I wanted to wish the Mom's of the world "Happy Mother's Day." You shouldn't have to cram all the attention into one day. For that matter, none of us should. Let's spread out some joy and/or chunky peanut butter of kindness over the toaster waffle of this great nation of ours in the next year.
Happy Mother's Day!
Pam, Stacy, Babs, Sue, Sunny, Amy, Judy, Judy, Judy, Sandie, Sonya (soon), Katie Amer, Karen, Marilyn, Jean, Weece, Michelle, Joanne, Wendy, Nancy, Sandy, Maggie, Chrissy, Kim, Melody, and to your mom, too, unless she's a harpy.
Aaaaaaand, in parting, any attempts by Killroy O'Hooterhan to blog a Mother's Day tome at this hour would be contrived. Michelle's on her way, and it's enough that you've cleaned the extra bedroom and flushed your body of toxins and meat, both of which are euphemisms I use for Tony "Born With A Tail" Moser.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Geoff Lott: Comedian, Writer, Philosoteur. I am here to amuse you, not entertain you. If not now, later. If not you, somebody else. If you can't laugh at yourself, that's just fine, too. I will do it for you.
Sunday, May 08, 2005
Friday, May 06, 2005
9 Months, And This Is How You Thank Her?
For those of you who were wondering what you forgot, here are a few reminders:
Backseat: The BABY! OH CRAP!
Home: Lunch, meds, flush
Work: Lunch, vodka, pants
Weekend: Mother's Day!
This year is going to be a different Mother's Day for my family. If you've read here before, my family's New Normal is completely different than anybody thought it would be a year ago, let alone two years ago. The past 2 years, in fact, feel much like a giant transition. A lot of changes, a lot of growth, and frankly I'm ready to see if the wings can take the beating once we're out of the cocoon.
My mom has been rather heroic this past year. In the wake of losing the man she married, she found a deeper love for her husband. She has honored the commitment to my dad that she made nearly 35 years ago: In sickness and in health. Instead of spending more time traveling the world with my dad, she travels 15 minutes every day to spend time with him in scenic South King County! She has taken on the finances of health care, house payments, pension plans, and long-term care for her husband. Of course, it would be great if it never needed to go like this. I usually blur my eyes with tears when I think of how my kids will not get to meet their grandfather, the way I never met my dad's dad, or how the day I get married will be different for all involved. But my mom has found some peace, and more strength in it all. It is our "new normal."
My dad has always loved her. She's a strong woman, and has always had a compassion for people who work through adversity, often helping them through spiritual guidance and favors above and beyond the call of friendship. The love and outpouring of friendship my family has received in the past year is a testament to how they've lived and treated others.
Usually I see Holidays as reasons for a fancier-than-tuna wrap dinner opportunity, or an extra weekend night to do comedy and sleep in. Why should I have to save all my jingoism for Arbor Day when I can go dress in a Bunny Suit TODAY and have most kick-ass Flag Day of all time? So, with Sunday being Mother's Day, I am reminded to not wait for just one day to come around to take Mom to Applebee's and spring for some sort of cobbler. Make your mom a cobbler whenever you feel like it. Call her. Take her to lunch next week. And apologize for that thing in Junior High, you know what I mean, the one with the hole in your jeans.
To the Amers, , Myers, Cedar Downs Andersons, Holmes, Falks, Sweigers, Fredricksons, Ms. Lemmel, Mastersons, the MVP family and everyone else who has given of themselves in the past year, you helped us get through the toughest, earliest stages of our New Normal.
Never will I be able to thank you enough for the love you have shown my family in the past year. I feel in your debt. Thank you.
For what it's worth, and because I can say it, there have been a few people who have backed away from my family in the past year, and these are people who my parents had been quite close with for the better part of two decades. For whatever reasons they are not around anymore, that's really too bad. My dad knows who his friends are, and often wonders why he doesn't see those people any more.
So as Mother's Day plans are made all over the nation, don't let one day sum up all that your mom means to you. Spread it over the year, so you won't have to drop big dough on one gift.
==--==--==
Side Note:
For what it's worth... Gene Simmons is a Republican. His tongue, presumably, is still Libertarian, and surely HIV-positive.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Backseat: The BABY! OH CRAP!
Home: Lunch, meds, flush
Work: Lunch, vodka, pants
Weekend: Mother's Day!
This year is going to be a different Mother's Day for my family. If you've read here before, my family's New Normal is completely different than anybody thought it would be a year ago, let alone two years ago. The past 2 years, in fact, feel much like a giant transition. A lot of changes, a lot of growth, and frankly I'm ready to see if the wings can take the beating once we're out of the cocoon.
My mom has been rather heroic this past year. In the wake of losing the man she married, she found a deeper love for her husband. She has honored the commitment to my dad that she made nearly 35 years ago: In sickness and in health. Instead of spending more time traveling the world with my dad, she travels 15 minutes every day to spend time with him in scenic South King County! She has taken on the finances of health care, house payments, pension plans, and long-term care for her husband. Of course, it would be great if it never needed to go like this. I usually blur my eyes with tears when I think of how my kids will not get to meet their grandfather, the way I never met my dad's dad, or how the day I get married will be different for all involved. But my mom has found some peace, and more strength in it all. It is our "new normal."
My dad has always loved her. She's a strong woman, and has always had a compassion for people who work through adversity, often helping them through spiritual guidance and favors above and beyond the call of friendship. The love and outpouring of friendship my family has received in the past year is a testament to how they've lived and treated others.
Usually I see Holidays as reasons for a fancier-than-tuna wrap dinner opportunity, or an extra weekend night to do comedy and sleep in. Why should I have to save all my jingoism for Arbor Day when I can go dress in a Bunny Suit TODAY and have most kick-ass Flag Day of all time? So, with Sunday being Mother's Day, I am reminded to not wait for just one day to come around to take Mom to Applebee's and spring for some sort of cobbler. Make your mom a cobbler whenever you feel like it. Call her. Take her to lunch next week. And apologize for that thing in Junior High, you know what I mean, the one with the hole in your jeans.
To the Amers, , Myers, Cedar Downs Andersons, Holmes, Falks, Sweigers, Fredricksons, Ms. Lemmel, Mastersons, the MVP family and everyone else who has given of themselves in the past year, you helped us get through the toughest, earliest stages of our New Normal.
Never will I be able to thank you enough for the love you have shown my family in the past year. I feel in your debt. Thank you.
For what it's worth, and because I can say it, there have been a few people who have backed away from my family in the past year, and these are people who my parents had been quite close with for the better part of two decades. For whatever reasons they are not around anymore, that's really too bad. My dad knows who his friends are, and often wonders why he doesn't see those people any more.
So as Mother's Day plans are made all over the nation, don't let one day sum up all that your mom means to you. Spread it over the year, so you won't have to drop big dough on one gift.
==--==--==
Side Note:
For what it's worth... Gene Simmons is a Republican. His tongue, presumably, is still Libertarian, and surely HIV-positive.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, May 05, 2005
5-5-5-CINCO DE MAYO!!!
It's 05/05/05, the only time in our lives it will be such a date. This calls for a celebration. I'd say "meet me at the local" but all these other folks are celebrating Cinco De Mayo today. Cinco De Mayo is, of course, the Mexican Independence Day, as they fought and won their independence from the oppression of France.
Wow... even Mexico beat the French. Snnrf.
And what better way to celebrate the struggle and bloodshed, the ending ofan era and the beginning of the proud nation of Mexico than with their own time-honored tradition of Half-Priced Coronas?! ARRIBA! I awoke this morning to find somebody had left some nachos out to welcome me to this great day. What, no chicle?
I have far too much to do to type right now. I was up until 3am doing some worky work, which is a hysterical, sad juxtaposition compared to where I was this time last year. I was up at 3, probably telling my neighbors "no, YOU BE QUIET! QUIT YELLING OFF YOUR BALCONY! (firing my cap pistol into the air)" I'm-a catch a quick nap, then get some coffee, then tip tequila until I can understand just what the ese is so great about liquid cheese that we can't stop importing it.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRIB...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
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Wow... even Mexico beat the French. Snnrf.
And what better way to celebrate the struggle and bloodshed, the ending ofan era and the beginning of the proud nation of Mexico than with their own time-honored tradition of Half-Priced Coronas?! ARRIBA! I awoke this morning to find somebody had left some nachos out to welcome me to this great day. What, no chicle?
I have far too much to do to type right now. I was up until 3am doing some worky work, which is a hysterical, sad juxtaposition compared to where I was this time last year. I was up at 3, probably telling my neighbors "no, YOU BE QUIET! QUIT YELLING OFF YOUR BALCONY! (firing my cap pistol into the air)" I'm-a catch a quick nap, then get some coffee, then tip tequila until I can understand just what the ese is so great about liquid cheese that we can't stop importing it.
ARRRRRRRRRRRRIB...zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Take Me Home
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Tuesday, May 03, 2005
Clean Up Your Box
Lots of changes, lots of transition going on in the world.
First Lady Laura Bush is apparently "the funny one" in the relationship. Seeing as how she's married to a glorified gas station manager, who's best friend (Cheney) is a minion of the Dark UnderLord (Carson Daly), it's not too tough. She's got good material/writers, but her presence needs work. She has clout to carry the opener; sheesh, the woman had sex with the President! Then again, Clinton nailed more tail than a taxidermist (ba-dum-bum).
Note to Laura: Although the President is a comedy bullseye (here come the black suits and earpieces), you have more insight than anybody. Sit with Judy Gold for a spell, get a few more open mic sets under your belt, and you'll kill every time. Cripes, you even got the Red states laughing!
Iraq is trying to figure out who does what and when and for how much of our money. Oddly enough they're splitting it between religious sects, their Whigs and Tories dividing the rebuilding efforts. The Red States say "You're Welcome." The Blue States say "Please take Richard Gere." So do the Red States, actually. A long time ago a man older than I wrote something to the effect of:
"A democracy can last only as long as the voting public is unaware of their share of the public coffers. When voters realize they can vote themselves a dip into the public treasury, democracy tumbles, and soon thereafter a Dictatorship comes forth to harshly restore order."
He was writing about an ancient Greek society, btw. Realizing that Greed is the scale-tipping emotional impetus behind many people's actions, he saw that eventually, sharing will bother those who share the most (upper tax brackets). Greed can be wanting more than your fair share, an unrealistic gauge of your fair share, or even miser-ing every little cent so that not even YOU are enjoying your fair share. You can't take it with you, so you may as well load it into an RPG launcher and fire it through a crowd of protestors.
Creatively, another transition period. This entire first 1/3rd of the year has felt like a gathering wave, and people are paddling out to it. Some local comics are finalizing plans to get the F out of Seattle. I wish them all of the luck and opportunity in the world. The plans for each of us are different, so I don't really wind my clock too much about what other people are doing. I have some great opportunities in front of me, creatively, that require my efforts. There is no "lucky break" for me right now, just a matter of walking through open doors. Sometimes, however, open doors lead Out. Hey Dr. Phil, suck the juice out of that one! So the wave is gathering, and some may ride a smaller crest back in. That's cool. I'm challenging myself to ride a bigger one, however. I can't enjoy the little breaks forever.
Last night I made some turkey chili that is clawing out of me in every way possible. My
"Thinking outside the box" assumes that one could think inside of it to begin with. And that's not something I've seen in a while. In the high-stakes world of IT metrics analysis, where my only weapons are cunning, instinct, and spreadsheets, I find myself playing their game. Keep your friends close, but your co-workers closer, especially if they have access to cool pens or good candy. And none of that hard-butterscotch puck BS, I can get that on my own. You get some Hershey's Minis in here, set me aside some Special Dark. I'll be cleaning my box in the meantime.
===
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
First Lady Laura Bush is apparently "the funny one" in the relationship. Seeing as how she's married to a glorified gas station manager, who's best friend (Cheney) is a minion of the Dark UnderLord (Carson Daly), it's not too tough. She's got good material/writers, but her presence needs work. She has clout to carry the opener; sheesh, the woman had sex with the President! Then again, Clinton nailed more tail than a taxidermist (ba-dum-bum).
Note to Laura: Although the President is a comedy bullseye (here come the black suits and earpieces), you have more insight than anybody. Sit with Judy Gold for a spell, get a few more open mic sets under your belt, and you'll kill every time. Cripes, you even got the Red states laughing!
Iraq is trying to figure out who does what and when and for how much of our money. Oddly enough they're splitting it between religious sects, their Whigs and Tories dividing the rebuilding efforts. The Red States say "You're Welcome." The Blue States say "Please take Richard Gere." So do the Red States, actually. A long time ago a man older than I wrote something to the effect of:
"A democracy can last only as long as the voting public is unaware of their share of the public coffers. When voters realize they can vote themselves a dip into the public treasury, democracy tumbles, and soon thereafter a Dictatorship comes forth to harshly restore order."
He was writing about an ancient Greek society, btw. Realizing that Greed is the scale-tipping emotional impetus behind many people's actions, he saw that eventually, sharing will bother those who share the most (upper tax brackets). Greed can be wanting more than your fair share, an unrealistic gauge of your fair share, or even miser-ing every little cent so that not even YOU are enjoying your fair share. You can't take it with you, so you may as well load it into an RPG launcher and fire it through a crowd of protestors.
Creatively, another transition period. This entire first 1/3rd of the year has felt like a gathering wave, and people are paddling out to it. Some local comics are finalizing plans to get the F out of Seattle. I wish them all of the luck and opportunity in the world. The plans for each of us are different, so I don't really wind my clock too much about what other people are doing. I have some great opportunities in front of me, creatively, that require my efforts. There is no "lucky break" for me right now, just a matter of walking through open doors. Sometimes, however, open doors lead Out. Hey Dr. Phil, suck the juice out of that one! So the wave is gathering, and some may ride a smaller crest back in. That's cool. I'm challenging myself to ride a bigger one, however. I can't enjoy the little breaks forever.
Last night I made some turkey chili that is clawing out of me in every way possible. My
"Thinking outside the box" assumes that one could think inside of it to begin with. And that's not something I've seen in a while. In the high-stakes world of IT metrics analysis, where my only weapons are cunning, instinct, and spreadsheets, I find myself playing their game. Keep your friends close, but your co-workers closer, especially if they have access to cool pens or good candy. And none of that hard-butterscotch puck BS, I can get that on my own. You get some Hershey's Minis in here, set me aside some Special Dark. I'll be cleaning my box in the meantime.
===
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, May 02, 2005
I've Had Less Stress, And Less Fun
In the past week, I've had a ton of great things come way. A lot of doors to knock on, many RSVPs to-which I must R, etc. And yes, it is ETC, short for Et Cetera, which is Latin for "And the nasal singer of Chicago." But you already expected that, dincha?
I put an offer on a 2-bed, 1.5-bath condo, a really great value buy. The offer was accepted. Shortly thereafter the ass-tightening began. Not so much about becoming a homeowner, as Real Estate is a feat and an achievement in many circles, unless it is filled with jerks. Or Native Americans who weren't doing anything with it anywho. (eat a humor dog) My housing payment may increase as much as 40%, but I'll be ownin' a great place. I'll be there for a good year, until I actually build my savings up again and have some disposable income.
Though I am a poor Crazy-8's player, I did clean-house at open poker over the weekend. Caught some good hands, got lucky, knew how to play 'em. Even BETTER:
FILMA-A-LICIOUS
There was much filming done for some parody commericals in Semi-Ah-Moo this weekend.
Oh crap, I better get it together and get on with my day. Gotta go sell some sperm, if I can remember where I put it.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
I put an offer on a 2-bed, 1.5-bath condo, a really great value buy. The offer was accepted. Shortly thereafter the ass-tightening began. Not so much about becoming a homeowner, as Real Estate is a feat and an achievement in many circles, unless it is filled with jerks. Or Native Americans who weren't doing anything with it anywho. (eat a humor dog) My housing payment may increase as much as 40%, but I'll be ownin' a great place. I'll be there for a good year, until I actually build my savings up again and have some disposable income.
Though I am a poor Crazy-8's player, I did clean-house at open poker over the weekend. Caught some good hands, got lucky, knew how to play 'em. Even BETTER:
FILMA-A-LICIOUS
There was much filming done for some parody commericals in Semi-Ah-Moo this weekend.
Oh crap, I better get it together and get on with my day. Gotta go sell some sperm, if I can remember where I put it.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, April 28, 2005
Retrospectator Sport
Last year was almost a null year for me. The first 9 months of it felt like a total wash.
My dad's diagnosis was the first time I'd really cried in years. I spread my time amongst pointless endeavors. I didn't do as much comedy as I could have. I sat back when I should have sprung forward. And I have some regrets.
People who say they live with "no regrets" are usually giant a-pipes, or very boring. I have a conscience, especially when it comes to doing things that primarily screw ME over. I feel like a pretty young 31 year-old at times. But this is where I am. I'm working on this whole "progress" concept at times, realizing that, in order to do it, I can't get caught up in staring at the passing window shoppers and coffee huts. In that sense, when I feel a slow-down in the mix, I find that I get more than a little chafed.
It's the same with road rage, long lines, and being the 4th of 5 dogs leading the sled. The view never changes, I didn't ask for this, but what can I do to make it better? Well, for one, I can make it better for one other dog, at least, by keeping my business to myself, even if they have a decent view of my undercarriage. I hate to stagnate. It feels like death to me. That's one reason my job is almost unbearable. (the other reason is commonly known as "co-workers") There's no opportunity for advancement here at the big OJ Splatterberg's, my raise wouldn't cover the cost of the network space that the e-mail announcing it was sent through, and yet the dog in front of me finds it necessary to slow down the whole sled by wanting to talk about where we're going.
Turns out, it's Nowhere. I'm gnawing at my harness as we speak.
And I have found that the more I shake things up, the settling of those things is usually to my benefit. Unless it's pool, I suck at pool.
The last 3 months of last year were much better for me. I felt progression, I felt growth, I felt Mexico in my veins. Or was it dysentery? I have much more to accomplish before I'll be satisfied, and anything standing in the way of that pursuit, whatever category of Noun it may be, will meet the same fate as most of my toilet paper: It will thrown into the trees of my high school prinicipal's retirement cottage.
This place has more inside jokes than a Gyno's office. I'm leaving.
=================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
My dad's diagnosis was the first time I'd really cried in years. I spread my time amongst pointless endeavors. I didn't do as much comedy as I could have. I sat back when I should have sprung forward. And I have some regrets.
People who say they live with "no regrets" are usually giant a-pipes, or very boring. I have a conscience, especially when it comes to doing things that primarily screw ME over. I feel like a pretty young 31 year-old at times. But this is where I am. I'm working on this whole "progress" concept at times, realizing that, in order to do it, I can't get caught up in staring at the passing window shoppers and coffee huts. In that sense, when I feel a slow-down in the mix, I find that I get more than a little chafed.
It's the same with road rage, long lines, and being the 4th of 5 dogs leading the sled. The view never changes, I didn't ask for this, but what can I do to make it better? Well, for one, I can make it better for one other dog, at least, by keeping my business to myself, even if they have a decent view of my undercarriage. I hate to stagnate. It feels like death to me. That's one reason my job is almost unbearable. (the other reason is commonly known as "co-workers") There's no opportunity for advancement here at the big OJ Splatterberg's, my raise wouldn't cover the cost of the network space that the e-mail announcing it was sent through, and yet the dog in front of me finds it necessary to slow down the whole sled by wanting to talk about where we're going.
Turns out, it's Nowhere. I'm gnawing at my harness as we speak.
And I have found that the more I shake things up, the settling of those things is usually to my benefit. Unless it's pool, I suck at pool.
The last 3 months of last year were much better for me. I felt progression, I felt growth, I felt Mexico in my veins. Or was it dysentery? I have much more to accomplish before I'll be satisfied, and anything standing in the way of that pursuit, whatever category of Noun it may be, will meet the same fate as most of my toilet paper: It will thrown into the trees of my high school prinicipal's retirement cottage.
This place has more inside jokes than a Gyno's office. I'm leaving.
=================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, April 26, 2005
Another Reason To Hate The Media
It's not even our media, but here's a great example of how the media can really F over a great lot of us.
It's called "Happy Slapping" and it's likely not very popular here in America. Kids/Teens attacking other people and filming it with their mobile phones. Evidence of an assault, brilliant.
So do what I do. When you see a teen or three, get pre-emptive and drive a boot heel into their kneecap. When they drop, and they will, start raining blows to their head and yell "Back to school, Tommy! BACK TO SCHOOL!!!" And then blame the media.
They have to be held accountable for something, right?
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It's called "Happy Slapping" and it's likely not very popular here in America. Kids/Teens attacking other people and filming it with their mobile phones. Evidence of an assault, brilliant.
So do what I do. When you see a teen or three, get pre-emptive and drive a boot heel into their kneecap. When they drop, and they will, start raining blows to their head and yell "Back to school, Tommy! BACK TO SCHOOL!!!" And then blame the media.
They have to be held accountable for something, right?
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Conference Cold-Call
I have been applying for jobs recently, doing the best I can to network in my own weird avenues. My networking skills are nearly null because I have a problem of asking for help. It's a man thing, it's a wiring deal in my head where asking for help equates to admitting weakness and defeat. Like saying "Hey, I can find a job where I don't know anyone on my own! I don't need you! (crying) I don't need this hat, or this nametag! (really crying, some snot) I don't even like being a Parking Enforcement Officer!" I guess I don't want to think that I can't do it all on my own. It's much easier with some help, but I don't always ask because I wonder if my asking will be seen as giving up and just hoping on the charity of others.
But I've been doing it more lately. I've been asking people "Hey, I hate to bother you, but I did lend you $50. Can you correlate the formulas on this spreadsheet? Wake up. Can you... wake up." By asking people to help, you may find a fresh perspective, a compatriot, or at the very least and perhaps most valuable, and accomplice. And a few great people have stepped forward to lend a hand, a website, a phone number, and at one point, this advice: "You got something right here, go like this" (flicking nose)
Another recent favorite activity of mine? Telling people "No." As in "I reviewed and studied your request. No. It can't be done. Let me rephrase. It CAN be done. It will cost another $8,000 a year, plus a new laptop, three weeks of DBA training, and... wake up..." Telling people "no" as a means of righteous defense has been exhilirating. When I really need to, I tell someone "no." Why drag out the pain for everyone involved when you can shut it down early? The dragging out is only fun when you're not that into the person you're dating and they're being a putz.
And thusly, I've been slowly building a reputation amongst my new team. The reputation, however, varies. To my co-workers I am "assertive and staunch." To the people who got promoted above me without my input, I am "capable, but sometimes difficult." Being difficult with corporate management means that you're not wagging your tail and saying "Okay, I'll do it!" Bureaucracy has its place. It is a byproduct of one person favors going unpaid for too long. Next thing you know, your request for a report about a team that dropped the ball takes 5 days instead of 30 minutes, because your previous request included the words "And NOW, got it?"
For a long time, the "bosses" around here have had meetings to talk about meetings they should be talking about. When the meeting is over, they call us into meetings to discuss what meetings they've had, and what they discussed. Next, a discussion of what type of meetings would be most helpful to people. My usual response is "fewer, and if that's not possible, none." Oh my, the classics are classic for a reason!
The world has never been conquered in meetings, except for one between Dan 'Larry The Cable Guy' Whitney and some sort of Minion or possibly Underlord. Meetings disrupt the flow. I go with that flow, but the more meetings I have, the more I need in order to figure out what in the hell that last e-mail was referring to. With a subject line of "Meeting Tuesday: For Words The California Blue," I'm bright, but I can't see through "illiterate." Is this a Mars Volta EP? I guess we'll talk it over.
I applied for a position today with a company I've always admired, and they asked for my website address. I included it with my info, knowing full well that a fair amount of my input has referred to a great dislike of my "co-workers," as they are referred to in my handbook of diversities in which to respect. I respect race, creed, color, national origin, and personality. Your sexuality is your own business. Walking around the office while jokingly and loudly singing, I wish were kidding, "The Macarena," well that is MY business. That same person just blurted "No soup for you" and set to laughin', oh just a'LAFFIN'!
So as I network my way into a career where I can grow and flourish and be far away from Sandie and her lack of tact, make-up, and an "indoor voice," I ask that I, too, be respected. I cannot and will not hide from my writing here. I won't censor it or retract it, because it's how I'm feeling when I write it that shows through like Rhandira's software vendor t-shirt under his off-white Oxford button-down, and those kick-ass white socks with almost ankle-reaching slacks. This outlet, there are far fewer people who need to ask me "what I'm thinking" via "meeting." And my writing is a reflection of my mood while working for a company that doesn't need me.
My neighbor just sneezed... with a mouthful of yogurt.
On a more personal note, yesterday felt like a day of clarity. I have been funked for a while, like 2 months, undermotivated, underenthused, under there. Under where? Gotcha!
Calm down, seriously... Something turned on or off yesterday. I feel like a good thing is a-brewin' here. More to come as news and financial windfall warrant.
=================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
But I've been doing it more lately. I've been asking people "Hey, I hate to bother you, but I did lend you $50. Can you correlate the formulas on this spreadsheet? Wake up. Can you... wake up." By asking people to help, you may find a fresh perspective, a compatriot, or at the very least and perhaps most valuable, and accomplice. And a few great people have stepped forward to lend a hand, a website, a phone number, and at one point, this advice: "You got something right here, go like this" (flicking nose)
Another recent favorite activity of mine? Telling people "No." As in "I reviewed and studied your request. No. It can't be done. Let me rephrase. It CAN be done. It will cost another $8,000 a year, plus a new laptop, three weeks of DBA training, and... wake up..." Telling people "no" as a means of righteous defense has been exhilirating. When I really need to, I tell someone "no." Why drag out the pain for everyone involved when you can shut it down early? The dragging out is only fun when you're not that into the person you're dating and they're being a putz.
And thusly, I've been slowly building a reputation amongst my new team. The reputation, however, varies. To my co-workers I am "assertive and staunch." To the people who got promoted above me without my input, I am "capable, but sometimes difficult." Being difficult with corporate management means that you're not wagging your tail and saying "Okay, I'll do it!" Bureaucracy has its place. It is a byproduct of one person favors going unpaid for too long. Next thing you know, your request for a report about a team that dropped the ball takes 5 days instead of 30 minutes, because your previous request included the words "And NOW, got it?"
For a long time, the "bosses" around here have had meetings to talk about meetings they should be talking about. When the meeting is over, they call us into meetings to discuss what meetings they've had, and what they discussed. Next, a discussion of what type of meetings would be most helpful to people. My usual response is "fewer, and if that's not possible, none." Oh my, the classics are classic for a reason!
The world has never been conquered in meetings, except for one between Dan 'Larry The Cable Guy' Whitney and some sort of Minion or possibly Underlord. Meetings disrupt the flow. I go with that flow, but the more meetings I have, the more I need in order to figure out what in the hell that last e-mail was referring to. With a subject line of "Meeting Tuesday: For Words The California Blue," I'm bright, but I can't see through "illiterate." Is this a Mars Volta EP? I guess we'll talk it over.
I applied for a position today with a company I've always admired, and they asked for my website address. I included it with my info, knowing full well that a fair amount of my input has referred to a great dislike of my "co-workers," as they are referred to in my handbook of diversities in which to respect. I respect race, creed, color, national origin, and personality. Your sexuality is your own business. Walking around the office while jokingly and loudly singing, I wish were kidding, "The Macarena," well that is MY business. That same person just blurted "No soup for you" and set to laughin', oh just a'LAFFIN'!
So as I network my way into a career where I can grow and flourish and be far away from Sandie and her lack of tact, make-up, and an "indoor voice," I ask that I, too, be respected. I cannot and will not hide from my writing here. I won't censor it or retract it, because it's how I'm feeling when I write it that shows through like Rhandira's software vendor t-shirt under his off-white Oxford button-down, and those kick-ass white socks with almost ankle-reaching slacks. This outlet, there are far fewer people who need to ask me "what I'm thinking" via "meeting." And my writing is a reflection of my mood while working for a company that doesn't need me.
My neighbor just sneezed... with a mouthful of yogurt.
On a more personal note, yesterday felt like a day of clarity. I have been funked for a while, like 2 months, undermotivated, underenthused, under there. Under where? Gotcha!
Calm down, seriously... Something turned on or off yesterday. I feel like a good thing is a-brewin' here. More to come as news and financial windfall warrant.
=================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, April 25, 2005
Something To Feel This Way Or That About
The Seattle School District was holding hearings on the possible closings of 10... again, TEN... Seattle Schools due to lack of funding. This is the first year that students are required to pass a standardized test in order to graduate. College admission standards are rising.
And there will be outcries of prejudice, racism, and hypoglycemia as people will be held accountable for their work on all fronts. Who is to blame for a student's poor grades? Bad teaching or bad pupils? Environment or societal messages? Funding?
Cripes, I don't know. I come from a time when we didn't worry about that because we were drunk.
The State Senate worked all weekend to pass an $8.5 billion tax package which includes a 9.5... again, NINE-AND-A-HALF-CENT... gas tax. But that's not the whole story.
The money raised is being spread out over the state in order to fix a number of really high, free, by, and skyways. Potholes, cracks, stoplights, and oh yeah, teetering, shifting Viaducts running above the ferry terminals along the watery grave-edge of downtown.
It will get done... at some point. Either people will stop driving their kids to schools that won't be open, or home school them.
"Meanwhile, the marquee projects — the Alaskan Way Viaduct and Highway 520 floating bridge — receive only partial funding. They won't get started unless urban voters pass a regional transportation package to cover the rest."
The senate also passed a Child Neglect Bill, ironically. It was the result of the disturbing, tragic case of the two little boys who starved to death last year because the state workers didn't do their job and sterilize their mother. She was a raging alcoholic who was reaping state benefits, returning food to stores in exchange for cash, which was then spent on beer. Can you imagine that? Your money going for someone else's beer? Angry yet?
And a lot of people will say "The government should not be getting involved with how we raise children!" To which I say "first off, don't have kids. Second, eat a pile if you think parents shouldn't be held responsible for the welfare of children, and if they can't, that somebody should make sure the kid's basic needs are met. Finally, that transportation bill's pretty huge, so we'll need some good ol' child laboring to get it all done."
So anyway, Politics is all about the Big Announcement. It has very little to do with people. But people can't govern themselves (See: sporting events, girls going wild, prom) so somebody has to do it. It can either be a faceless group of people representing your "Best interests" when it starts but faltering to their own avenues... or you can bypass your parents and hope the government helps out.
We.
Are.
Screwed.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
And there will be outcries of prejudice, racism, and hypoglycemia as people will be held accountable for their work on all fronts. Who is to blame for a student's poor grades? Bad teaching or bad pupils? Environment or societal messages? Funding?
Cripes, I don't know. I come from a time when we didn't worry about that because we were drunk.
The State Senate worked all weekend to pass an $8.5 billion tax package which includes a 9.5... again, NINE-AND-A-HALF-CENT... gas tax. But that's not the whole story.
The money raised is being spread out over the state in order to fix a number of really high, free, by, and skyways. Potholes, cracks, stoplights, and oh yeah, teetering, shifting Viaducts running above the ferry terminals along the watery grave-edge of downtown.
It will get done... at some point. Either people will stop driving their kids to schools that won't be open, or home school them.
"Meanwhile, the marquee projects — the Alaskan Way Viaduct and Highway 520 floating bridge — receive only partial funding. They won't get started unless urban voters pass a regional transportation package to cover the rest."
The senate also passed a Child Neglect Bill, ironically. It was the result of the disturbing, tragic case of the two little boys who starved to death last year because the state workers didn't do their job and sterilize their mother. She was a raging alcoholic who was reaping state benefits, returning food to stores in exchange for cash, which was then spent on beer. Can you imagine that? Your money going for someone else's beer? Angry yet?
And a lot of people will say "The government should not be getting involved with how we raise children!" To which I say "first off, don't have kids. Second, eat a pile if you think parents shouldn't be held responsible for the welfare of children, and if they can't, that somebody should make sure the kid's basic needs are met. Finally, that transportation bill's pretty huge, so we'll need some good ol' child laboring to get it all done."
So anyway, Politics is all about the Big Announcement. It has very little to do with people. But people can't govern themselves (See: sporting events, girls going wild, prom) so somebody has to do it. It can either be a faceless group of people representing your "Best interests" when it starts but faltering to their own avenues... or you can bypass your parents and hope the government helps out.
We.
Are.
Screwed.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, April 24, 2005
Let's Kick It Off Right
I've been working from home for the better part of past 4 weeks. Stress is much lower, although dealing with whom and what I deal with carries it's own causes for a ten-count. Sunday night, and I'm getting ready to start downshifting so I can, sigh, work tomorrow. I have a lot to do. And I have zero interest in doing any of it. I am my own leader, so I can get plenty of work done on my own. OH WAIT, no I can't, becuase I have too much horsecrap through which to sift. Leadership is wearing a LOT of cologne and makeup, which is pointless when they are THAT far in the dark. Yeah, I can smell 'em coming, but it doesn't mean they brought a flashlight.
fffrrrrrrrrrrrp
'scuse me
Shitchya not, one day I received 9 e-mails prior to 10am regarding a subject I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH, other than knowing of it. Imagine you ate cheese once. It agreed with you. Somebody had cheese out at a party, and you were seen eating from it. That was, say, 4 years ago. Now imagine getting 9 voicemails within 2 hours where somebody in another state that an Org Chart has deemed your "manager." The subject of those voicemails? Your manager is interested in making cheese. You were seen eating cheese four years ago. Therefore you must know about the process that resulted in your bringing lip-side a few cubes of smokey cheddar, and a bloop of gorgonzola-cranberry-walnut log to your crostini. Right?
So now, do you say that you could find out enough about cheese making to start your own business in your kitchen, risking further involvement in glorifying some other cheeseball... OR, do you just chuck a summer sausage (Summer: THE Sausage Season. paid for by Weird Sausage Lovers of Multnomah County) in their direction, pack your boxes, and start to separatin' curds & whey?
I'd rather be helping others, moving forward, giving back, like Ty Pennington sans Type-A personality and those "tendencies." But, shit yes, I'm bringing a toolbelt, because toolbelts are hot. Other things hot include good grout work, re-wiring your kitchen, and the inner surfaces of Maya Angelou's thighs. Sssssssssssssssssssssssssizzlin'!
I feel like I'm being taken-from. I am not stolen-from, as I am complicit in this transaction of effort and, sigh, money. I'm gathering the strength to throw double birds and say "NO SEVERANCE, NO PEACE." E-mailing the floor about donuts in the breakroom, then leaving two empty boxes from a local bakery and one-half a maple bar... whoa, it moved a little there. I would then sit there and edit old essays of mine, while waiting for someone's inner Carnie Wilson to send them gaping maw-long into that last fraction of a pastry. Then I'd take a picture, send it around with the caption "This person ate the last donut on [insert date of fun here]. Forever Piggy." Then I'd start packing my boxes, and go. The only thing it would do is cause a large, 4-week inconvenience to greater than 10 people, each making more than $100K. Then I may go for a long walk, and hope my erection would subside before I get to the next crosswalk. Think of it... I could leave behind those I non-like, and meet all new people to judge! What a fabulous time in which we live.
Sounds worth it to me. Fist me sleeping, how many times can I write about wanting to quit? It's getting as bad as telling everyone what's wrong with them.
If anybody needs a moderately well-read, enthusiastic, analytical mind to work for them, drop me a Message. It's a staring contest, and I'm pretty sure my adversary doesn't have the proper reptilian brain functions to remember to blink, or they've simply fallen asleep at the keyboard with their finger on the "Annoy" key. It's right but the FU2 key.
==========================
My dear Aunt Judy, sister of my dad Gerry, is in town from Georgia. She told me that she has quite a few of her friends reading this, and for the promotion and new readership, I am very grateful.
If anything here offends you, or is rather "blue," feel free to e-mail me about it. If you need MORE blue material or MORE offensive stuff, oh wow, wait until Wednesday for my story with "Everything!" Paranoia, technology, physical tics, and everyone's favorite... costume SWASTIKAS!
===========================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
fffrrrrrrrrrrrp
'scuse me
Shitchya not, one day I received 9 e-mails prior to 10am regarding a subject I HAD NOTHING TO DO WITH, other than knowing of it. Imagine you ate cheese once. It agreed with you. Somebody had cheese out at a party, and you were seen eating from it. That was, say, 4 years ago. Now imagine getting 9 voicemails within 2 hours where somebody in another state that an Org Chart has deemed your "manager." The subject of those voicemails? Your manager is interested in making cheese. You were seen eating cheese four years ago. Therefore you must know about the process that resulted in your bringing lip-side a few cubes of smokey cheddar, and a bloop of gorgonzola-cranberry-walnut log to your crostini. Right?
So now, do you say that you could find out enough about cheese making to start your own business in your kitchen, risking further involvement in glorifying some other cheeseball... OR, do you just chuck a summer sausage (Summer: THE Sausage Season. paid for by Weird Sausage Lovers of Multnomah County) in their direction, pack your boxes, and start to separatin' curds & whey?
I'd rather be helping others, moving forward, giving back, like Ty Pennington sans Type-A personality and those "tendencies." But, shit yes, I'm bringing a toolbelt, because toolbelts are hot. Other things hot include good grout work, re-wiring your kitchen, and the inner surfaces of Maya Angelou's thighs. Sssssssssssssssssssssssssizzlin'!
I feel like I'm being taken-from. I am not stolen-from, as I am complicit in this transaction of effort and, sigh, money. I'm gathering the strength to throw double birds and say "NO SEVERANCE, NO PEACE." E-mailing the floor about donuts in the breakroom, then leaving two empty boxes from a local bakery and one-half a maple bar... whoa, it moved a little there. I would then sit there and edit old essays of mine, while waiting for someone's inner Carnie Wilson to send them gaping maw-long into that last fraction of a pastry. Then I'd take a picture, send it around with the caption "This person ate the last donut on [insert date of fun here]. Forever Piggy." Then I'd start packing my boxes, and go. The only thing it would do is cause a large, 4-week inconvenience to greater than 10 people, each making more than $100K. Then I may go for a long walk, and hope my erection would subside before I get to the next crosswalk. Think of it... I could leave behind those I non-like, and meet all new people to judge! What a fabulous time in which we live.
Sounds worth it to me. Fist me sleeping, how many times can I write about wanting to quit? It's getting as bad as telling everyone what's wrong with them.
If anybody needs a moderately well-read, enthusiastic, analytical mind to work for them, drop me a Message. It's a staring contest, and I'm pretty sure my adversary doesn't have the proper reptilian brain functions to remember to blink, or they've simply fallen asleep at the keyboard with their finger on the "Annoy" key. It's right but the FU2 key.
==========================
My dear Aunt Judy, sister of my dad Gerry, is in town from Georgia. She told me that she has quite a few of her friends reading this, and for the promotion and new readership, I am very grateful.
If anything here offends you, or is rather "blue," feel free to e-mail me about it. If you need MORE blue material or MORE offensive stuff, oh wow, wait until Wednesday for my story with "Everything!" Paranoia, technology, physical tics, and everyone's favorite... costume SWASTIKAS!
===========================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Saturday, April 23, 2005
Maxed, Stacked, and Packed
Hey slummer, check my nizzles.
Here's the deal. It's like 2008 and I'm not in the best of states while giving the blog update while feeling saturated with differing kinds of alcolates. Last night I was humbled by the simplified brilliance that is David Sedaris at the Spokane "Get Lit" festival, as he read new works such as fables, home stories, and a few diary entries. Crash McNally nutted up and acksed a que'tion in my stead regarding blogs, that'll be for another time. Let's just say when a technophobe/technoadversary such as Mr. Sedaris makes known such a stance, it can make for a fun conversation from Row F of the Orchestra Pit. Right on, Keelo.
She's sneezing like it's her 'tard power right NOW, and NOW.... and NOW, btw.
Grodes.
Satellite café, eat me.
Anywho, I am feenin' for tha A-Bomb like crazy right now, can't wait to get back to Seattle. Spokane should change their slogan to "Hey, there's plenty of room."
Long story short, I'm getting more college work thanks to an uppercut of a set at The Brickwall tonight.. or like 6 hours ago.
Oddly enough, the Brickwall Comedy Club in Spokane is now located in the basementé of... for those of you enthralled with last week's entries... The Budget Inn.
Thee, I shit not-eth.
Fist me running, The NFL Draft is like 5.5 hours away, and Killorn's gonna vlurp on the keyboard in the business center of a hotel that charges $150 a night just to pee indoors. Allergic like a mofo.
Bloggin' with Urkel,
Geoffers
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Here's the deal. It's like 2008 and I'm not in the best of states while giving the blog update while feeling saturated with differing kinds of alcolates. Last night I was humbled by the simplified brilliance that is David Sedaris at the Spokane "Get Lit" festival, as he read new works such as fables, home stories, and a few diary entries. Crash McNally nutted up and acksed a que'tion in my stead regarding blogs, that'll be for another time. Let's just say when a technophobe/technoadversary such as Mr. Sedaris makes known such a stance, it can make for a fun conversation from Row F of the Orchestra Pit. Right on, Keelo.
She's sneezing like it's her 'tard power right NOW, and NOW.... and NOW, btw.
Grodes.
Satellite café, eat me.
Anywho, I am feenin' for tha A-Bomb like crazy right now, can't wait to get back to Seattle. Spokane should change their slogan to "Hey, there's plenty of room."
Long story short, I'm getting more college work thanks to an uppercut of a set at The Brickwall tonight.. or like 6 hours ago.
Oddly enough, the Brickwall Comedy Club in Spokane is now located in the basementé of... for those of you enthralled with last week's entries... The Budget Inn.
Thee, I shit not-eth.
Fist me running, The NFL Draft is like 5.5 hours away, and Killorn's gonna vlurp on the keyboard in the business center of a hotel that charges $150 a night just to pee indoors. Allergic like a mofo.
Bloggin' with Urkel,
Geoffers
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, April 19, 2005
To Mixed Reviews
Estacada, OR - ViewPointe Bar & Grill
The "Grill" in the name is a formality. It's a bar. A smokey, weird one, where every third Saturday is the town re-enactment of "The Accused" and no women are allowed, if'n you get my drift. I had to drive a winding, wet road through the middle of nowhere and what I hope was a Civil War re-enactment. As you can tell, Estacada isn't quite that progressive. I did come up with new slogans for them, however:
Estacada: Where The Men Are Men And The Women Are Bruised
and
Estacada: How Things Would Be If The South Had Won
Perhaps the residents who were at the bar were good people. Who knows? They didn't give me a chance to let it ride. People, for the most part, are middle-ground, and act with kindness to their fellow humans when called for, as long as it's not some comic trying to build an act who's interrupting a chicken-fried steak-fried chicken-steak & Ketchup/Mayo-gravy on fries! Hoo-weee. braaaaaaaaaaaaaap
There were a fair number of people in the venue when I arrived. The next guy to come in announced his presence after noticing a family of his friends (Three couples, including a mother & daughter), by shouting "Well HO-LEE SHEE-IT!" Indeed, fellow in the "I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am" T-shirt!
I then stood on a weird pulpit thing that may have been a stage at one time, when human cargo was still a viable form of currency. Jesus Fish jokes, flat. Jokes about big vaginas... siiiiigh... fantastic. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
I got out with my life, 7 laughs in 30 minutes, and got to watch Dwight Slade puppeteer the room. He could have killed for 45, but Dwight entertained himself much of the time. Masterful, professional, and hysterical.
Oregon City - Wichita Bar & Good Times, Saturday Night
After a hapless performance I was ready to uncork the humorist's equivalent of a night-cover airstrike. Just as I powered up and got into the air I took some FLAK from the front row. Two pipes, muzzle flash suppressed by Jack Daniels to my 2 o'clock, 11 o'clock dampened by an Absolut fog. I hadn't even cleared the base and things were getting soggy. Nothing to do but fire back and show them how I got these stripes.
Alright, enough cheese. These two monkies were in sad shape. The other 20 hours of their Saturday, these two people could be the nicest, sweetest kids to ever clock a shift at HotDog-On-A-Stick and knock back a Jumbo Beefaroni before heading to the Wichita. And they may be able to drink like Kennedys any other night of the weekend. But last Saturday night they were belligerent. I got two sentences out before they started asking questions and mentioning dildos and fingerless gloves (?!?!).
The girl cooled it after a return volley. The guy had no clue. I asked his name and he said "F*ckface." I figured it was Cherokee or some-such, and showed respect. Cableknit turtleneck, black cargo pants, fingerless gloves, shaved head, you get the picture. He was a Mike's Hard JuiceBox away from barfing near the pooltable, possibly into a cargo pocket or a woman with "-lene" at the end of her name.
Anyway, that set went much better, I worked in a couple of callbacks and did what I could to learn & survive. It's not a place to build the kind of act I want to build, where there would be some required reading to get the whole thing, but no sweat, overall. I had fun and got three new bits out of the shows.
And Portland's new slogans should be:
Portland: Hope You Like Books!
Portland: What The F Else Are You Gonna Do?
Portland: We Dare You To Try And Get Out.
Portland: Yeah, We Know... Sorry.
Alright, that's enough of that.
==============
And this was a teaser for a story on KING-5 news at 11...
"A story of amazing survival, listen to why doctors say this 10 year-old girl... should be dead!"
Whomever wrote that, okay'ed it for broadcast, and said it should have a heel dropped on their windpipe. The girl's 10 years old, and her heartwarming story on TV is prefaced with the doctor's giving an under-over in the deadpool.
Dennis Bounds, grow a scrote and say "No" now and again.
And don't forget to check out Seattle's Favorite Klepto, the Decrepit Canary Skeleton!
And why not Joel McHale, all gussied up now on E!'s "The Soup!"
The Kings Of Leon... please, can you stop loving yourselves for a second? Everything that's wrong with "new rock" begins and ends in the ironic mustache of that one Followill brother.
If ya need me, I'll be entering the bar shortly. Shades on my head, jacket over the shoulder, Dingo boots on, nose ring glistening, and a totally retro outfit workin'... Hells yeah.
=======================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
The "Grill" in the name is a formality. It's a bar. A smokey, weird one, where every third Saturday is the town re-enactment of "The Accused" and no women are allowed, if'n you get my drift. I had to drive a winding, wet road through the middle of nowhere and what I hope was a Civil War re-enactment. As you can tell, Estacada isn't quite that progressive. I did come up with new slogans for them, however:
Estacada: Where The Men Are Men And The Women Are Bruised
and
Estacada: How Things Would Be If The South Had Won
Perhaps the residents who were at the bar were good people. Who knows? They didn't give me a chance to let it ride. People, for the most part, are middle-ground, and act with kindness to their fellow humans when called for, as long as it's not some comic trying to build an act who's interrupting a chicken-fried steak-fried chicken-steak & Ketchup/Mayo-gravy on fries! Hoo-weee. braaaaaaaaaaaaaap
There were a fair number of people in the venue when I arrived. The next guy to come in announced his presence after noticing a family of his friends (Three couples, including a mother & daughter), by shouting "Well HO-LEE SHEE-IT!" Indeed, fellow in the "I'm Not As Think As You Drunk I Am" T-shirt!
I then stood on a weird pulpit thing that may have been a stage at one time, when human cargo was still a viable form of currency. Jesus Fish jokes, flat. Jokes about big vaginas... siiiiigh... fantastic. Siiiiiiiiiiiiiigh.
I got out with my life, 7 laughs in 30 minutes, and got to watch Dwight Slade puppeteer the room. He could have killed for 45, but Dwight entertained himself much of the time. Masterful, professional, and hysterical.
Oregon City - Wichita Bar & Good Times, Saturday Night
After a hapless performance I was ready to uncork the humorist's equivalent of a night-cover airstrike. Just as I powered up and got into the air I took some FLAK from the front row. Two pipes, muzzle flash suppressed by Jack Daniels to my 2 o'clock, 11 o'clock dampened by an Absolut fog. I hadn't even cleared the base and things were getting soggy. Nothing to do but fire back and show them how I got these stripes.
Alright, enough cheese. These two monkies were in sad shape. The other 20 hours of their Saturday, these two people could be the nicest, sweetest kids to ever clock a shift at HotDog-On-A-Stick and knock back a Jumbo Beefaroni before heading to the Wichita. And they may be able to drink like Kennedys any other night of the weekend. But last Saturday night they were belligerent. I got two sentences out before they started asking questions and mentioning dildos and fingerless gloves (?!?!).
The girl cooled it after a return volley. The guy had no clue. I asked his name and he said "F*ckface." I figured it was Cherokee or some-such, and showed respect. Cableknit turtleneck, black cargo pants, fingerless gloves, shaved head, you get the picture. He was a Mike's Hard JuiceBox away from barfing near the pooltable, possibly into a cargo pocket or a woman with "-lene" at the end of her name.
Anyway, that set went much better, I worked in a couple of callbacks and did what I could to learn & survive. It's not a place to build the kind of act I want to build, where there would be some required reading to get the whole thing, but no sweat, overall. I had fun and got three new bits out of the shows.
And Portland's new slogans should be:
Portland: Hope You Like Books!
Portland: What The F Else Are You Gonna Do?
Portland: We Dare You To Try And Get Out.
Portland: Yeah, We Know... Sorry.
Alright, that's enough of that.
==============
And this was a teaser for a story on KING-5 news at 11...
"A story of amazing survival, listen to why doctors say this 10 year-old girl... should be dead!"
Whomever wrote that, okay'ed it for broadcast, and said it should have a heel dropped on their windpipe. The girl's 10 years old, and her heartwarming story on TV is prefaced with the doctor's giving an under-over in the deadpool.
Dennis Bounds, grow a scrote and say "No" now and again.
And don't forget to check out Seattle's Favorite Klepto, the Decrepit Canary Skeleton!
And why not Joel McHale, all gussied up now on E!'s "The Soup!"
The Kings Of Leon... please, can you stop loving yourselves for a second? Everything that's wrong with "new rock" begins and ends in the ironic mustache of that one Followill brother.
If ya need me, I'll be entering the bar shortly. Shades on my head, jacket over the shoulder, Dingo boots on, nose ring glistening, and a totally retro outfit workin'... Hells yeah.
=======================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Made It... barely...
At this time, the conclave has begun, and will begin discussing where I should have lunch. Come on, Sean John Quizno's.
Killorn, seriously... did you post somebody else's satirical take on Kevin Federline's drama? You'll have to re-take the WASL now. Killorn is better than that, isn't she, Class?
======
I usually use Mozilla FireFox, but it's got a glitch when I throw a hyperlink in this blog. And, shitting thee not-eth, I had IE open for exactly 2 minutes before the first pop-up. I don't want Smileys, I don't want a fish screensaver, my loan isn't coming through, University of Lower Cleveland Terwilliger Institute for Financial Harship can wipe their collective asses with the degree I won't be getting from them. Cripes, we can't stop a dancing chicken flash-animation from popping up, no fuggin' wonder Microsoft has to send out security patches all the time.
Microsoft isn't a monopoly. They engineer poorly so that other companies can make money. They all shook hands on in it over a sixer of Thomas Kemper Orange Sody-pop!
Go get FireFox.
======
Oh wait, now I get it.
"Meet the FOCKERS!." That's... whew... good one.
======
This is my first day back in the office after 3 weeks of working from home. Not much has changed. NoMakeup Sandie is still LA-HAT-HAFFING down the hall, a self-important Project Manager has called another meeting, the network is really slow, and people I report to are total maroons.
For the 5th time just now I told a woman that the January report she has previously asked me FOUR times for is not in existence. Ask again, it's not going to magically appear like some fantasmical father figure she missed at every Christmas.
I am leaving shortly to work from home again. Believe this: my laptop is running slower here than on DSL. Rad.
======
and now, Comedy Weekend Review!!!
~Budget Inn Motel Room: Oregon City, OR~
First up, the lobby. There was an overpowering melange of odors. Antiseptic cleanser, but not Lysol, more like when your dog has a tube hanging out and you can smell the healing process dancing the Tango with the iodine and scabs. Thank God they were burning incense, though. I would hate to take in ANY oxygen while gagging.
Next up, my room. Oh wow. I've stayed in some pretty nice places. This one was gross. The Zagat rating was 2 buttholes. On the way to my room, I passed Room 211, which had the window open and some desktop speakers on the windowsill. Blasting forth were the notes of Three Dog Cream, or FogShat or that 70's-era Freedom Rock crap. Also blasting forth was the singing of the inhabitant, who was "totally feeling it, man." He said that to another "dude" while rocking back a Hurricane tall-boy about an hour later.
I asked for a smoking room, and lucky me, they had one. The smoke kind of dampened the odor of despair, which smells a lot like Ranch Dressing, gas station Drakkar, and Jack Osbourne. My carpet was dark-ish. It could have been dark red, brown, gray, or green, I couldn't really tell. Looking down caused me to lose my balance. My room had two queen beds, HBO, and pubic lice. Room service was a bedpan and a needle exchange bucket. There were cigarette burns on the ledge of the tub, which was 18 inches from the toilet. Get the picture? People were smokin'... and crappin'. At least the meth cooks of previous stays were into time-management. Top it off with hot & cold running schizophrenia, and ya got yerself room 215.
The guy at the front desk had this request of me: "(My) room has two queen-size beds but please kindly use only one." I slept in my car. I only really needed a place to crap and smoke. Which ended up happening in the parking lot. Worry not, I was far from the first to break the barrier for that combo. Maybe I stepped over a burrito or a sock, I don't know, I don't like to get involved. There were cigarette burns on my bumper, so I had to keep my eyes peeled.
ESTACADA,OR: "What Would Have Happened If the South Had Won The Civil War."
Owen: No, I didn't make it to the Safari Club, but it was referenced numerous times as being the most ridiculous thing in the city.
I have to do some actual work now, so I'll be back in a bit.
More to come:
Estacada & Oregon City comedy reviews
New slogans for Portland
Are People Actually, Despite Much Empirical Evidence, Good?
What It Smells Like In Here
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Killorn, seriously... did you post somebody else's satirical take on Kevin Federline's drama? You'll have to re-take the WASL now. Killorn is better than that, isn't she, Class?
======
I usually use Mozilla FireFox, but it's got a glitch when I throw a hyperlink in this blog. And, shitting thee not-eth, I had IE open for exactly 2 minutes before the first pop-up. I don't want Smileys, I don't want a fish screensaver, my loan isn't coming through, University of Lower Cleveland Terwilliger Institute for Financial Harship can wipe their collective asses with the degree I won't be getting from them. Cripes, we can't stop a dancing chicken flash-animation from popping up, no fuggin' wonder Microsoft has to send out security patches all the time.
Microsoft isn't a monopoly. They engineer poorly so that other companies can make money. They all shook hands on in it over a sixer of Thomas Kemper Orange Sody-pop!
Go get FireFox.
======
Oh wait, now I get it.
"Meet the FOCKERS!." That's... whew... good one.
======
This is my first day back in the office after 3 weeks of working from home. Not much has changed. NoMakeup Sandie is still LA-HAT-HAFFING down the hall, a self-important Project Manager has called another meeting, the network is really slow, and people I report to are total maroons.
For the 5th time just now I told a woman that the January report she has previously asked me FOUR times for is not in existence. Ask again, it's not going to magically appear like some fantasmical father figure she missed at every Christmas.
I am leaving shortly to work from home again. Believe this: my laptop is running slower here than on DSL. Rad.
======
and now, Comedy Weekend Review!!!
~Budget Inn Motel Room: Oregon City, OR~
First up, the lobby. There was an overpowering melange of odors. Antiseptic cleanser, but not Lysol, more like when your dog has a tube hanging out and you can smell the healing process dancing the Tango with the iodine and scabs. Thank God they were burning incense, though. I would hate to take in ANY oxygen while gagging.
Next up, my room. Oh wow. I've stayed in some pretty nice places. This one was gross. The Zagat rating was 2 buttholes. On the way to my room, I passed Room 211, which had the window open and some desktop speakers on the windowsill. Blasting forth were the notes of Three Dog Cream, or FogShat or that 70's-era Freedom Rock crap. Also blasting forth was the singing of the inhabitant, who was "totally feeling it, man." He said that to another "dude" while rocking back a Hurricane tall-boy about an hour later.
I asked for a smoking room, and lucky me, they had one. The smoke kind of dampened the odor of despair, which smells a lot like Ranch Dressing, gas station Drakkar, and Jack Osbourne. My carpet was dark-ish. It could have been dark red, brown, gray, or green, I couldn't really tell. Looking down caused me to lose my balance. My room had two queen beds, HBO, and pubic lice. Room service was a bedpan and a needle exchange bucket. There were cigarette burns on the ledge of the tub, which was 18 inches from the toilet. Get the picture? People were smokin'... and crappin'. At least the meth cooks of previous stays were into time-management. Top it off with hot & cold running schizophrenia, and ya got yerself room 215.
The guy at the front desk had this request of me: "(My) room has two queen-size beds but please kindly use only one." I slept in my car. I only really needed a place to crap and smoke. Which ended up happening in the parking lot. Worry not, I was far from the first to break the barrier for that combo. Maybe I stepped over a burrito or a sock, I don't know, I don't like to get involved. There were cigarette burns on my bumper, so I had to keep my eyes peeled.
ESTACADA,OR: "What Would Have Happened If the South Had Won The Civil War."
Owen: No, I didn't make it to the Safari Club, but it was referenced numerous times as being the most ridiculous thing in the city.
I have to do some actual work now, so I'll be back in a bit.
More to come:
Estacada & Oregon City comedy reviews
New slogans for Portland
Are People Actually, Despite Much Empirical Evidence, Good?
What It Smells Like In Here
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Friday, April 15, 2005
Road Trippin'
Hey, how's it going?
Cool.
First off, to my friends who posted in the previous blog about not liking jazz, it's okay that you're not into it. So far, out of a million records that Killorn has posted as being the "best CD to makeout on the toilet while listening to over PBRs," the only one I liked was Coheed & Cambria. That rocked. Space rock for those who can't shake Motley Crue. Brousseau on the other hand, well he got me into Millencollin and Alkaline Trio, so he's good with me. Killorn likes a lot of music, as long as it's big. She's got only the one ear, ya know. The other's packed with boogs and most of a beer.
Jazz is about not getting in the way of the music, like good comedy: Don't let your mouth get in the way of the funny, let it flow.
Classical, well, I can't convince you one way or the other. Just imagine writing music for 15 instruments while subsisting on nothing but snuff, unleavened bread, and syphillis. Is it "The Firebird" or "Sticky Fingers?" I DON'T KNOW! P. Greyy, chime in, please.
It's not like I was giving props to those fruits from the Baroque. Chill.
I went to the doctor yesterday for some tests, and things are looking okay. My doctor was a little concerned, however. I've been having some trailing spots in my vision, like I look to the left, mine eyes affix to a spot, and a split-second later a ghost-image crosses my vision. It's dark gray, and concerns me a little, because it's chasing a PacMan-image with no magic pill to eat! So easy! No, really, my doctor is wondering what's up, so I have to go back in and get some tests done today. Then I have to hight-tail it outta town. I'll tell you more about that another time.
I'm looking forward to this weekend. Last weekend was amazing. My girlfriend and I took a trip over to Langley on Whidbey Island, stayed at The Inn, which was kickass, and just chilled out. It gave me perspective, again. When on the road doing comedy, at this level, one must stay in smaller places like the Budget Inn, or Crammit Inn, or the EyeHerpes Inn Your Eyes Inn. So when I have hit a couple of those places, I can fully appreciate the luxury of a mini-bar (best $2.50 can of Diet Coke I ever did have), a giant shower with no door, and watching gray whales play in the Sound while lounging in the jacuzzi tub, with only the bottom-half of the bottle of wine to go.
This weekend I'll be comedying in Estacada, OR and Oregon City, OR (slogan: "Come Enjoy Our Creativity!") with the phenomenal Dwight Slade. It's my first time working with Slade, who is as good a comic as is out there. Plus I get to see my friend Russ (slogan: "Seriously man, crack a window."), and Tracy Tuffs (slogan: "Mmhmm. YEAH YEAH YEAH YEEEAAAH!") at Harvey's Comedy Cloob. I'm looking forward to doing some new material and revisiting some old bits I have not done in a long time. I'll be audio taping, and will post some clips in the next week or so. New bits: Steroids For Oil, Where Are The Heroes?, and America: The Greatest Idea In The World.
So this wasn't very entertaining, but I have to go get an oil-change, and call in sick to work, cough-cough. My boss' are - get this - "passionate about providing (root cause analysis) for the director level and up." You just heard the sound of my ass not caring.
Have a fun sandwich and wash it down with a GetSomeActionSmoothie.
Laters,
LOTT
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Cool.
First off, to my friends who posted in the previous blog about not liking jazz, it's okay that you're not into it. So far, out of a million records that Killorn has posted as being the "best CD to makeout on the toilet while listening to over PBRs," the only one I liked was Coheed & Cambria. That rocked. Space rock for those who can't shake Motley Crue. Brousseau on the other hand, well he got me into Millencollin and Alkaline Trio, so he's good with me. Killorn likes a lot of music, as long as it's big. She's got only the one ear, ya know. The other's packed with boogs and most of a beer.
Jazz is about not getting in the way of the music, like good comedy: Don't let your mouth get in the way of the funny, let it flow.
Classical, well, I can't convince you one way or the other. Just imagine writing music for 15 instruments while subsisting on nothing but snuff, unleavened bread, and syphillis. Is it "The Firebird" or "Sticky Fingers?" I DON'T KNOW! P. Greyy, chime in, please.
It's not like I was giving props to those fruits from the Baroque. Chill.
I went to the doctor yesterday for some tests, and things are looking okay. My doctor was a little concerned, however. I've been having some trailing spots in my vision, like I look to the left, mine eyes affix to a spot, and a split-second later a ghost-image crosses my vision. It's dark gray, and concerns me a little, because it's chasing a PacMan-image with no magic pill to eat! So easy! No, really, my doctor is wondering what's up, so I have to go back in and get some tests done today. Then I have to hight-tail it outta town. I'll tell you more about that another time.
I'm looking forward to this weekend. Last weekend was amazing. My girlfriend and I took a trip over to Langley on Whidbey Island, stayed at The Inn, which was kickass, and just chilled out. It gave me perspective, again. When on the road doing comedy, at this level, one must stay in smaller places like the Budget Inn, or Crammit Inn, or the EyeHerpes Inn Your Eyes Inn. So when I have hit a couple of those places, I can fully appreciate the luxury of a mini-bar (best $2.50 can of Diet Coke I ever did have), a giant shower with no door, and watching gray whales play in the Sound while lounging in the jacuzzi tub, with only the bottom-half of the bottle of wine to go.
This weekend I'll be comedying in Estacada, OR and Oregon City, OR (slogan: "Come Enjoy Our Creativity!") with the phenomenal Dwight Slade. It's my first time working with Slade, who is as good a comic as is out there. Plus I get to see my friend Russ (slogan: "Seriously man, crack a window."), and Tracy Tuffs (slogan: "Mmhmm. YEAH YEAH YEAH YEEEAAAH!") at Harvey's Comedy Cloob. I'm looking forward to doing some new material and revisiting some old bits I have not done in a long time. I'll be audio taping, and will post some clips in the next week or so. New bits: Steroids For Oil, Where Are The Heroes?, and America: The Greatest Idea In The World.
So this wasn't very entertaining, but I have to go get an oil-change, and call in sick to work, cough-cough. My boss' are - get this - "passionate about providing (root cause analysis) for the director level and up." You just heard the sound of my ass not caring.
Have a fun sandwich and wash it down with a GetSomeActionSmoothie.
Laters,
LOTT
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, April 13, 2005
Wed Nes Day
AIn't got much time nor mind for blogging. So here are some random thoughts.
My new addiction is "Band Of Brothers." I found this the other night while watching The History Channel. Actually, I was F'ing around and hoping to find something that didn't retard my thought patterns. This actually was inspiring. Adrenaline rush, galvanizing scenes, like "Saving Private Ryan" with a backstory.
I thought of the phrase "Bi-furious" the other week and it makes me laugh every time it comes to mind. Instead of wondering open-mindedly about a dalliance, perhaps it reflects a person's frustration with not having the option.
I'm going to have to give it up to Comcast cable for their late night programming run. Spread out over Cartoon Network, the History Channel, and TNT, I could very well be F'ed for sleep for a while. IT starts at 10pm with Band of Brothers. That's one for 2 hours. 12am kicks off AquaTeen Hunger Force (thankfully they've been repeats and I have the first 3 seasons on DVD. Next up is "Mail Call" with R. Lee Ermey, recounting the advancements of military weaponry (note: America is fuggin' LOADED with sweet firearms). Then, at 1pm we've got a hotshot of "The X-Files" on TNT. That's unhealthy.
The Governor of Wisconsin has rejected a bill that would allow the hunting of feral cats. This proves that government works, and that when you want something done, it's best done quickly, quietly, and with a submachine gun or flame-thrower from the window of a moving car. Me-ouch.
Even with all the empirical evidence stating the negative, men are still wearing pony tails, Birkenstocks, and products containing "Body Spray" in the name. Thus proving that artsy, outdoorsy guys enjoy a good roofie/fondle combo as much as their pot dealer.
No Blood For Oil! Not for trade, not as a substitute in my Vinaigrette. Keep your laws off my body! And into my car! SMILEY
In waiting for the Rapture, I have been run-over by a meth addict on a Harley, shot with a BB-gun, shot with a paintball gun, and endured 6 years and 6 months of no upward mobility in my current place of employment. There has to be a Heaven. If this is it, I am going to be really pissed, and even more pissed for not acting upon it.
Rap music is the ButtRock of the New Millenium. Repetitive themes, look-alikes, sound-alikes. Dr. Dre is the GodFather of good hip-hop. The Chronic is the Old Testament. Anything by Common or Talib Kweli is damn near like listening to a Message. It's not Rap. It's much more. For the most part, I don't listen to rap. I'm getting more into Classical Music and Jazz. That's some stunning stuff when you think of it. Arranging music for 17 instruments to be played in unison for hours on-end? And then Jazz, opening your mind and flowing through it. There's something to be learned from the soul of music that Dr. Phil will eventually put a flavor to and sell as a breakfast drink.
Dr. Phil is a walking a-pipe.
When I see somebody who is particular about having things a specifc and certain way or their very existence will collapse in on itself before lunch... I can't help but sneeze on their door handle or leave one little green "~" on a whiteboard after erasing it.
I am hoping the misguided angst in the Seattle Comedy Scene is over. In an art form where the word "hack" is thrown around like cigarette smoke at an open mic, nothing is more Hack than bitching about the act of some guy who has no affect on your career.
But it can be fun, so... ya do what ya do.
Well, it's time again for ATHF. Laters.
=========================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
My new addiction is "Band Of Brothers." I found this the other night while watching The History Channel. Actually, I was F'ing around and hoping to find something that didn't retard my thought patterns. This actually was inspiring. Adrenaline rush, galvanizing scenes, like "Saving Private Ryan" with a backstory.
I thought of the phrase "Bi-furious" the other week and it makes me laugh every time it comes to mind. Instead of wondering open-mindedly about a dalliance, perhaps it reflects a person's frustration with not having the option.
I'm going to have to give it up to Comcast cable for their late night programming run. Spread out over Cartoon Network, the History Channel, and TNT, I could very well be F'ed for sleep for a while. IT starts at 10pm with Band of Brothers. That's one for 2 hours. 12am kicks off AquaTeen Hunger Force (thankfully they've been repeats and I have the first 3 seasons on DVD. Next up is "Mail Call" with R. Lee Ermey, recounting the advancements of military weaponry (note: America is fuggin' LOADED with sweet firearms). Then, at 1pm we've got a hotshot of "The X-Files" on TNT. That's unhealthy.
The Governor of Wisconsin has rejected a bill that would allow the hunting of feral cats. This proves that government works, and that when you want something done, it's best done quickly, quietly, and with a submachine gun or flame-thrower from the window of a moving car. Me-ouch.
Even with all the empirical evidence stating the negative, men are still wearing pony tails, Birkenstocks, and products containing "Body Spray" in the name. Thus proving that artsy, outdoorsy guys enjoy a good roofie/fondle combo as much as their pot dealer.
No Blood For Oil! Not for trade, not as a substitute in my Vinaigrette. Keep your laws off my body! And into my car! SMILEY
In waiting for the Rapture, I have been run-over by a meth addict on a Harley, shot with a BB-gun, shot with a paintball gun, and endured 6 years and 6 months of no upward mobility in my current place of employment. There has to be a Heaven. If this is it, I am going to be really pissed, and even more pissed for not acting upon it.
Rap music is the ButtRock of the New Millenium. Repetitive themes, look-alikes, sound-alikes. Dr. Dre is the GodFather of good hip-hop. The Chronic is the Old Testament. Anything by Common or Talib Kweli is damn near like listening to a Message. It's not Rap. It's much more. For the most part, I don't listen to rap. I'm getting more into Classical Music and Jazz. That's some stunning stuff when you think of it. Arranging music for 17 instruments to be played in unison for hours on-end? And then Jazz, opening your mind and flowing through it. There's something to be learned from the soul of music that Dr. Phil will eventually put a flavor to and sell as a breakfast drink.
Dr. Phil is a walking a-pipe.
When I see somebody who is particular about having things a specifc and certain way or their very existence will collapse in on itself before lunch... I can't help but sneeze on their door handle or leave one little green "~" on a whiteboard after erasing it.
I am hoping the misguided angst in the Seattle Comedy Scene is over. In an art form where the word "hack" is thrown around like cigarette smoke at an open mic, nothing is more Hack than bitching about the act of some guy who has no affect on your career.
But it can be fun, so... ya do what ya do.
Well, it's time again for ATHF. Laters.
=========================
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Monday, April 11, 2005
Neighbor in Building E,
No, no, you go back to sleep. That is, if you ever startled awake at the sound of your car alarm.
Ever.
It sounds like a good one. It's one of those fancy 6-sounders, with the full spectrum of schizophrenia-inducing alarms. The "WOOP," the "EEE-AAAH," the siren, the "AYNK, AYNK," and then, my favorite, the "Sounds like a brick through the passenger's window." That was my customization.
I know you are protecting your investment in the 1995-9 BMW M3. As well you should. Apparently this is the kind of apartment complex where a car must be alarmed so that you know when somebody drives near it or happens to lean too far over their balcony railing to find out what in holy Iowa is making so much noise. Good thing you've got it tuned to go off at the slightest rumble. Some day we can use it to detect a forthcoming earthquake... or even a fart!
How is it that your alarm wakes me up, yet rocks you to slumber as though cradled moistly in your mother's gin-swirling womb? Now I know which car is surely unattended-to. Never once have I seen you rocket from the bedroom, which I can only imagine holds the finest black, shiny dresser with gold hardware that can be purchased with weed money by a now-imprisoned older brother, and like, major stacks of Maxim.
Many times in my life, I drop into slumber with an unanswered question. If the solution has not appeared in my dreams, I know I must go forth and find that answer on my own. And from that question sprung forth a mighty answer, which came to me not in a dream, but as I squatted on the hood of your car, Kenmore Gazette in hand. Yes, your car will indeed register a deuce dropped from greater than 24-inches.
My, that's some fine machinery.
========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
No, no, you go back to sleep. That is, if you ever startled awake at the sound of your car alarm.
Ever.
It sounds like a good one. It's one of those fancy 6-sounders, with the full spectrum of schizophrenia-inducing alarms. The "WOOP," the "EEE-AAAH," the siren, the "AYNK, AYNK," and then, my favorite, the "Sounds like a brick through the passenger's window." That was my customization.
I know you are protecting your investment in the 1995-9 BMW M3. As well you should. Apparently this is the kind of apartment complex where a car must be alarmed so that you know when somebody drives near it or happens to lean too far over their balcony railing to find out what in holy Iowa is making so much noise. Good thing you've got it tuned to go off at the slightest rumble. Some day we can use it to detect a forthcoming earthquake... or even a fart!
How is it that your alarm wakes me up, yet rocks you to slumber as though cradled moistly in your mother's gin-swirling womb? Now I know which car is surely unattended-to. Never once have I seen you rocket from the bedroom, which I can only imagine holds the finest black, shiny dresser with gold hardware that can be purchased with weed money by a now-imprisoned older brother, and like, major stacks of Maxim.
Many times in my life, I drop into slumber with an unanswered question. If the solution has not appeared in my dreams, I know I must go forth and find that answer on my own. And from that question sprung forth a mighty answer, which came to me not in a dream, but as I squatted on the hood of your car, Kenmore Gazette in hand. Yes, your car will indeed register a deuce dropped from greater than 24-inches.
My, that's some fine machinery.
========
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
That's Friggin' Ludacris, Word?
Yesterday I accidentally left the TV on MTV for .3 seconds and a Ludacris video came on. It was #1 in some sort of countdown, likely the "Now That's What White Kids Are Listening To!" top-10. Ludacris, for those who are lucky enough to not know, is a rapper, an "MC" for those in tha know of the lingo. More on Ludacris when he writes his own blog.
As we know, rappers sing songs of stealing and jackin' and various crimin' and rhymin', when they're not layin' down lyrics of candyshopping, drugs, cars, platinum, and whatever the cheese "crunk" is. It sounds like a huge moneymaker to me. Put the word "CRUNK" on any kind of jersey, pair it with a backwards baseball cap, and y'all're ready to walk the meanest food court in the mizzall.
So while I embrace my decidedly uncrunkalicious demeanor for something for more sardonic yet lovingly honest, I hear the music from the catch-phrase heavy late-90's phenomenon "Austing Powers." Just a few strains, the "Doot-deet-deet-doot-doot," the horns/organ combo that was all over every local news magazine show in 1999 whenever they dressed in '60s-mod gear to hip up a story about a local kid who had a Biblical case of the trots. I didn't even turn around to see the screen... then I heard Ludacris start-to-rappin'.
Not only has this "artist" run out of colors on his pallette, he's started chipping off of other artist's work from 6+ years ago. In stand-up, we call that "needing to update your references." Andthe guy is a multi-millionaire. To that I say, Great Job, Luda. I'm ready to make that kind of money, too. I'm open to the idea of creating for wealth by creating, especially if I don't have to work that hard at it. I would like to get her done.
Hey.... I think I'm on to something here...
Y'ever think that Religion is actually a fence, and not a conduit, between the human spirit and God, the Creative Energy of the Universe? As if it started as a way to connect, but became, instead, a way to create wealth for a few under the guise of poverty and celibacy? I guess it's all in what you believe, how you practice, your ability to deny guilt, and loving the dichotomous nature of your perfect spiritual being existing within a human lifeform.
Thank you, I'll be here all week, enjoy the airline food.
Be good to yourselves and your elves.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
As we know, rappers sing songs of stealing and jackin' and various crimin' and rhymin', when they're not layin' down lyrics of candyshopping, drugs, cars, platinum, and whatever the cheese "crunk" is. It sounds like a huge moneymaker to me. Put the word "CRUNK" on any kind of jersey, pair it with a backwards baseball cap, and y'all're ready to walk the meanest food court in the mizzall.
So while I embrace my decidedly uncrunkalicious demeanor for something for more sardonic yet lovingly honest, I hear the music from the catch-phrase heavy late-90's phenomenon "Austing Powers." Just a few strains, the "Doot-deet-deet-doot-doot," the horns/organ combo that was all over every local news magazine show in 1999 whenever they dressed in '60s-mod gear to hip up a story about a local kid who had a Biblical case of the trots. I didn't even turn around to see the screen... then I heard Ludacris start-to-rappin'.
Not only has this "artist" run out of colors on his pallette, he's started chipping off of other artist's work from 6+ years ago. In stand-up, we call that "needing to update your references." Andthe guy is a multi-millionaire. To that I say, Great Job, Luda. I'm ready to make that kind of money, too. I'm open to the idea of creating for wealth by creating, especially if I don't have to work that hard at it. I would like to get her done.
Hey.... I think I'm on to something here...
Y'ever think that Religion is actually a fence, and not a conduit, between the human spirit and God, the Creative Energy of the Universe? As if it started as a way to connect, but became, instead, a way to create wealth for a few under the guise of poverty and celibacy? I guess it's all in what you believe, how you practice, your ability to deny guilt, and loving the dichotomous nature of your perfect spiritual being existing within a human lifeform.
Thank you, I'll be here all week, enjoy the airline food.
Be good to yourselves and your elves.
=============
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Thursday, April 07, 2005
Nostrildammit: Futuristic Forecaster, Egotist
Yes, I Love Technology
Television will continue to gain popularity as it is beamed to mobile communication devices. Families will gather around their hand-helds at church.
MCDs will be MP3 players, television sets, internet browsers, phones, typing terminals, blood alcohol sensors, vibrators, voting booths, ATM cards, stun-guns, RayBans, bear-spray guns, and/or Balance Bars, Honey Peanut flavor.
Downloading music will be "how it's done." The CD, record store, and shit pop-punk bands will become obsolete. Artist's will release new songs 3 at a time every 6 months for a fee of $5 to $10. People will plug their MCDs into their computers, download a song directly from an artist's website, and the fee will be sent over from the MCD via password protected bank or credit card account information. ***Shitty bands will not sell any songs because people under 18 years of age will not be allowed to make purchases via their MCDs.
Geoff Lott will fart.
The sad passing of Mitch Hedberg will cause a resurgence in the popularity of stand-up comedy. More people with less talent will be signing up at open mics. Club owners, waitstaff, bartenders, cooks and janitors will each make more on any given night than comics. Some comics will continue developing their acts into finely-tuned, perfectly crafted one-man acts that, while lacking insight and humor, will be like watching a play. Other comics will continue honing their act and get funnier. Nobody will be on TV.
The only thing on TV will be the News and replays of the videotape of Carson Daly being elected Pope, then being Punk'd by Ashton, then Ashton getting shot by Cardinals in the Vatican.
Firefighters will get less and less action as robots fight fires. The men who fought fires will become either pro wrestlers or go back to bouncing.
I'll run out of things to type abo...
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Television will continue to gain popularity as it is beamed to mobile communication devices. Families will gather around their hand-helds at church.
MCDs will be MP3 players, television sets, internet browsers, phones, typing terminals, blood alcohol sensors, vibrators, voting booths, ATM cards, stun-guns, RayBans, bear-spray guns, and/or Balance Bars, Honey Peanut flavor.
Downloading music will be "how it's done." The CD, record store, and shit pop-punk bands will become obsolete. Artist's will release new songs 3 at a time every 6 months for a fee of $5 to $10. People will plug their MCDs into their computers, download a song directly from an artist's website, and the fee will be sent over from the MCD via password protected bank or credit card account information. ***Shitty bands will not sell any songs because people under 18 years of age will not be allowed to make purchases via their MCDs.
Geoff Lott will fart.
The sad passing of Mitch Hedberg will cause a resurgence in the popularity of stand-up comedy. More people with less talent will be signing up at open mics. Club owners, waitstaff, bartenders, cooks and janitors will each make more on any given night than comics. Some comics will continue developing their acts into finely-tuned, perfectly crafted one-man acts that, while lacking insight and humor, will be like watching a play. Other comics will continue honing their act and get funnier. Nobody will be on TV.
The only thing on TV will be the News and replays of the videotape of Carson Daly being elected Pope, then being Punk'd by Ashton, then Ashton getting shot by Cardinals in the Vatican.
Firefighters will get less and less action as robots fight fires. The men who fought fires will become either pro wrestlers or go back to bouncing.
I'll run out of things to type abo...
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Wednesday, April 06, 2005
Bleach Your Ass, Soul.
Last night I watched an episode of MTV's "I Want a Famous Face." It's a new program about celebrity worship to the Nth-degree, where an idiot has surgery to resemble a celebrity some drunken, saggy-assed banker once told them they kind of looked like in order to see their soon-to-be-bleached butthole. Yes, people are doing this now as a matter of vanity. I know mine belies my rosey complexion. It's always embarrassed me around the Turkish steam bath.
In last night's "I Want a Better Life/Famous Face" the subject of the fawk-u-mentary was a ho-tard in New Jersey or somewhere in the NorthEast. Her name is unimportant, but it was Jenee, and probably still is. She was obsessed with looking like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, an actress whose parents couldn't figure out what to call her; "our daughter the topless model" or "our daughter the stripper." So they named her one of each. Anyhole, TAT is, by my own caveman brain, a good-looking woman. The chick who wanted to look like her was last-call decent.
Sadly, Jenee was born with a major birth defect, missing most of her self-esteem and personality. Neediness and anger issues with her dad had grown instead. And somewhere along the line, when the lights were low and her blue contacts were in place, and she had mascara'ed the mole onto her cheek, and somebody glanced at her quickly, she was told she looked like Tiffani Deborah-Gibson. From that party behind the Gas & Grumps forward, Jenee decided that was good enough and dedicated herself to trying to continue looking like Tiffani-Amber Waves.
Jenee fought with her boyfriend who she asked if there would be a problem if she sent her "after" pictures to Playboy, and what if she got into Playboy and moved to Los Angeles, would he move with her, because he wasn't doing nothing there anyway?!?! She was harshly annoying, but she was right. At one point he was interviewed while playing XBox and wearing his headset to talk with other players, while she sat on the other end of the bed (it's in the bedroom!?) going glassy-eyed over ending up in People magazine, hanging off of Luke Perry's hard-on like a trout on opening day of fishing season. Jenee wanted a "better life" than the one she had. She was a hairstylist in her mom's salon. Which means she took classes into the hundreds of hours to become a stylist, she didn't fall into it backwards. Her "better life" likely consisted of getting roofied more often and maybe someday waking up in bed that didn't have Star Wars sheets. Her famous face would get her there!
But Jenee didn't get a famous face. Jenee, instead, dropped $13,000 to get new tits, and have about 9 liters of fat sucked out of her midsection and thighs. If she really wanted to look like Marcia-Marcia Marcia, she would have needed a nose job to put a button on that horn of hers. Nope, tits and ribs. They sucked out fat like they were detailing her Acura. Afterwards she couldn't sit down to pee. Her boobs were obviously fake. And she wasn't happy, not with the size of her stomach, nor with having to pay a cover at some crappy Jersey shore nightclub.
The pics at the MTV link above were after Jenee had sat in a make-up artist's chair for an hour. An artist. A PAINTER made her look a lot like TAT, and the resulting pics were supposed to go to Playboy. They didn't. Jenee balked on her dream of showing her TwAT to millions of men. She'll have to settle for showing it to guys who say they are firemen, one at a time.
Your body and your psyche are in direct relationship to each other. Bodybuilders can't get big enough, in their minds. Anorexia causes people to see themselves as fat, still, FAT! But if you work on each of them, your self-esteem and your physical self, you'll find they meet in the middle, and just maybe you'll love yourself to not care what people think of the color your butthole. And isn't that the dream all parents have for their children?
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
In last night's "I Want a Better Life/Famous Face" the subject of the fawk-u-mentary was a ho-tard in New Jersey or somewhere in the NorthEast. Her name is unimportant, but it was Jenee, and probably still is. She was obsessed with looking like Tiffani-Amber Thiessen, an actress whose parents couldn't figure out what to call her; "our daughter the topless model" or "our daughter the stripper." So they named her one of each. Anyhole, TAT is, by my own caveman brain, a good-looking woman. The chick who wanted to look like her was last-call decent.
Sadly, Jenee was born with a major birth defect, missing most of her self-esteem and personality. Neediness and anger issues with her dad had grown instead. And somewhere along the line, when the lights were low and her blue contacts were in place, and she had mascara'ed the mole onto her cheek, and somebody glanced at her quickly, she was told she looked like Tiffani Deborah-Gibson. From that party behind the Gas & Grumps forward, Jenee decided that was good enough and dedicated herself to trying to continue looking like Tiffani-Amber Waves.
Jenee fought with her boyfriend who she asked if there would be a problem if she sent her "after" pictures to Playboy, and what if she got into Playboy and moved to Los Angeles, would he move with her, because he wasn't doing nothing there anyway?!?! She was harshly annoying, but she was right. At one point he was interviewed while playing XBox and wearing his headset to talk with other players, while she sat on the other end of the bed (it's in the bedroom!?) going glassy-eyed over ending up in People magazine, hanging off of Luke Perry's hard-on like a trout on opening day of fishing season. Jenee wanted a "better life" than the one she had. She was a hairstylist in her mom's salon. Which means she took classes into the hundreds of hours to become a stylist, she didn't fall into it backwards. Her "better life" likely consisted of getting roofied more often and maybe someday waking up in bed that didn't have Star Wars sheets. Her famous face would get her there!
But Jenee didn't get a famous face. Jenee, instead, dropped $13,000 to get new tits, and have about 9 liters of fat sucked out of her midsection and thighs. If she really wanted to look like Marcia-Marcia Marcia, she would have needed a nose job to put a button on that horn of hers. Nope, tits and ribs. They sucked out fat like they were detailing her Acura. Afterwards she couldn't sit down to pee. Her boobs were obviously fake. And she wasn't happy, not with the size of her stomach, nor with having to pay a cover at some crappy Jersey shore nightclub.
The pics at the MTV link above were after Jenee had sat in a make-up artist's chair for an hour. An artist. A PAINTER made her look a lot like TAT, and the resulting pics were supposed to go to Playboy. They didn't. Jenee balked on her dream of showing her TwAT to millions of men. She'll have to settle for showing it to guys who say they are firemen, one at a time.
Your body and your psyche are in direct relationship to each other. Bodybuilders can't get big enough, in their minds. Anorexia causes people to see themselves as fat, still, FAT! But if you work on each of them, your self-esteem and your physical self, you'll find they meet in the middle, and just maybe you'll love yourself to not care what people think of the color your butthole. And isn't that the dream all parents have for their children?
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
Tuesday, April 05, 2005
Uh...
I'm not sure, but there was a pause in the conference call I am on, and I think it's because of something I just said.
A number of "managers" are debating among each other whether or not to re-work 5 hours worth of data for a spreadsheet so they can filter it, so they can read it more easily. This means that they want to go BACK to the format I was using a month ago when they dropped a knee into the throat of that soldier. 10 hours of work, now going into another 5 hours of work, so a spreadsheet can be looked at for about 2 minutes if it's perfect. And no, they won't be doing any of the work.
The words "redundant horseshit" came to mind, and may have come out of my mouth, thus causing the pause. I can't really remember if they came out or not. I'm only sorry I wasn't face to face with them so that I could repeat myself.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
A number of "managers" are debating among each other whether or not to re-work 5 hours worth of data for a spreadsheet so they can filter it, so they can read it more easily. This means that they want to go BACK to the format I was using a month ago when they dropped a knee into the throat of that soldier. 10 hours of work, now going into another 5 hours of work, so a spreadsheet can be looked at for about 2 minutes if it's perfect. And no, they won't be doing any of the work.
The words "redundant horseshit" came to mind, and may have come out of my mouth, thus causing the pause. I can't really remember if they came out or not. I'm only sorry I wasn't face to face with them so that I could repeat myself.
Take Me Home
My Blog About My Dad
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