" has to be our Tackling Dummy story.
When I was about 5 or 6, my dad and I went to a swap meet and bought some old pee-wee sized football gear. Pads, helmet, pants, the whole deal. That Christmas I got a Tackling Dummy. We would head out into the back yard, me in full pads, cleats, and a mouthpiece, my dad in sweats, wielding a football and the Tackling Dummy. The T-Dum was a large blue rectangular column, about 5 feet high, with heavy-weight canvas straps. Full of high-impact foam, it was lightweigt but could pack a wallop when swung properly by a 5'6" Auburn University alum working his way up the ladder at Boeing, and the ranks of Kick-Ass Dad.

Dad would throw the ball up in the air, I'd catch it, then have to get past him and the T-dum without hitting the deck, or being decked. Holy lord, he would just CRANK me with that thing. He'd hit me high, from the side, in the hips, right at my feet, and I go ass over eyelids. Then I'd pop up and we'd laugh really hard about how high I got on that last one. It never hurt, it was always fun. We were both just cracking up the whole time.

3 years ago I was ran into a friend of mine who I played football with in high school. He had gone on to play four years in college, and said how much different it was, where the fun wasn't there as much as you had to be almost robotic about it. Very little screwing around, very little gamesmanship, just a bunch of pissing contests. You lose some autonomy and independence, and unless you're way up on the top of the heap, you aren't shit to anyone. Then it dawned on me...
When I was a kid, I really loved playing football with my dad. I was too big to play pee-wee football, even though I wanted to play every year. Youth soccer leagues don't have weight limits, so I learned to dribble for as many as ten feet before powering a shot at a schoolmate's raised hands, shielding the world from his or her screams. I wanted to win.
But since I couldn't play football with the other kids because of my genetic makeup (low-slung, thick-trunked peasant stock), I was never going to be able to play with the other kids. But I wanted to play football, full-pads, full-contact, full-speed hitting and thumping and getting dirty and knocked down and laughing it off and getting back up.
And my dad gave me that. I didn't realize it until 22 years later that I did play football as a little boy, in a game that had no score on a field that was no bigger than my living room, with a man who would do anything to make his kids happy. It was the most fun I ever had as a kid, and the best lesson I ever learned as a man. He still remembers it, and it never fails to get us both laughing again. I don't know that he grasps the importance and love when I thank him. I hope I've thanked him enough and made him proud of me enough times before his condition advanced to where it is now.

So when I write about how hard it is to see my dad's kind and handsome face blankly-masked behind the second stage of his early-onset Dementia, and how I think about how much he has done for me in my life that I am just now realizing the intent and impact of, I never fail to run a full spectrum of emotions. 3 minutes ago I was laughing about the time he whomped me at the ankles with the tackling dummy, and I flipped in the air and landed on my feet for a "touchdown," (just past the end of the awning) and my dad said "THAT WAS GREAT! HOLY SHIT! Don't say that in front of your mom." But now, I'm crying again.

It sucks to feel this. Helpless and almost hopeless and mad at nature and God and doctors and God again, because I can think of about 50 people who deserve to be stolen by Dementia before it ever sniffed my dad's Grey Flannel. But I have been given a lesson to learn. Among the homework is a little chapter on Perspective. I am sad and angry and crying and writing this because I love my dad, because of the man he's been to me and my family, and the lessons he's taught me. The perspective is that I don't cry, I don't feel one way or another about him, and I don't ever think of or talk about or have people he knows express their love and caring about him, because sometimes dad's aren't ready to be dads, for whatever reason. But he was, I was blessed to be "dad'ed" by him, and HOLY SHIT! He was great at it. And I will always say that, even in front of my mom.

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Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Hey, It's Friday And I'm Busy

I'm fuggin swamped at work wiping noses and hoses, trying to get pegs in holes before I kick off some candy-sweet reports next Tuesdizzle mornizzle.
In light of that, here's what I have to say:

Drinking Games are dumb. First off, alcohol is not a plaything. Second, nothing, not rules nor a win-loss record, should come between you and getting Ozzy-drunk. Third, the rules always change to benefit whichever guy wants you to get naked. That's why I quit playing them at lunch today again.

Stop using the term "assless chaps." And yeah, I know you are all doing it in everyday converstootion. All chaps are "assless," otherwise they are pants. Perhaps they are pants with the front cut out, but if you're wearing pants with no fronts, you probably don't care what they're called, because your balls are showing. Yeah, I'm talking to you, lady, I can see your balls.

I'm out!


Take Me Home

My Blog About My Dad

Globally Warmed, Rap Music, And Like, Totally Sorry About The Phone Numbers

This Blog Brought To You By... YOU. I didn't send this link your way. Thank you for taking a moment to read this sack of hooey.
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If ya wanna go see "Be Cool," gimme a "SHITCHYAY!"
"Get Shorty" is one of my top-5 movies. Travolta's "Chili Palmer" is as cool a cat as there's ever been on the silver screen. When he gets a pair of scissors held to his neck during a shakedown by Ray Bones, he flinches ever so slightly, but more because he didn't want his new jacket diced. I recommend watching "Get Shorty," then joining me on March 4th to see "Be Cool." Come on, Vince Vaughn acting like a thugged-out wignutz? Whaddyoo need?
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this is a bit I've worked on and it doesn't seem to be taking hold. here it is in prose form.

Global Warming
The weather in Seattle has rocketed past "gorgeous" and is nearing the gravitational pull of "a little scary." It's been all frozen windows and breath-fog for weeks now. But no clouds in the sky. No snow. No rain. We're looking at a winter drought, a potential Summer drought, and the loss of another ski season.
California is sliding into the Pacific, accumulating enough rain to make most celebrities worry their homes are sliding off the hill. Celebs, meanwhile, dodge phone calls from hacked-out people with digits from Paris Hilton's hacked cell phone. (sidenote, the ho-tard is like 22, okay? she thought it was cool to have Avril Lavigne's #, that's her only crime) California is melting like Chyna's new cheek implants. I mean, my sweet hanging Jesus, BLINK-182 MIGHT BE BREAKING UP!!!

It's got to be Global Warming. OR... as I've suspected for some time, this is Hell.
Perhaps this is what Hell is, eternal fretting over wardrobe and recreational choices. You spent $300 on a Gore-Flex jackamet, grabbed some new Rossignols with boots and bindings, hit the front door and... nowhere to go.
Whatever will we do? OH DEAR GAWD, WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO WITH ALL THIS NICE WEATHER AND FEWER JOBS FOR GUYS TO GRAB ASS ON A SKI SLOPE?
Might I suggest... Evolving? Get outside, take a walk. Move a little. Huh? Hey? Yes? No... okay.
I think it only feels warmer because, in general, people are fatter. Pundits ponder the impact of human existence on the environment while clearing their third buffet plate in Vegas. "Could you turn down the heat? It's creating chloroflourocarbons and ice caps are OH SHIT, BILL, MORE MINI-QUICHE, GO GO GO."
One day we'll find out the cause of global warming: Recycling. Decomposing landfills full of organic material. Oh sure, there's a syringe & diaper-load of it, but it's mostly natural. Put a piece of meat in a plastic bag in the sun for 3 weeks, see what happens. You'll think you're watching Keith Richards in "Bubble Boy 2: Liver And Let Die," and it will stink, but it stopped that cow from flatulating. Now, go bundle up all of those water bottles you've emptied, toss them in your Subescapearuvo, and freeze them. Then break them into millions of tiny pieces. Then melt those pieces down into a blob of Dasanifinian glory, and start molding them into bottles. The amount of energy expended to transport, recycle, and refurbish them there bottles just destroyed the ozone over Washington state.
So quit being a baby sugarplum and throw on your Whore-tex.
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I Don't Tell White Jokes, I Tell Fight Jokes

Pop music and rap music SUCK. They have become formulaic yet more profitable than ever, and therefore will eventually eat themselves. When a boy band is shot with AIDS bullets and a rapper comes out as gay, we'll finally be able to get on with our lives.

Here's how you know rap sucks. First off, these guys want to come off like we have no idea what's going on in tha strizzeets. We ain't know how it goes down on the koneh. Well who the hell is going to tell us? Li'l Jon? The man with catch-phrases like "WHAT?" "YEAH!" and "O-KAAAY!" Is he rapping or getting a ride from his mom? Tell me what's going on then, kind sir, because all I can tell is that, in songs, your stories of growin' up in the projects are best portrayed via the interpretive dances of a large brown ass, or "booty," or "ba-donka-donk," or "bumpercars." I actually looked forward to volunteering with some inner-city youth, what with the rap videos showing how much champagne, jewelry, and fine-ass weed be available.

Second, the TV show "MTV Diary" plays up these diapers with feet like they are new-age philosophers. Listen to an entire rap album, then watch that rapper's edition of "MTV Diary," the tag-line for which is "You think you know, but you have no idea." Right-on, Nas, N.O.R.E. and Fat Joe (named-so because he's, well, ugly). I had no idea. Your music said you came up hard and still lived a fast life of big cars, deep pockets, and rooms knee-deep stacked with ready and waiting poonyatta. I just watched your fat asses sleep off a hangover, tell a fan to f*ck off, and punch a chick in the stomach. You have the money, you should have paid for the morning-after pill, you ass. Your life is retarded, and your biggest problem is that you think you are who the dumbasses at MTV think you are. Yeah, fatty, LeanBack, your knees are taking a pounding.

Even Moby, who once tried to have sex with Earth Day, dropped heat on America's most embarrasing Newlyweds.

You've seen what it's like to live with celebs on all these TV shows. Yeah, there's a camera there and it's not "reality" but would YOU want to wake up to Verne Troyer writing his name in kidney-gin on your wainscoting?

SHITCHYAY you would. OKAAAAAY!

Oh, and Paris Hilton called, she's mass sorry that everyone called your number that she kept in her phone under your name so she could show everyone like you'd signed her yearbook and used the words "Party" and "Love Ya!" The girl's 22. In RichFamily years, that's like 16. In Hollywood years that's around 18. So we'll give her a pass into her Senior Year.

When I say "HO" you say "TARD!"

HO ...

HO ...

SHIIITCHYEEEAAAAAAAAASSS!

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