Everything He Said Was Mostly True
I'm busy looking for another way of making money so I can feed my comedy addiction, so here's a wrap up from last night.
Yes, Shoogs B and I were surrounded by some really hawt women when we got to Weirdos last night. I don't know why. Probably because our personalities and humor overshadow our amazingly handsome faces, so the women can look deeper than what's on the surface. One of the hawtties is a co-worker of mine, and we co-miserated on the Death Star's future. Major Company run into the ground and handed over while the body's still warm. Tell me again why I'm motivated to work here?
The girl in the braids, Marcella, has been lurking around Peg's and Weirdos for the last year. Last night she came over to chat with me, absent was the guy she's usually with. Either she's shy (uh, not in that low-cut of a top) or just broke up and was getting RIPPED. She had a pint glass of amber liquid that loosened one of my fillings. Hope she got home from the hospital okay.
I SWEAR THE GUY IN THE "LIQUID" CAP WAS A MIDGET. It's not unproven. I kept looking at his necklace for the Ring that in the darkness shrinks them. He looked like Chunk from The Goonies, but 27 and smoke-damaged. No more sideburns of unkempt status, okay fellas? It's 2004.
I have a new opening bit that is me, fully, and will go on to be the best opener I have for the next 2 months, or as long as it's sunny. Topical, yes, but isn't everything, including your ointments?
I'm beginning to work on an act that deals with Perspective, the importance of it, and how to get it. If I can make Perspective funny, I will quit comedy and everyone can kiss my honeybaked ham.
There's something comforting about a black lesbian comedian, and it's not that we have the same taste in women.
If you were born after 1965 and call yourself a "hippie," everyone else is calling you "irresponsible" and/or "stinky."
Beer Me,
Geoff
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.
Thursday, March 11, 2004
Wednesday, March 10, 2004
Christmas Gift Idea #1
I missed another great opportunity to cash in on self-aggrandizement backfiring! Now I can re-enact it anytime... not as fun, but I may take it. It takes two, baby.
A Day You Needn't Work Through
Let's address the fact that it's as perfect a March day as we're ever going to get in Washington, and we're all stuck in front of computers. I bet the company I work for could do without me today. I've been here most every day this year, and our stock is STILL getting its loss-margin handed to it by the Little Mermaid Coffee Company.
If my efforts aren't rocketing this company to any better than 1/3rd the stock price (13.50:37.50) of a retail outfit whose accessories include stuffed animals and Cranberry-Oatmeal-Potpourri Dreamcakes, then I think it's better that I take the day to re-assess my direction.
And by "re-assess" I mean go for coffee and write some jokes on the sad state of the Cellular Communications industry in this country. Fastest wireless data network? BAH to the text messaging! I drop calls in the same building the billing system runs from. Scone me.
Effective Management By Paranoia
The company I work for (I won't say it's "my company" as I sold my stock long ago and thus have no vested interest in its non-future) is in the mode of being purchased by another major player in the industry.
Today I sent a note to a friend of mine at the purchasing company, completely unrelated to work, much like the second half of my yesterday. The note was about one of her favorite performers, Prince, putting on a show at the end of this month and broadcasting it all over the nation to movie theaters.
I received an immediate response to my note! It read:
*** Due to the pending (Dipass Company Name Deleted) acquisition, your email message has been quarantined for review by the Legal Department of (Much Better-Run Company Name Deleted) Wireless . No action on your part is necessary. The data is (another CYA move, name deleted) and the action is Quarantined based on sender domain. ***
I feel like the substitute teacher caught me passing a note and wants me to come to the head of the class and read it aloud, and I'm not real cool widdit. This is usually where I do just that, then spend the next 3 days at home writing the 1500-word essay "I Will Respect The Substitute Teacher By Not Hanging a B.A. and Then 'Taking The Class Picture' When My Teacher Is Gone." In my mind the legal departments will look at the note and pass it on. In reality, they're staking out my place right now, tapping my phones, and rappelling through my windows, hoping to stop me before I make it as far as the Lake Forest Park Barstucks. Hey… You never saw me here.
GOOD NIGHT BALLARD! GOOD NIGHT FOREVER!
I had the good fortune of spending a few hours with my friends Crash Helmet and JohnnySuperstar last night, doing some comedy at an open mic in Ballard. Ballard is like San Francisco minus the name-brand designer shops, but all the passive-pretense as to their own hipness. Comedy was interspersed throughout the roster, with Johnny going first, then a poet and a musical act, then Crash, then a couple other gut-wounded-by-Love-and-Too-Much-Indie-Emo/Ani DiFranco-Influenced musical acts, then the Geoffmaster General here.
As the night kicks off we're told that a randomly-selected number of audience members will judge each performance, and the "winner" gets to "open" for some crappy two-fruit band ("Blowdog and Sneezy" or whatthefuggever) next Wednesday at the Blue Moon tavern. The Blue Moon, by the way, is not a gig you take when things are going well.
These spoils to the victor, First Prize, which apparently I win on sheer talent and the ability to captivate a quickly-drunkening (it's close enough to a word, shuddit) crowd of non-sexuality-decisive Ballardians. I don't care if someone's gay, straight, or Andy Dick, be who you are, but don't act like it's a fad and fashionable. Bad sideburns are all the rage on Ballard Ave. Say it with me… ''AND THAT'S JUST THE WOMEN!''
So yeah, I win the dumb thing and figure that I'm supposed to open the show for no money and no freebies at the Blue Moon. Last Place got an envelope filled with the overwhelming relief that they don't feel a weird obligation to open for Blowhole and Chewy at a bar that has a Lost and Found for livers and hope. Shucks, Blowgun and Droopy, looks like I can't make it. I have a date with Self-Esteem, and she's a fickle minx.
Extra Foam
I kid you not, I think I found my next job while checka-checkin' out the Bean Machine's website. The job is what I'm doing now, sans executive BS and Whistling Short People. Yes, I sit next to one of the Seven Dwarves. He was removed from the original story, but "Distracty" would have gotten a Soap-Sock Code Red by the Second Act anyway. Laugh and the world laughs with you. Whistle and you're a dick.
Pegasus tonight. Be there…
Geofferson
I missed another great opportunity to cash in on self-aggrandizement backfiring! Now I can re-enact it anytime... not as fun, but I may take it. It takes two, baby.
A Day You Needn't Work Through
Let's address the fact that it's as perfect a March day as we're ever going to get in Washington, and we're all stuck in front of computers. I bet the company I work for could do without me today. I've been here most every day this year, and our stock is STILL getting its loss-margin handed to it by the Little Mermaid Coffee Company.
If my efforts aren't rocketing this company to any better than 1/3rd the stock price (13.50:37.50) of a retail outfit whose accessories include stuffed animals and Cranberry-Oatmeal-Potpourri Dreamcakes, then I think it's better that I take the day to re-assess my direction.
And by "re-assess" I mean go for coffee and write some jokes on the sad state of the Cellular Communications industry in this country. Fastest wireless data network? BAH to the text messaging! I drop calls in the same building the billing system runs from. Scone me.
Effective Management By Paranoia
The company I work for (I won't say it's "my company" as I sold my stock long ago and thus have no vested interest in its non-future) is in the mode of being purchased by another major player in the industry.
Today I sent a note to a friend of mine at the purchasing company, completely unrelated to work, much like the second half of my yesterday. The note was about one of her favorite performers, Prince, putting on a show at the end of this month and broadcasting it all over the nation to movie theaters.
I received an immediate response to my note! It read:
*** Due to the pending (Dipass Company Name Deleted) acquisition, your email message has been quarantined for review by the Legal Department of (Much Better-Run Company Name Deleted) Wireless . No action on your part is necessary. The data is (another CYA move, name deleted) and the action is Quarantined based on sender domain. ***
I feel like the substitute teacher caught me passing a note and wants me to come to the head of the class and read it aloud, and I'm not real cool widdit. This is usually where I do just that, then spend the next 3 days at home writing the 1500-word essay "I Will Respect The Substitute Teacher By Not Hanging a B.A. and Then 'Taking The Class Picture' When My Teacher Is Gone." In my mind the legal departments will look at the note and pass it on. In reality, they're staking out my place right now, tapping my phones, and rappelling through my windows, hoping to stop me before I make it as far as the Lake Forest Park Barstucks. Hey… You never saw me here.
GOOD NIGHT BALLARD! GOOD NIGHT FOREVER!
I had the good fortune of spending a few hours with my friends Crash Helmet and JohnnySuperstar last night, doing some comedy at an open mic in Ballard. Ballard is like San Francisco minus the name-brand designer shops, but all the passive-pretense as to their own hipness. Comedy was interspersed throughout the roster, with Johnny going first, then a poet and a musical act, then Crash, then a couple other gut-wounded-by-Love-and-Too-Much-Indie-Emo/Ani DiFranco-Influenced musical acts, then the Geoffmaster General here.
As the night kicks off we're told that a randomly-selected number of audience members will judge each performance, and the "winner" gets to "open" for some crappy two-fruit band ("Blowdog and Sneezy" or whatthefuggever) next Wednesday at the Blue Moon tavern. The Blue Moon, by the way, is not a gig you take when things are going well.
These spoils to the victor, First Prize, which apparently I win on sheer talent and the ability to captivate a quickly-drunkening (it's close enough to a word, shuddit) crowd of non-sexuality-decisive Ballardians. I don't care if someone's gay, straight, or Andy Dick, be who you are, but don't act like it's a fad and fashionable. Bad sideburns are all the rage on Ballard Ave. Say it with me… ''AND THAT'S JUST THE WOMEN!''
So yeah, I win the dumb thing and figure that I'm supposed to open the show for no money and no freebies at the Blue Moon. Last Place got an envelope filled with the overwhelming relief that they don't feel a weird obligation to open for Blowhole and Chewy at a bar that has a Lost and Found for livers and hope. Shucks, Blowgun and Droopy, looks like I can't make it. I have a date with Self-Esteem, and she's a fickle minx.
Extra Foam
I kid you not, I think I found my next job while checka-checkin' out the Bean Machine's website. The job is what I'm doing now, sans executive BS and Whistling Short People. Yes, I sit next to one of the Seven Dwarves. He was removed from the original story, but "Distracty" would have gotten a Soap-Sock Code Red by the Second Act anyway. Laugh and the world laughs with you. Whistle and you're a dick.
Pegasus tonight. Be there…
Geofferson
Tuesday, March 09, 2004
Is This What The Kids Are Wearing These Days?
This speaks for itself. It says "This Prom Ain't The Only Thing Kickin'."
http://www.uglydress.com/pregpromdres.html
The Morning So Far
I rocketed straight from bed at the time of 8:17am! Within 15 minutes and one hour I was out the door to work! Lungs drawing in deep, full breaths of newly-stirred ethers 'round my visage. I stroll down the steps to the garage, peering across to the parking lot of the Long-Haul Trailer Repair Yard near my apartment building.
The morning stillness wrapped around their rumbling engines as diesel exhaust poured into the sky. YES, this is living!
I sauntered to my car and then drove to work, nothing happened on the way to work, nothing to mention, other than I would have run this one dipsh*t off the road if it were just he and I. Yeah, swerve into my lane a little more whilst you dial TalkRadio to give your opinion on legalizing marriage between homosexuals. Because the Puget Sound area needs to hear what you, Mr. AmericanFlag&BedLiner, Calvin peeing on a Chevy symbol, Fear This! (because he gots no insurance!) has to say about Love, Honor, and Spousal Abuse.
I have yet to reach my desk at this point, and I'm dreading that today will quickly spiral like the others. I ditch the elevator idea and head up the stairs. The stairwell smells like sweatsocks, curry, and/or despair. I turn to hit the second flight, and a rather slightly-built man is walking down. I'm a broad-shouldered, solidly built man with a few years of contact sports under my belt, not to mention strong peasant hips, good for pushing and hoisting. Knowing this and not being a total a-hole, I try to side-step a bit so I don't "accidentally" throw a shoulder into Bones Bonerman, although the ego on his face screams for it. But this is WORK, it's inappropriate.
I figure that I moved, he'll try and move a little too so we don’t slam… BOMP, he didn't move and we knock into each other, my shoulder just above his elbow. As he reels back a bit (I swear I didn't force the shoulder into him) I have a split second where I think that maybe it was my fault. Then I realize No, I've done my part by moving a little and turning a bit, this is a two-way street, and He of The Spider-like Limbs crossed the center lane. Instead of saying "sorry" I said "ooops, y'okay?" He didn't say anything and kept moving. Things are looking up.
I get to my cubicle (a.k.a. The WrapAround Demoralizer 4000-BS) and remember that I'm not a Free Range Human. I sweat it not, as I have a protein shake and some oatmeal to tide my cravings and burn off that stubborn belly of mine. The weirdness picks up immediately, like somebody had turned the car off in the middle of a song that makes my belly-button bleed, and CLICK, we're right back to the chorus.
Next to me is a hypochondriac who is likely allergic to mohair, yet owns at least a Baker's Dozen of these disgusting cat hair-infused garments. Sniffy, sniff… oh good, Sweater Vest is in a bad mood, too. Phone calls are shorter… and they aren't nervous-giggling through every conversation; I think I like the downside of ManicDepression in this one. Hopefully she stays "homepathic" and never quite gets past the stage of wearing clogs to work for an entire month.
Then my cellular telephone's display did that thing again where it cuts the words in half, then flips the bottom and top halves so the tops and bottoms of letters touch each other. If you need to call me, please have a Klingon do it, 'cause I don't know that hell is going on with this thing. Wondrous Technological Advances aside, this thing is an a$$hole.
So yeah, the first half of my day has been pretty normal, actually. Pray for me.
Lady, Nobody with Them Eyebrows Gots No Millyun Dollars
A possibly inbred but definitely and fiercely unattractive woman in Georgia attempted to pay for $1,671 worth of goods at a WalMart with a Million dollar bill. Read that sentence once or twice more to get the full effect, because it sums up 2 demographics so concisely even Anna Nicole Smith would understand it by the 3rd explanation. 1)WalMart Shoppers 2)Ugly people.
The ugliness may not feed into the decision-making process, but if you've ever been discriminated against on your looks, and we all have, you know that being unattractive is almost always a precursor to crimes of stupidity.
She tried to walk with $1700 worth of wares, from a WalMart! That is a lot of stirrup pants, Scrunchees ™, and crème-filled snacks. and uses a "novelty" MillionDollar bill to pay for it. I am positive she was not goofing WalMart, she really thought she'd get away with it! She not only made herself look stupid, but she drew forth an interesting dilemma: She insulted the intelligence of the WalMart staff, as if they'd actually fall for it… but they very well may have were it not for a manager being near-by to halt the transaction.
Plus, the One Millionth Customer there had 2 more of the bills in her purse. Her husband had givent them to her, according to her story. Oh sure, blame it on the husband, just cause he cain't work no more since his back done gone give out after he fell off the roof. No, he wudn't roofin', unless by "roofin' " y'all mean "drinkin' and shootin' squirrel and Indian-wrasslin' his brother Timmy Ray. Then yeah, he's a-roofin'." Is that too harsh? Before you answer, remember that a child in the world was just taken from their village to pay the parent's debts. Now explain harsh to me, Judgy Judgerson.
I'm going to lunch now. I will probably go get some sort of Grilled Veggies and Chicken at the Mongolian Grill in Woodinville, free advertising because they have water chestnuts! More than anything I hope it's going to stink to Holy Heaven when I sit back down at my desk with it. I'm talking about recreation doses of garlic, people. Hopefully my date will be ready, cuz we rollin' with the MillionDollar club today!
~Peace Out
Geoffers
"I'M A WEINER DOG!" ~Geoff "Shoogs B" Brousseau
This speaks for itself. It says "This Prom Ain't The Only Thing Kickin'."
http://www.uglydress.com/pregpromdres.html
The Morning So Far
I rocketed straight from bed at the time of 8:17am! Within 15 minutes and one hour I was out the door to work! Lungs drawing in deep, full breaths of newly-stirred ethers 'round my visage. I stroll down the steps to the garage, peering across to the parking lot of the Long-Haul Trailer Repair Yard near my apartment building.
The morning stillness wrapped around their rumbling engines as diesel exhaust poured into the sky. YES, this is living!
I sauntered to my car and then drove to work, nothing happened on the way to work, nothing to mention, other than I would have run this one dipsh*t off the road if it were just he and I. Yeah, swerve into my lane a little more whilst you dial TalkRadio to give your opinion on legalizing marriage between homosexuals. Because the Puget Sound area needs to hear what you, Mr. AmericanFlag&BedLiner, Calvin peeing on a Chevy symbol, Fear This! (because he gots no insurance!) has to say about Love, Honor, and Spousal Abuse.
I have yet to reach my desk at this point, and I'm dreading that today will quickly spiral like the others. I ditch the elevator idea and head up the stairs. The stairwell smells like sweatsocks, curry, and/or despair. I turn to hit the second flight, and a rather slightly-built man is walking down. I'm a broad-shouldered, solidly built man with a few years of contact sports under my belt, not to mention strong peasant hips, good for pushing and hoisting. Knowing this and not being a total a-hole, I try to side-step a bit so I don't "accidentally" throw a shoulder into Bones Bonerman, although the ego on his face screams for it. But this is WORK, it's inappropriate.
I figure that I moved, he'll try and move a little too so we don’t slam… BOMP, he didn't move and we knock into each other, my shoulder just above his elbow. As he reels back a bit (I swear I didn't force the shoulder into him) I have a split second where I think that maybe it was my fault. Then I realize No, I've done my part by moving a little and turning a bit, this is a two-way street, and He of The Spider-like Limbs crossed the center lane. Instead of saying "sorry" I said "ooops, y'okay?" He didn't say anything and kept moving. Things are looking up.
I get to my cubicle (a.k.a. The WrapAround Demoralizer 4000-BS) and remember that I'm not a Free Range Human. I sweat it not, as I have a protein shake and some oatmeal to tide my cravings and burn off that stubborn belly of mine. The weirdness picks up immediately, like somebody had turned the car off in the middle of a song that makes my belly-button bleed, and CLICK, we're right back to the chorus.
Next to me is a hypochondriac who is likely allergic to mohair, yet owns at least a Baker's Dozen of these disgusting cat hair-infused garments. Sniffy, sniff… oh good, Sweater Vest is in a bad mood, too. Phone calls are shorter… and they aren't nervous-giggling through every conversation; I think I like the downside of ManicDepression in this one. Hopefully she stays "homepathic" and never quite gets past the stage of wearing clogs to work for an entire month.
Then my cellular telephone's display did that thing again where it cuts the words in half, then flips the bottom and top halves so the tops and bottoms of letters touch each other. If you need to call me, please have a Klingon do it, 'cause I don't know that hell is going on with this thing. Wondrous Technological Advances aside, this thing is an a$$hole.
So yeah, the first half of my day has been pretty normal, actually. Pray for me.
Lady, Nobody with Them Eyebrows Gots No Millyun Dollars
A possibly inbred but definitely and fiercely unattractive woman in Georgia attempted to pay for $1,671 worth of goods at a WalMart with a Million dollar bill. Read that sentence once or twice more to get the full effect, because it sums up 2 demographics so concisely even Anna Nicole Smith would understand it by the 3rd explanation. 1)WalMart Shoppers 2)Ugly people.
The ugliness may not feed into the decision-making process, but if you've ever been discriminated against on your looks, and we all have, you know that being unattractive is almost always a precursor to crimes of stupidity.
She tried to walk with $1700 worth of wares, from a WalMart! That is a lot of stirrup pants, Scrunchees ™, and crème-filled snacks. and uses a "novelty" MillionDollar bill to pay for it. I am positive she was not goofing WalMart, she really thought she'd get away with it! She not only made herself look stupid, but she drew forth an interesting dilemma: She insulted the intelligence of the WalMart staff, as if they'd actually fall for it… but they very well may have were it not for a manager being near-by to halt the transaction.
Plus, the One Millionth Customer there had 2 more of the bills in her purse. Her husband had givent them to her, according to her story. Oh sure, blame it on the husband, just cause he cain't work no more since his back done gone give out after he fell off the roof. No, he wudn't roofin', unless by "roofin' " y'all mean "drinkin' and shootin' squirrel and Indian-wrasslin' his brother Timmy Ray. Then yeah, he's a-roofin'." Is that too harsh? Before you answer, remember that a child in the world was just taken from their village to pay the parent's debts. Now explain harsh to me, Judgy Judgerson.
I'm going to lunch now. I will probably go get some sort of Grilled Veggies and Chicken at the Mongolian Grill in Woodinville, free advertising because they have water chestnuts! More than anything I hope it's going to stink to Holy Heaven when I sit back down at my desk with it. I'm talking about recreation doses of garlic, people. Hopefully my date will be ready, cuz we rollin' with the MillionDollar club today!
~Peace Out
Geoffers
"I'M A WEINER DOG!" ~Geoff "Shoogs B" Brousseau
Monday, March 08, 2004
Speaking Of Inappropriate
The Boston Whistler is still doing all he can to make it known that they are in the building at all times. Be it a link-less train of notes whistling through a corridor of lay-off worries and bad coffee or decimating a bathroom, the BW is all about making noise. It's bad enough that we all have to hear it, but I feel worse for the women. They have to deal with this, possibly for an average of 30-cents less an hour. By the end of the week, it would've been better if he'd just stared at their PosTit Notes for a second too long at yet another "Team Builder" activity (read: milkshakes at the Ranch Drive-Inn).
Yet I feel a need to be unctuous. He's got his self an office! He must be real important! I think he should have the same Open Door Policy as every other office dweller 'round these parts. "If the door is open, please shut it."
And I ain't just whistlin' "Dixie." Ever.
He just completed 4 bars of a Mozart piece… Whistling Mozart. Good thing he's working for a cellular communications outfit. He reminds me of a cellular telephone in a library. Noxious tones ring forth at inopportune moments, alerting those around them of the owner's lack of environmental awareness, and never a Slient Button when you need one.
We Got Ribs For Sale All Month Long
Some guy's been cutting up cadavers at the UCLA medical school and selling them to "Corporate Clients." (note to self: no more Tony Roma's this year) I'm betting my company bought extra lips so the Executives could kiss their own asses.
At least now we know how much an arm and a leg really costs.
http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story2&cid=2026&u=/latimests/20040308/ts_latimes/mansayshesolduclascadavers&printer=1
Road Tripping
I spent the weekend in the city of the Sate Capital, Olympia, and had one of the finest chill weekends of my life.
White Chicken Chili was on the menu for Friday night. It's as good a dish as I've had in a long time. Prepped with the capable and caring hands of "M," currently being consumed as my lunch. "M" rocks. That's all you need to know for now.
I caught the latest Quentin Tarantino flick, "Kill Bill, Vol. 1" while I was there, and I tells ya… it was very Tarantino. Take that however you like. Good movie, but the soundtrack makes you wanna Tae-Bo everything on your credenza. It's invigorating.
Olympia is also a pretty liberal city, judging from the number of tattoo parlors and unkempt sideburns. I won't ever be a nappy facial-hair guy. It's how I was raised, to look clean and free of chiggers.
And right now I'd rather be on a boat drinking with "M" and my friends than sitting in front of a damn computer.
This, too, is Perspective.
To Know Me Is To Wonder What's Wrong With Me
I am fully realizing myself more and more, and it's pretty dang entertaining. While waiting for "Kill Bill, Nerds In Paradise," to start the other night, 40 minutes late while the 7 VW-van-loads of neuveau hipster-dirt sauntered in, an employee of the theater came forth to apologize for the late start. Smartly dressed in Chucks, a "vintage" rock T, and overalls, he stammered through a paragraph's worth of words to say "Sorry, we know it's late. We'll get this thing moving when the rest of the filthies hit the seats, enjoy the previews."
He went on a good 3 minutes, looking very uncomfortable. He finshed up and began to walk off-stage, with a slight pause before turning for the steps down. In that split second "This is funny, and I care not what these people think," so I began to stand up and applaud. "M" caught me and we started laughing before I went too far, but the idea was good, even if it didn't come to a full applause break.
The feeling of boredom and ridiculous lag time was in the air, I felt the need to break it up a little bit. I also asked out-loud and to nobody in particular "Hey, can we smoke in here?" and, following yet another announcement by the same employee, I mentioned how this was possibly the worst one-man, two-act play ever produced. Oh well, at least we mixed Ginger Ale and vanilla vodka right under their noses/seats.
This is Me for now, but that may change.
Geoffers
The Boston Whistler is still doing all he can to make it known that they are in the building at all times. Be it a link-less train of notes whistling through a corridor of lay-off worries and bad coffee or decimating a bathroom, the BW is all about making noise. It's bad enough that we all have to hear it, but I feel worse for the women. They have to deal with this, possibly for an average of 30-cents less an hour. By the end of the week, it would've been better if he'd just stared at their PosTit Notes for a second too long at yet another "Team Builder" activity (read: milkshakes at the Ranch Drive-Inn).
Yet I feel a need to be unctuous. He's got his self an office! He must be real important! I think he should have the same Open Door Policy as every other office dweller 'round these parts. "If the door is open, please shut it."
And I ain't just whistlin' "Dixie." Ever.
He just completed 4 bars of a Mozart piece… Whistling Mozart. Good thing he's working for a cellular communications outfit. He reminds me of a cellular telephone in a library. Noxious tones ring forth at inopportune moments, alerting those around them of the owner's lack of environmental awareness, and never a Slient Button when you need one.
We Got Ribs For Sale All Month Long
Some guy's been cutting up cadavers at the UCLA medical school and selling them to "Corporate Clients." (note to self: no more Tony Roma's this year) I'm betting my company bought extra lips so the Executives could kiss their own asses.
At least now we know how much an arm and a leg really costs.
http://news.yahoo.com/news?tmpl=story2&cid=2026&u=/latimests/20040308/ts_latimes/mansayshesolduclascadavers&printer=1
Road Tripping
I spent the weekend in the city of the Sate Capital, Olympia, and had one of the finest chill weekends of my life.
White Chicken Chili was on the menu for Friday night. It's as good a dish as I've had in a long time. Prepped with the capable and caring hands of "M," currently being consumed as my lunch. "M" rocks. That's all you need to know for now.
I caught the latest Quentin Tarantino flick, "Kill Bill, Vol. 1" while I was there, and I tells ya… it was very Tarantino. Take that however you like. Good movie, but the soundtrack makes you wanna Tae-Bo everything on your credenza. It's invigorating.
Olympia is also a pretty liberal city, judging from the number of tattoo parlors and unkempt sideburns. I won't ever be a nappy facial-hair guy. It's how I was raised, to look clean and free of chiggers.
And right now I'd rather be on a boat drinking with "M" and my friends than sitting in front of a damn computer.
This, too, is Perspective.
To Know Me Is To Wonder What's Wrong With Me
I am fully realizing myself more and more, and it's pretty dang entertaining. While waiting for "Kill Bill, Nerds In Paradise," to start the other night, 40 minutes late while the 7 VW-van-loads of neuveau hipster-dirt sauntered in, an employee of the theater came forth to apologize for the late start. Smartly dressed in Chucks, a "vintage" rock T, and overalls, he stammered through a paragraph's worth of words to say "Sorry, we know it's late. We'll get this thing moving when the rest of the filthies hit the seats, enjoy the previews."
He went on a good 3 minutes, looking very uncomfortable. He finshed up and began to walk off-stage, with a slight pause before turning for the steps down. In that split second "This is funny, and I care not what these people think," so I began to stand up and applaud. "M" caught me and we started laughing before I went too far, but the idea was good, even if it didn't come to a full applause break.
The feeling of boredom and ridiculous lag time was in the air, I felt the need to break it up a little bit. I also asked out-loud and to nobody in particular "Hey, can we smoke in here?" and, following yet another announcement by the same employee, I mentioned how this was possibly the worst one-man, two-act play ever produced. Oh well, at least we mixed Ginger Ale and vanilla vodka right under their noses/seats.
This is Me for now, but that may change.
Geoffers
Friday, March 05, 2004
See and Be Scene
It's been 6 days since I last set foot upon a stage, and I'm fine with that. The more I hear stories about the muck of the Seattle Comedy Scene the happier I am to be spending my nights writing and getting my life in order. To say or believe "I must be on stage!" in dramatic "Our Town" fashion would be egotistic if not overreactive. Comedy isn't going anywhere.
Take that last sentence any way you like.
The Seattle comedy scene stinks. No newspapers have a "comedy club" section. Clubs are lumped in with 100 other "To Do" events, but the advertising and hype just isn't there for comedy. KMTT, 103.7 does a pretty fair job of pushing the scene, but only if there's somebody "big" in town.
How often can you go see Hit Explosion? Oh yay, The Retros are playing again… yay and stuff. Comedy is way more adult-oriented than any of that crap. You can be any age and come to an early show in a Seattle club, and you're not going to have your eardrums blown out or get roofied by pooka-shell Frat droppings. Usually. We want to entertain you. Come see us. We love yooooou!
Rumours and Tumours
The company I work for (DeathStar Communications) is in turmoil. When you're lied to for a year, and lied to about being lied to for months after that lie is made public, then your job is sold out from under you, turmoil tends to bubble up from beneath the feelings of betrayal and dysentery.
In the midst of all of this we now have a "stock issue" where the bid price for the cash buyout is about 9% higher than where our stock is already… meaning that even when someone says "you're worth X-much," management still cannot live up to that expectation.
In the midst of both of those comes the "in-house industry analysts" who read or thought they read or read about what someone thought about this whole box of rocks. These turds then walk around trying to strike up conversations about what's going on, because they have some stolen perspective on the topic.
Tell me again… how does a person with such "expertise" of Corporate Acquisitions and Mergers, as well as stock price-gap analysis, end up changing copier ink cartridges for $15 an hour? Why howdy ho, they ought'n to be runnin' this show! Don't ya think?
These are the same people who go to the doctor with pain in their chest and a tingly left arm and say "I slept on it wrong. I'm positive it's just from sleeping on it wrong." And that's why this company has no heart.
And While I'm At It
If you have kids, stop talking about your kids all the time. If you can't have kids, stop talking about your pets all the time. Your cat doesn't have trust issues with you. It hates you. That's why it filled your Aerosoles with Kitty Roca. I grew up with cats and never came back to a slipper-load of Tabby Tootsie Rolls.
And… are you sure it wasn't your husband, send you subtle hints about your wardrobe being a turn-off, thus your lack of offspring?
Who wants to bring kids into this world, anyway? It's horrible! With the war, the famine, and Freddie Prinze, Jr. movies, what kind of world is this to raise kids in? How can you give them hope when Heather Graham has a MOVIE career?
What's My Problem Today?
I'm endulging my meaner side. We all have it, and nobody lets it out. They try and wrap it in the success of their latest diet (The Chicago Pizza/No-Crust Plan!) and choke it back with a double-thick hate shake. People can annoy you even if you don't let 'em. I can get used to my alarm going off in the morning, and sleep through it. I can get used to a dull ache in my face from having my gumline restructured. I can even get used to a dog yappin' on a lazy (i.e. vodka-blurred) fall afternoon when I'm trying to nap.
But I can never, and will never, get used to people overpowering conversations with banality and a breadth of pop culture knowledge that drops off around 1985. The world kept turning, why didn't your wardrobe?
Comedy isn't going anywhere. I am. It starts with an "O" and ends with an "A," and there's an "M" in the middle of it.
~Geoff
"I've never paid for sex, but I've had a couple of great dates where I paid for dinner."
~ Geoffrey Lott
It's been 6 days since I last set foot upon a stage, and I'm fine with that. The more I hear stories about the muck of the Seattle Comedy Scene the happier I am to be spending my nights writing and getting my life in order. To say or believe "I must be on stage!" in dramatic "Our Town" fashion would be egotistic if not overreactive. Comedy isn't going anywhere.
Take that last sentence any way you like.
The Seattle comedy scene stinks. No newspapers have a "comedy club" section. Clubs are lumped in with 100 other "To Do" events, but the advertising and hype just isn't there for comedy. KMTT, 103.7 does a pretty fair job of pushing the scene, but only if there's somebody "big" in town.
How often can you go see Hit Explosion? Oh yay, The Retros are playing again… yay and stuff. Comedy is way more adult-oriented than any of that crap. You can be any age and come to an early show in a Seattle club, and you're not going to have your eardrums blown out or get roofied by pooka-shell Frat droppings. Usually. We want to entertain you. Come see us. We love yooooou!
Rumours and Tumours
The company I work for (DeathStar Communications) is in turmoil. When you're lied to for a year, and lied to about being lied to for months after that lie is made public, then your job is sold out from under you, turmoil tends to bubble up from beneath the feelings of betrayal and dysentery.
In the midst of all of this we now have a "stock issue" where the bid price for the cash buyout is about 9% higher than where our stock is already… meaning that even when someone says "you're worth X-much," management still cannot live up to that expectation.
In the midst of both of those comes the "in-house industry analysts" who read or thought they read or read about what someone thought about this whole box of rocks. These turds then walk around trying to strike up conversations about what's going on, because they have some stolen perspective on the topic.
Tell me again… how does a person with such "expertise" of Corporate Acquisitions and Mergers, as well as stock price-gap analysis, end up changing copier ink cartridges for $15 an hour? Why howdy ho, they ought'n to be runnin' this show! Don't ya think?
These are the same people who go to the doctor with pain in their chest and a tingly left arm and say "I slept on it wrong. I'm positive it's just from sleeping on it wrong." And that's why this company has no heart.
And While I'm At It
If you have kids, stop talking about your kids all the time. If you can't have kids, stop talking about your pets all the time. Your cat doesn't have trust issues with you. It hates you. That's why it filled your Aerosoles with Kitty Roca. I grew up with cats and never came back to a slipper-load of Tabby Tootsie Rolls.
And… are you sure it wasn't your husband, send you subtle hints about your wardrobe being a turn-off, thus your lack of offspring?
Who wants to bring kids into this world, anyway? It's horrible! With the war, the famine, and Freddie Prinze, Jr. movies, what kind of world is this to raise kids in? How can you give them hope when Heather Graham has a MOVIE career?
What's My Problem Today?
I'm endulging my meaner side. We all have it, and nobody lets it out. They try and wrap it in the success of their latest diet (The Chicago Pizza/No-Crust Plan!) and choke it back with a double-thick hate shake. People can annoy you even if you don't let 'em. I can get used to my alarm going off in the morning, and sleep through it. I can get used to a dull ache in my face from having my gumline restructured. I can even get used to a dog yappin' on a lazy (i.e. vodka-blurred) fall afternoon when I'm trying to nap.
But I can never, and will never, get used to people overpowering conversations with banality and a breadth of pop culture knowledge that drops off around 1985. The world kept turning, why didn't your wardrobe?
Comedy isn't going anywhere. I am. It starts with an "O" and ends with an "A," and there's an "M" in the middle of it.
~Geoff
"I've never paid for sex, but I've had a couple of great dates where I paid for dinner."
~ Geoffrey Lott
Thursday, March 04, 2004
Is That A Threat?
I got a call for a Pat Wilson run in May... Rah Rah Rah. Hey, anybody wanna tell jokes to drunken hicks who are more interested in shouting "show us yer boobs!" to the new waitress over your jokes, while you drive 250 miles and make $175? Sorry, I'm worth more than that. I get this line from the booker, "Well, you need to call with your available dates at least 2 months in advance, because we're booking that far ahead." And the tone was "you're going to be missing out. Your loss!" Maybe they caught me on a bad day, but they want to threaten me with THAT? WITH WHAT? When will I ever reach my goal of MC'ing the Bremerton Howard Johnson??? There's nothing more entertaining than a comedian with money in their pocket. They don't need the $50, so they're gonna pull that funny trigger until you're riddled with funnies. Pat Wilson runs are like vibrators with no batteries. I understand the need, but really, there's nothing in it for you.
The Almost Best Revenge
As you may have read, I sit near some rather "differently pleasant" people. They make a lot of different noises, from daily coughing fits you can set your watch to (if I know when it will happen, how do they miss it?), to whistling for the sake of looking less like a knob (call it Mission Impossible). So I decided that from now on, whenever they are eating at their desk, I'm going to add a little ambience to the meal... I'm now clipping my fingernails exclusively at work. Those clippings will fly, people, cover your curry!
The Best Music Video You'll Never See:
Michael Jackson walking through Neverland ranch, it's now a ghost-town. Tumbleweeds and Huggies Pull-ups blowing across the walkway, animal cages empty. The ferris wheel has come off one side of the axle… A lone BigWheel tricycle with sunglasses on the seat is blown slowly in circles by the wind.
Jump-cut to: MJ in a jail cell reading Harry Potter and The Order Of Hotwings, tears rolling down his face. Walls covered in pictures of sad kids, drawn in crayon. Empty Capri Sun pouches litter the cell floor.
cut back to: MJ outside of Children's Hospital, standing near a Toys R Us truck, eyes heavenward, tears streaming down his face. Police officers stand btwn him and the entrance...
cut back to: MJ in the jail cell, holding a Gap Kids bag. He reaches in and pulls out a 45 of "ABC - 123," a sequined glove, and a subpoena. Tears fall onto the subpoena, as the ink runs into a single stream, dripping slowly onto MJ's hands, darkening them to the color he was as a child. Multiple images of The Jackson 5, Merry-Go-Rounds, sitting on the witness stand, sick kids in a hospital all flash onto the screen. Michael stands outside a Chuck E. Cheese, head bowed, surrounded by police, church groups, and sad clowns.
The song playing: This Used To Be My Playground
Somebody's been snooping in Casa de Shoogs!
That's all I have time for now. Go get in touch with yourself.
I got a call for a Pat Wilson run in May... Rah Rah Rah. Hey, anybody wanna tell jokes to drunken hicks who are more interested in shouting "show us yer boobs!" to the new waitress over your jokes, while you drive 250 miles and make $175? Sorry, I'm worth more than that. I get this line from the booker, "Well, you need to call with your available dates at least 2 months in advance, because we're booking that far ahead." And the tone was "you're going to be missing out. Your loss!" Maybe they caught me on a bad day, but they want to threaten me with THAT? WITH WHAT? When will I ever reach my goal of MC'ing the Bremerton Howard Johnson??? There's nothing more entertaining than a comedian with money in their pocket. They don't need the $50, so they're gonna pull that funny trigger until you're riddled with funnies. Pat Wilson runs are like vibrators with no batteries. I understand the need, but really, there's nothing in it for you.
The Almost Best Revenge
As you may have read, I sit near some rather "differently pleasant" people. They make a lot of different noises, from daily coughing fits you can set your watch to (if I know when it will happen, how do they miss it?), to whistling for the sake of looking less like a knob (call it Mission Impossible). So I decided that from now on, whenever they are eating at their desk, I'm going to add a little ambience to the meal... I'm now clipping my fingernails exclusively at work. Those clippings will fly, people, cover your curry!
The Best Music Video You'll Never See:
Michael Jackson walking through Neverland ranch, it's now a ghost-town. Tumbleweeds and Huggies Pull-ups blowing across the walkway, animal cages empty. The ferris wheel has come off one side of the axle… A lone BigWheel tricycle with sunglasses on the seat is blown slowly in circles by the wind.
Jump-cut to: MJ in a jail cell reading Harry Potter and The Order Of Hotwings, tears rolling down his face. Walls covered in pictures of sad kids, drawn in crayon. Empty Capri Sun pouches litter the cell floor.
cut back to: MJ outside of Children's Hospital, standing near a Toys R Us truck, eyes heavenward, tears streaming down his face. Police officers stand btwn him and the entrance...
cut back to: MJ in the jail cell, holding a Gap Kids bag. He reaches in and pulls out a 45 of "ABC - 123," a sequined glove, and a subpoena. Tears fall onto the subpoena, as the ink runs into a single stream, dripping slowly onto MJ's hands, darkening them to the color he was as a child. Multiple images of The Jackson 5, Merry-Go-Rounds, sitting on the witness stand, sick kids in a hospital all flash onto the screen. Michael stands outside a Chuck E. Cheese, head bowed, surrounded by police, church groups, and sad clowns.
The song playing: This Used To Be My Playground
Somebody's been snooping in Casa de Shoogs!
That's all I have time for now. Go get in touch with yourself.
Wednesday, March 03, 2004
And A Stick To Bite Down On
Yesterday I endured 45 minutes of periodontal assault and battery. Damn the teeth grinding I have had my whole life! I wore down a molar to the point that it needs a crown, but a crown needs a bed to lay in, being the gums. The lingual (tongue) side of the tooth was eroded from the skritching of teef, so the gumline had to be moved down (read: peeled away, jawbone ground-down a bit, gum sutured into place) for the crown. See how smart it is to have healthy gums that don't recede? I took care of my gums, and all I got was this lousy swollen cheek, spitting blood, and 10 Vicodin. No, I won't share. Get your own nightguard.
Just Be Yourself... or try to be someone like you...
You want comedy? Go get it yourself. I'm out of the light for a bit. I realized last week at Pegasus Pizza that there are some people who will NEVER understand what comedy is about. You have to be a funny person before you get on stage to make it work right. But I tried, see, I wasn't BEING. I was TRYING, and that came across in all I did and said. I don't feel very funny right now, not after all I've been through, and even with close to 1,000 people seeing shows over 3 weeks and laughing a LOT at my performances, I don't feel like I'm funny. I simply AM. If that makes people laugh, fine, I'm a comedian. If they don't laugh, fine, I'm a Republican.
That was tee-ball, people! That was peasy.
This is Funny
"M" is out on the road for her job and she's stuck out the Olympic Peninsula, barrelling from town to town on Highway 101. Entertainment in that region of the state is as hard to find as an 18 year-old virgin in that region of the state. While driving back to her home-base on the road she was looking for some musical entertainment via le radio. On the road back from Forks to Port Angeles, what should she find? Perfect... AC/DC's "Highway To Hell." If only those citizens knew God was laughing at them. And if they knew, they'd say they'd be... "THUNDERSTRUCK!"
Two AC/DC refs in one snippet? Who else is giving you this sweet, sweet action? Nobody, party of zero, your table is NOT ready.
And yes, "M" likes that I offer "Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap." I don't know what they are, but it seems to be working okay thus far.
How May I Direct Your Calling?
Everyone has something in their life they are called to do. Whether it be feeding the hungry children of the world, being the most celebrated American Idol cast-off, or finding a cure for Carson Daly, we each have a talent that is our passion, our calling. What's yours? Do you know? What would choose to do if you could make $50,000 a year, tops, but you got to choose the job? Therein lies your passion.
So when someone comes along and mocks it, you would tend to get upset, right? Even if your child isn't that beautiful, yet just wired your whole house to run off a mouse-wheel, even if the mouse ain't on it, you still love that kid. If someone said, "nice wheel, but your kid's ugly," you are within your means to lose your mind on them.
Find what you love. Do what you love, even if you aren't getting paid for it yet, and don't stand idly by while someone steps on it. It's yours. Own it.
I'm out. Time for a Vicodin/DayQuil smoothie.
Geoffers
Yesterday I endured 45 minutes of periodontal assault and battery. Damn the teeth grinding I have had my whole life! I wore down a molar to the point that it needs a crown, but a crown needs a bed to lay in, being the gums. The lingual (tongue) side of the tooth was eroded from the skritching of teef, so the gumline had to be moved down (read: peeled away, jawbone ground-down a bit, gum sutured into place) for the crown. See how smart it is to have healthy gums that don't recede? I took care of my gums, and all I got was this lousy swollen cheek, spitting blood, and 10 Vicodin. No, I won't share. Get your own nightguard.
Just Be Yourself... or try to be someone like you...
You want comedy? Go get it yourself. I'm out of the light for a bit. I realized last week at Pegasus Pizza that there are some people who will NEVER understand what comedy is about. You have to be a funny person before you get on stage to make it work right. But I tried, see, I wasn't BEING. I was TRYING, and that came across in all I did and said. I don't feel very funny right now, not after all I've been through, and even with close to 1,000 people seeing shows over 3 weeks and laughing a LOT at my performances, I don't feel like I'm funny. I simply AM. If that makes people laugh, fine, I'm a comedian. If they don't laugh, fine, I'm a Republican.
That was tee-ball, people! That was peasy.
This is Funny
"M" is out on the road for her job and she's stuck out the Olympic Peninsula, barrelling from town to town on Highway 101. Entertainment in that region of the state is as hard to find as an 18 year-old virgin in that region of the state. While driving back to her home-base on the road she was looking for some musical entertainment via le radio. On the road back from Forks to Port Angeles, what should she find? Perfect... AC/DC's "Highway To Hell." If only those citizens knew God was laughing at them. And if they knew, they'd say they'd be... "THUNDERSTRUCK!"
Two AC/DC refs in one snippet? Who else is giving you this sweet, sweet action? Nobody, party of zero, your table is NOT ready.
And yes, "M" likes that I offer "Dirty Deeds, Done Dirt Cheap." I don't know what they are, but it seems to be working okay thus far.
How May I Direct Your Calling?
Everyone has something in their life they are called to do. Whether it be feeding the hungry children of the world, being the most celebrated American Idol cast-off, or finding a cure for Carson Daly, we each have a talent that is our passion, our calling. What's yours? Do you know? What would choose to do if you could make $50,000 a year, tops, but you got to choose the job? Therein lies your passion.
So when someone comes along and mocks it, you would tend to get upset, right? Even if your child isn't that beautiful, yet just wired your whole house to run off a mouse-wheel, even if the mouse ain't on it, you still love that kid. If someone said, "nice wheel, but your kid's ugly," you are within your means to lose your mind on them.
Find what you love. Do what you love, even if you aren't getting paid for it yet, and don't stand idly by while someone steps on it. It's yours. Own it.
I'm out. Time for a Vicodin/DayQuil smoothie.
Geoffers
Monday, March 01, 2004
Yes, Virginia, There Is a Separate Santa Claus for Poor People
I'm going in for oral surgery tomorrow, called a "crown lengthening." Yep, having some jawbone reshaped in order to allow enough gumline room for a fake toof to be put in my mouth… I'm wondering how necessary this is right now. SuperGlue and "Lefty" scissors won't cut the periodontal mustard.
Recapping the last few days will be fun! I want to relive all the dead-weight comedy of a man I call "Oafmeal Grunty," so as not to divulge his true identity and allow people to think I enjoy him. I will tell you of his exploits! I will tell you of mine! I will tell you about the ridiculousness of a competition in which highly subjective material is judged by folks who would know very very little about Performance Skills, even if its canines were firmly entrenched in their tone-lacking sit-blobs.
I think it's important to address a fundamental issue affecting the nation right now. We'll get into it later, but I ask you this: A Child's Health Care? How little can they get by with? There will be a quiz.
Yes, I finished my second and last comedy competition on Saturday night. 3 weeks. 19 shows. 2 hours, 45 minutes of performance time. About 650 miles on the road. 4th place overall. Were it not for Oafmeal in the 3-hole bringing an average of 10 friends per show, many of which voted on his performance while submarining other comedian's scores. He's done it the past few years, also. Yes, it's a flawed system. The fact that Oafy was every close to first place, to WINNING, is a joke in itself. So where does my passion for comedy cross over into wanting some integrity in the scene? To the point where I can say anything I want in private to a performer, as long as I care not one iota of clown make-up how they react. Nobody can claim patents on the Chocolate Chip Cookie, because one small change, one different measurement "makes it your own." So what if it's got extra vanilla, it's STILL A CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE, you can't say it's "yours." Oafy is not a comedian. He's a guy who needs a lot of attention and coddling from people in an affluent community so that he can sell them windows or hardwood floors or whatever it is he sells. "Hey Honey, we have a draft here. We should double-pane the kid's rooms. Hunter and Molly both caught a chill last May. Let's call Oafy! His work is a stroke of genius."
Comedy and Writing are my passions, and I reserve the right to talk a LOT of sauce about it. Oafy, it wasn't your cookie to begin with. Get out of the kitchen, or bring something with actual fire to cook with. And that's more than you can shake your Stick at.
I feel truly drained after all those shows, as if comedy and I just had a shouting match in front of WalMart on Christmas Eve. Should have been a fun time were it not for being in WalMart for gifts and getting mad over it! I really don't feel like performing for a while. Then I come back to my "dayjob" and have to sit next to an adult allergy sufferer (i.e. hypochondriac) and the whistly wee-man with upper-respiratory issues. I really need to get my writing off the ground. I can't spend 6 months listening to Wheezy hack and sniff and whistle his way through many more 4-hour days, waxing moronically about the importance of spreadsheet input. The next sound you hear will be a Grey Goose flying home to roost 'ponst m'ice.
Yep, so now here's the Kid's Health deal. "Health-care fee for poor kids causes split." This is a $5/month premium paid by people on Medicaid to give their kids health coverage, voted on by Washington state legislature in the next 10 days. First of all, every child is poor, and are under the care of their benefactors (i.e. Parents, Guardians, Roman Polanski) to be provided with food, shelter, clothing, and an education. The Republicans and The Democrats, honestly two of the worst rock bands ever manifested, are split on this. Scandalous, I know. Here's their take:
Democrats: Premiums will force families to drop out of Medicaid, thus negating all health care to their family. SNAP!
Republicans: Families should take responsibility for paying at least a part of their kid's health care. HUZZAH!
Many families don’t have the extra $5/month to spare for their kid's health. If the kids have no health coverage they have to go to emergency rooms for care. This is time consuming and possibly traumatizing to the kid, not to mention that he's being teased at school for being poor and wearing an original John Deere trucker hat, regardless of authenticity.
If forced to tell my opinion, I'd say this: No child should be going hungry or uncared-for in this country. Every day that Carson Daly has a TV show and a child's tummy rumbles, a TV producer's Wheel Of Karma stops on "Lose A Turn." Yes, I think parents should be responsible for their children until that child is of legal age to drive or run shirt-making machinery. I would gladly pay $5 to make sure my neighbor's child is taken care of, but at what point does that child become MY responsibility? It's an investment in your child. This is health care, folks. Shots, colds, bumps on the head after trash-daddy, uh, nudges them down the stairs. We’re not talking tooth-bleaching trays or rhinoplasty.
I can see why this has taken the back seat of the Handbasket while a debate rages of Gay Marriages. Childhood Ricketsly speaking, What do children need more? Proper health care or a visit from the Fab Five? If a child needs help, Don't suffer the children when we should impose sanctions on the real culprits: Food engineers who haven't included enzymes in Animal Beer and other foods o' the poor which cause people to become sterile if they down more than a half-case a month. Go to the source.
Yeah, I said it. What?
Geoff
I'm going in for oral surgery tomorrow, called a "crown lengthening." Yep, having some jawbone reshaped in order to allow enough gumline room for a fake toof to be put in my mouth… I'm wondering how necessary this is right now. SuperGlue and "Lefty" scissors won't cut the periodontal mustard.
Recapping the last few days will be fun! I want to relive all the dead-weight comedy of a man I call "Oafmeal Grunty," so as not to divulge his true identity and allow people to think I enjoy him. I will tell you of his exploits! I will tell you of mine! I will tell you about the ridiculousness of a competition in which highly subjective material is judged by folks who would know very very little about Performance Skills, even if its canines were firmly entrenched in their tone-lacking sit-blobs.
I think it's important to address a fundamental issue affecting the nation right now. We'll get into it later, but I ask you this: A Child's Health Care? How little can they get by with? There will be a quiz.
Yes, I finished my second and last comedy competition on Saturday night. 3 weeks. 19 shows. 2 hours, 45 minutes of performance time. About 650 miles on the road. 4th place overall. Were it not for Oafmeal in the 3-hole bringing an average of 10 friends per show, many of which voted on his performance while submarining other comedian's scores. He's done it the past few years, also. Yes, it's a flawed system. The fact that Oafy was every close to first place, to WINNING, is a joke in itself. So where does my passion for comedy cross over into wanting some integrity in the scene? To the point where I can say anything I want in private to a performer, as long as I care not one iota of clown make-up how they react. Nobody can claim patents on the Chocolate Chip Cookie, because one small change, one different measurement "makes it your own." So what if it's got extra vanilla, it's STILL A CHOCOLATE CHIP COOKIE, you can't say it's "yours." Oafy is not a comedian. He's a guy who needs a lot of attention and coddling from people in an affluent community so that he can sell them windows or hardwood floors or whatever it is he sells. "Hey Honey, we have a draft here. We should double-pane the kid's rooms. Hunter and Molly both caught a chill last May. Let's call Oafy! His work is a stroke of genius."
Comedy and Writing are my passions, and I reserve the right to talk a LOT of sauce about it. Oafy, it wasn't your cookie to begin with. Get out of the kitchen, or bring something with actual fire to cook with. And that's more than you can shake your Stick at.
I feel truly drained after all those shows, as if comedy and I just had a shouting match in front of WalMart on Christmas Eve. Should have been a fun time were it not for being in WalMart for gifts and getting mad over it! I really don't feel like performing for a while. Then I come back to my "dayjob" and have to sit next to an adult allergy sufferer (i.e. hypochondriac) and the whistly wee-man with upper-respiratory issues. I really need to get my writing off the ground. I can't spend 6 months listening to Wheezy hack and sniff and whistle his way through many more 4-hour days, waxing moronically about the importance of spreadsheet input. The next sound you hear will be a Grey Goose flying home to roost 'ponst m'ice.
Yep, so now here's the Kid's Health deal. "Health-care fee for poor kids causes split." This is a $5/month premium paid by people on Medicaid to give their kids health coverage, voted on by Washington state legislature in the next 10 days. First of all, every child is poor, and are under the care of their benefactors (i.e. Parents, Guardians, Roman Polanski) to be provided with food, shelter, clothing, and an education. The Republicans and The Democrats, honestly two of the worst rock bands ever manifested, are split on this. Scandalous, I know. Here's their take:
Democrats: Premiums will force families to drop out of Medicaid, thus negating all health care to their family. SNAP!
Republicans: Families should take responsibility for paying at least a part of their kid's health care. HUZZAH!
Many families don’t have the extra $5/month to spare for their kid's health. If the kids have no health coverage they have to go to emergency rooms for care. This is time consuming and possibly traumatizing to the kid, not to mention that he's being teased at school for being poor and wearing an original John Deere trucker hat, regardless of authenticity.
If forced to tell my opinion, I'd say this: No child should be going hungry or uncared-for in this country. Every day that Carson Daly has a TV show and a child's tummy rumbles, a TV producer's Wheel Of Karma stops on "Lose A Turn." Yes, I think parents should be responsible for their children until that child is of legal age to drive or run shirt-making machinery. I would gladly pay $5 to make sure my neighbor's child is taken care of, but at what point does that child become MY responsibility? It's an investment in your child. This is health care, folks. Shots, colds, bumps on the head after trash-daddy, uh, nudges them down the stairs. We’re not talking tooth-bleaching trays or rhinoplasty.
I can see why this has taken the back seat of the Handbasket while a debate rages of Gay Marriages. Childhood Ricketsly speaking, What do children need more? Proper health care or a visit from the Fab Five? If a child needs help, Don't suffer the children when we should impose sanctions on the real culprits: Food engineers who haven't included enzymes in Animal Beer and other foods o' the poor which cause people to become sterile if they down more than a half-case a month. Go to the source.
Yeah, I said it. What?
Geoff
Thursday, February 26, 2004
Why I Am Doing This
I'm off to Olympia for the Giggles Laugh-Off, Finals Week. Now we're into the money round. I want to do the best I can, that's it. To admit that any of the other performers are funnier than I am is to say cake is better than pie. We've been through this. You like pie? Cake ain't gonna cut it. Is cake your thing? Then pie is the Goat-headed firebeast of your post-dining experience! Is it a popularity contest? I don't know. I know that at the end of my set I want to know I just went out and did my thing and did it well. And I'm going to have fun this week.
And I'm not serving up no cake jokes. Filling is in, flour is out. Dig it.
I'm off to Olympia for the Giggles Laugh-Off, Finals Week. Now we're into the money round. I want to do the best I can, that's it. To admit that any of the other performers are funnier than I am is to say cake is better than pie. We've been through this. You like pie? Cake ain't gonna cut it. Is cake your thing? Then pie is the Goat-headed firebeast of your post-dining experience! Is it a popularity contest? I don't know. I know that at the end of my set I want to know I just went out and did my thing and did it well. And I'm going to have fun this week.
And I'm not serving up no cake jokes. Filling is in, flour is out. Dig it.
Reactionary Management
This is an actual line from an actual company-wide e-mail regarding the Netsky virus that started manifesting on 2/2504.
"If the subject line or body text doesn’t make sense, it’s probably a Netsky email.Any email with an attachment, even one from someone you know, should be regarded as suspicious. If the subject line or body text doesn’t make sense, it’s probably a Netsky email."
This would be true of 75% of the crap I get from co-workers every day. I'm using this as an excuse to delete busy work (a.k.a. "coloring books") from my InBox. Rad.
The Master of Ceremoaning
It's gorgeous out today and I'm inside. I'm stuck at my desk. Ten feet away is the office of a guy who is new to the company, brand new. Brand spanking new personnel in an office (read: meeting-calling lower-middle manager), while numerous peeps have been handed their walking papers. Not me, though. I'm at the level where I'm a fully interchangeable cog in the machine. They're not going to lay me off.
The next sound you hear will be me, full-body sobbing.
Back to the new guy. He's from the East coast, and he's got a pretty annoying habit. Lots of guys do it. Not many women go for it. He's trying to set a record. He whistles. Yep. Puts his lips together and sucks the peace out of the day by whistling non-descript notes into the air. No songs. No symphonies or classical movements. No Strauss. No Wagner. No Chopin. No Snoop. No Dre. No Dido. No Vanilla Fudge. No Moby Grape. No Three Dog Night. No BTO. No Eagles. No John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band. Just notes. Just randomly placed notes. Whistled. Just notes strung together in 8 second bursts that lead nowhere. Say this sentence: "Dog and shoe for you and me and tree and go and though we know for cheese is pleasing yay!" That's the verbal equivalent of his whistling.
So WHY whould he whistle? Why whistle at all? We do it for different reasons, I know. This is an environment where, if a person talks loudly at their cube on the phone, they believe they are seen as "motivated." I refer to them as "grossly underachieving." Whistlers must be "jaunty!" BOOOO! This is crap. Something needs to be said. This guy talks loud, whistles loud, leaves his cell-phone ringer on the highest volume and likes to impart as much "Corporate Speech for Dummies" as possible. This includes "matrix management" and "cross-leveraging disciplines to think out of the box in order to force-grow market share potentials." After reading that, did anyone else throw up in their mouth?
This is nothing new, and certainly not office-worthy. Offices only afford people quieted phone conversations and circulating their own flatulence. And the gasbags here are prob'ly frying their circuits from lack of oxygen. Luckily they have a good circulation going from the whistling.
Oh. Now I get it. I'm not cut out for management.
As far as comedy goes I'm on the verge of another break-through. I've been doing my jokes so often these past few weeks that I'm ready for all new stuff. I'm going to take some time off the stage on the weekends throughout March so that I can recharge, write, and watch some buddies do their comedy ha-ha. Comedy is a tough endeavor. It's fun and fulfilling and immediate justice (funny = laugh, not funny = no laugh), but to do it right, with total originality, performance skills, and connecting to an audience requires talents and blessings that a lot of guys will never have. I have them to a point so I need to exercise them to build them up. But people doing street jokes is like whistling "Singing In the Rain" when it's Raining. One, the irony is not funny. Two, it's SINGING in the Rain, not whistling in the rain. Keep it to yourself.
Olympia, here I come.
Geoffers
This is an actual line from an actual company-wide e-mail regarding the Netsky virus that started manifesting on 2/2504.
"If the subject line or body text doesn’t make sense, it’s probably a Netsky email.Any email with an attachment, even one from someone you know, should be regarded as suspicious. If the subject line or body text doesn’t make sense, it’s probably a Netsky email."
This would be true of 75% of the crap I get from co-workers every day. I'm using this as an excuse to delete busy work (a.k.a. "coloring books") from my InBox. Rad.
The Master of Ceremoaning
It's gorgeous out today and I'm inside. I'm stuck at my desk. Ten feet away is the office of a guy who is new to the company, brand new. Brand spanking new personnel in an office (read: meeting-calling lower-middle manager), while numerous peeps have been handed their walking papers. Not me, though. I'm at the level where I'm a fully interchangeable cog in the machine. They're not going to lay me off.
The next sound you hear will be me, full-body sobbing.
Back to the new guy. He's from the East coast, and he's got a pretty annoying habit. Lots of guys do it. Not many women go for it. He's trying to set a record. He whistles. Yep. Puts his lips together and sucks the peace out of the day by whistling non-descript notes into the air. No songs. No symphonies or classical movements. No Strauss. No Wagner. No Chopin. No Snoop. No Dre. No Dido. No Vanilla Fudge. No Moby Grape. No Three Dog Night. No BTO. No Eagles. No John Cafferty and The Beaver Brown Band. Just notes. Just randomly placed notes. Whistled. Just notes strung together in 8 second bursts that lead nowhere. Say this sentence: "Dog and shoe for you and me and tree and go and though we know for cheese is pleasing yay!" That's the verbal equivalent of his whistling.
So WHY whould he whistle? Why whistle at all? We do it for different reasons, I know. This is an environment where, if a person talks loudly at their cube on the phone, they believe they are seen as "motivated." I refer to them as "grossly underachieving." Whistlers must be "jaunty!" BOOOO! This is crap. Something needs to be said. This guy talks loud, whistles loud, leaves his cell-phone ringer on the highest volume and likes to impart as much "Corporate Speech for Dummies" as possible. This includes "matrix management" and "cross-leveraging disciplines to think out of the box in order to force-grow market share potentials." After reading that, did anyone else throw up in their mouth?
This is nothing new, and certainly not office-worthy. Offices only afford people quieted phone conversations and circulating their own flatulence. And the gasbags here are prob'ly frying their circuits from lack of oxygen. Luckily they have a good circulation going from the whistling.
Oh. Now I get it. I'm not cut out for management.
As far as comedy goes I'm on the verge of another break-through. I've been doing my jokes so often these past few weeks that I'm ready for all new stuff. I'm going to take some time off the stage on the weekends throughout March so that I can recharge, write, and watch some buddies do their comedy ha-ha. Comedy is a tough endeavor. It's fun and fulfilling and immediate justice (funny = laugh, not funny = no laugh), but to do it right, with total originality, performance skills, and connecting to an audience requires talents and blessings that a lot of guys will never have. I have them to a point so I need to exercise them to build them up. But people doing street jokes is like whistling "Singing In the Rain" when it's Raining. One, the irony is not funny. Two, it's SINGING in the Rain, not whistling in the rain. Keep it to yourself.
Olympia, here I come.
Geoffers
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Meta-Post-It Note: Just Be
1: Is anybody actually reading this thing?
2: Holy crap, what is singing to me on the new Quizno’s commercials? Nothing Pavlov’s my dog for a hoagy like a yodeling tumor. Too bad it’s memorable. “Hey babe, let’s grab Quizno’s for dinner. I want a Southwest Fire-Grilled Turkey and Cyst.”
3-whenever: I revisited another important lesson last night: Just Be. It’s been a while since I felt like I could Just Be. The past few weeks have entailed a comedy competition, I have a tooth that needs a little work, I turned 30, I went to Las Vegas, I was violently ill in Vegas, I’m not going to Open Mics, I learned about the Prayer of Jabez, and I’m spending time on the phone instead of in the company of “M,” which is good for pacing but bad for expression of attraction. If you know not what I mean by that, stop reading now. To Just Be: Apply no pressure to myself to apply pressure to any other situations, allowing things to build of their own accord. Have wine. Sleep.
Really all I wanna do right now is write and perform and hang with “M.” I’m working for a rather poorly-run company, being micro-managed down to the last keystroke… heh-heh, stroke… and told that it’s the “only way to properly run a business.” Who knew that Big Brother was so anal retentive? I never had a Big Brother, but now I see why folks who did are so scarred the rest of their lives. Big Brother ought to just sock me in the arm, not make me feel like I have to clock out when I pray that the voices in my head stop telling me to “go for the hammer.” To Just Be: Plumb the depths of these moments for all the comedy gold there is, panning through detritus for shiny nuggets. Then it’s time for Merlot. Merlot can ya go?
EVERYBODY is stressed here, even the delirious Little House On The Floodplain neighbor of mine. Some people combat stress with drinking, shopping, eating, exercise, creative expression, or nervous energy. I’ve done all of those, mostly shopping, exercise, and creative expression through nervous energy (peed my pants at the store, called it performance art). Floodplain Sally over here combats stress with an overabundance of nervous laughter and a yearning, burning for a life in the hills. To quote the deeply troubled and soulfully pristine troubadour Bruce Dickinson, “RUN TO THE HEEEEEELS!” I will not miss conversations about the family cat’s trust issues, nor the amount of arm hair shed from this month’s eczema flare up. To Just Be: Put on the headphones and listen to Jim Gaffigan.
I think I have Asperger Syndrome. I have a hard time making small-talk with people of lower intelligence. This is a relief. I was worried that I was just another elitist snob who wanted the dumb to die. WHEW.
Urban Outfitters is getting press again for a shirt that says “Voting Is For Old People.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s true. Nobody wants to vote because you can’t Text Message it in. I think more people voted for American Idol than the last 5 school levies. If we don’t vote, Ryan Seacrest has already won.
If I could be anywhere right now, I’d be in Florence, Italy on a patio with a local family who wants nothing more than to talk about Life and drink wine. You know why? Because we are short on time and long on stress and that leads to white noise. The world’s problems have never been settled on battlefields or in bedrooms. They are settled at the tables of great minds and brave hearts, half drunk on wine instead of power. Then you retire to your room to make love all frigging night. That’s what Life is. Deny that, and you’re just another non-voting Commie Pinko assneck who gives crank to Quizno's lemur tumor-pups.
Kill Hack Comedy,
Geoffers
1: Is anybody actually reading this thing?
2: Holy crap, what is singing to me on the new Quizno’s commercials? Nothing Pavlov’s my dog for a hoagy like a yodeling tumor. Too bad it’s memorable. “Hey babe, let’s grab Quizno’s for dinner. I want a Southwest Fire-Grilled Turkey and Cyst.”
3-whenever: I revisited another important lesson last night: Just Be. It’s been a while since I felt like I could Just Be. The past few weeks have entailed a comedy competition, I have a tooth that needs a little work, I turned 30, I went to Las Vegas, I was violently ill in Vegas, I’m not going to Open Mics, I learned about the Prayer of Jabez, and I’m spending time on the phone instead of in the company of “M,” which is good for pacing but bad for expression of attraction. If you know not what I mean by that, stop reading now. To Just Be: Apply no pressure to myself to apply pressure to any other situations, allowing things to build of their own accord. Have wine. Sleep.
Really all I wanna do right now is write and perform and hang with “M.” I’m working for a rather poorly-run company, being micro-managed down to the last keystroke… heh-heh, stroke… and told that it’s the “only way to properly run a business.” Who knew that Big Brother was so anal retentive? I never had a Big Brother, but now I see why folks who did are so scarred the rest of their lives. Big Brother ought to just sock me in the arm, not make me feel like I have to clock out when I pray that the voices in my head stop telling me to “go for the hammer.” To Just Be: Plumb the depths of these moments for all the comedy gold there is, panning through detritus for shiny nuggets. Then it’s time for Merlot. Merlot can ya go?
EVERYBODY is stressed here, even the delirious Little House On The Floodplain neighbor of mine. Some people combat stress with drinking, shopping, eating, exercise, creative expression, or nervous energy. I’ve done all of those, mostly shopping, exercise, and creative expression through nervous energy (peed my pants at the store, called it performance art). Floodplain Sally over here combats stress with an overabundance of nervous laughter and a yearning, burning for a life in the hills. To quote the deeply troubled and soulfully pristine troubadour Bruce Dickinson, “RUN TO THE HEEEEEELS!” I will not miss conversations about the family cat’s trust issues, nor the amount of arm hair shed from this month’s eczema flare up. To Just Be: Put on the headphones and listen to Jim Gaffigan.
I think I have Asperger Syndrome. I have a hard time making small-talk with people of lower intelligence. This is a relief. I was worried that I was just another elitist snob who wanted the dumb to die. WHEW.
Urban Outfitters is getting press again for a shirt that says “Voting Is For Old People.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it’s true. Nobody wants to vote because you can’t Text Message it in. I think more people voted for American Idol than the last 5 school levies. If we don’t vote, Ryan Seacrest has already won.
If I could be anywhere right now, I’d be in Florence, Italy on a patio with a local family who wants nothing more than to talk about Life and drink wine. You know why? Because we are short on time and long on stress and that leads to white noise. The world’s problems have never been settled on battlefields or in bedrooms. They are settled at the tables of great minds and brave hearts, half drunk on wine instead of power. Then you retire to your room to make love all frigging night. That’s what Life is. Deny that, and you’re just another non-voting Commie Pinko assneck who gives crank to Quizno's lemur tumor-pups.
Kill Hack Comedy,
Geoffers
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Elbow to the Earhole
The current menu: Grande Light-Ice Nonfat Latte and Low-carb Cheese Puffs. Good thing I’m secure with myself. The latte tastes as if it’s been curdled, really very bitter, I’m gonna take it back because $3 worth of coffee and milk should not taste like $0.72 worth of coffee and underwear elastic. Should it?
Someone two rows away is coughing like they’re iller than a Run-DMC rap, and I’m tired of hearing them hack to the point of wretching, yet they haven’t the strength to go for water. YAY, now we all get to hear it. If it happens again I’m Heimliching them until they either hork into their supply drawer or throw me a $50, because I hear enough hack at open mics. Don’t I>
There’s a guy I work with who is, to say the least, an eclectic personality. We’ll call him Toolio. A really wonderful mixture of Junior High Wise-ass and Wendy’s swing-shift assistant manager, total charmer. He truly believes he’s both riotously funny and socially capable of greasing the hinges of the door on the Friendly Buddy Boy board room. He’s going through a divorce, which I know only because he has overly loud telephone conversations with his estranged (very fitting word) wife and/or her lawyers. He also has a child, which reinforces my desire for an enzyme in Mt. Dew that causes people who drink more than 2 liters a year to auto-sterilize themselves. They don’t cater Nobel Prize Ceremonies with Code Red. Do they?
So I get back from Trader Joe’s shoppin’ and I have a large bag with me that has a number of items to be refrigerated. I brought the whole bag in because it’s raining outside and I didn’t feel like standing in to grab and balance 5 cold items then run inside and blah blah. As I get to the kitchen area, where the freezer be, Toolio is standing in the door way, back to the door, stirring and staring into a cup of work-sponsored coffee. I pardon myself past him, as he saunters, sort-of, sideways so I can get by. I’m twice his size, it’s all I can do to not hip-check this plasma waster into the wall-mounted First Aid tackle box. Isn’t it?
I immediately sense his brain whirring to make a comment about the bag I’m carrying. I’ve done it before, myself, in Sarcasm 101. Big bag, near lunch time, why not a joke aimed at the size of the bag, associating it with a lunch-carrying tote? How about “So did you run out of big lunch bags?” or “Anna Nicole Smith’s packing your lunches again, eh?” Toolio offers me this: “Ya know, when I pack my lunches, I, like, usually, uh, like pack it in…” THIS HAS ALREADY TAKEN TOO LONG AND WILL NOT BE FUNNY. Brevity is the bain of twits. He finishes with “… a, uh, smaller sack.” Must he?
This is the same guy who, when someone brings donuts to work, will break them in half with his hands, and take half of one, half of another, and leave the fondled halves behind… We have knives for that. He will go desk to desk to organize a pot-luck, encouraging people to bring enough for 30 people to consume. On the big day, he shows up with a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper, a store-brand bag of “riffled” potato chips, and a seven-layer dip from QFC. This past halloween he organized a day to allow people with kids to bring the kids into work so we could hand candy out to them. I have no kids, so I don’t get 3 hours off to do this, and I’m pretty sure a couple guys in this office shouldn’t be within 200 yards of adolescents. People spend money decorating their desks and buying candy for the kids, all 7, who come by over the course of 3 hours on a FRIDAY, so eveyone has to wait around on a FRIDAY to do basically nothing. Toolio uses the whiteboard next to his cube to draw a scary “jack o’ lantern,” and hands out… ready?... RAISINS. PEOPLE, I CAN GET RAISINS ON THE OUTSIDE. I PONY UP FOR SOUR GUMMI WORMS AND FUN-SIZE KIT KATS, I EXPECT AT LEAST AN ALMOND JOY IN RETURN. Don’t I?
I’m not a violent person. A lot more can be solved by confusing and frustrating your opponent than physically battering them. But gawd, it would feel so good to lower a shoulder and propel myself into the back of chair as he crash-tested his keyboard. Because when I get into other people’s business and have nothing to offer, I deserve to get my come-uppance when I least expect it. Don’t I?
In my mind, he's icing a knot on his head from where he hit the wall-mounted First Aid kit. In reality, I'm happy he's not hurt. He's getting divorced, he's got years of that coming to him.
Next stop, Latte Retribution.
The current menu: Grande Light-Ice Nonfat Latte and Low-carb Cheese Puffs. Good thing I’m secure with myself. The latte tastes as if it’s been curdled, really very bitter, I’m gonna take it back because $3 worth of coffee and milk should not taste like $0.72 worth of coffee and underwear elastic. Should it?
Someone two rows away is coughing like they’re iller than a Run-DMC rap, and I’m tired of hearing them hack to the point of wretching, yet they haven’t the strength to go for water. YAY, now we all get to hear it. If it happens again I’m Heimliching them until they either hork into their supply drawer or throw me a $50, because I hear enough hack at open mics. Don’t I>
There’s a guy I work with who is, to say the least, an eclectic personality. We’ll call him Toolio. A really wonderful mixture of Junior High Wise-ass and Wendy’s swing-shift assistant manager, total charmer. He truly believes he’s both riotously funny and socially capable of greasing the hinges of the door on the Friendly Buddy Boy board room. He’s going through a divorce, which I know only because he has overly loud telephone conversations with his estranged (very fitting word) wife and/or her lawyers. He also has a child, which reinforces my desire for an enzyme in Mt. Dew that causes people who drink more than 2 liters a year to auto-sterilize themselves. They don’t cater Nobel Prize Ceremonies with Code Red. Do they?
So I get back from Trader Joe’s shoppin’ and I have a large bag with me that has a number of items to be refrigerated. I brought the whole bag in because it’s raining outside and I didn’t feel like standing in to grab and balance 5 cold items then run inside and blah blah. As I get to the kitchen area, where the freezer be, Toolio is standing in the door way, back to the door, stirring and staring into a cup of work-sponsored coffee. I pardon myself past him, as he saunters, sort-of, sideways so I can get by. I’m twice his size, it’s all I can do to not hip-check this plasma waster into the wall-mounted First Aid tackle box. Isn’t it?
I immediately sense his brain whirring to make a comment about the bag I’m carrying. I’ve done it before, myself, in Sarcasm 101. Big bag, near lunch time, why not a joke aimed at the size of the bag, associating it with a lunch-carrying tote? How about “So did you run out of big lunch bags?” or “Anna Nicole Smith’s packing your lunches again, eh?” Toolio offers me this: “Ya know, when I pack my lunches, I, like, usually, uh, like pack it in…” THIS HAS ALREADY TAKEN TOO LONG AND WILL NOT BE FUNNY. Brevity is the bain of twits. He finishes with “… a, uh, smaller sack.” Must he?
This is the same guy who, when someone brings donuts to work, will break them in half with his hands, and take half of one, half of another, and leave the fondled halves behind… We have knives for that. He will go desk to desk to organize a pot-luck, encouraging people to bring enough for 30 people to consume. On the big day, he shows up with a 2-liter of Dr. Pepper, a store-brand bag of “riffled” potato chips, and a seven-layer dip from QFC. This past halloween he organized a day to allow people with kids to bring the kids into work so we could hand candy out to them. I have no kids, so I don’t get 3 hours off to do this, and I’m pretty sure a couple guys in this office shouldn’t be within 200 yards of adolescents. People spend money decorating their desks and buying candy for the kids, all 7, who come by over the course of 3 hours on a FRIDAY, so eveyone has to wait around on a FRIDAY to do basically nothing. Toolio uses the whiteboard next to his cube to draw a scary “jack o’ lantern,” and hands out… ready?... RAISINS. PEOPLE, I CAN GET RAISINS ON THE OUTSIDE. I PONY UP FOR SOUR GUMMI WORMS AND FUN-SIZE KIT KATS, I EXPECT AT LEAST AN ALMOND JOY IN RETURN. Don’t I?
I’m not a violent person. A lot more can be solved by confusing and frustrating your opponent than physically battering them. But gawd, it would feel so good to lower a shoulder and propel myself into the back of chair as he crash-tested his keyboard. Because when I get into other people’s business and have nothing to offer, I deserve to get my come-uppance when I least expect it. Don’t I?
In my mind, he's icing a knot on his head from where he hit the wall-mounted First Aid kit. In reality, I'm happy he's not hurt. He's getting divorced, he's got years of that coming to him.
Next stop, Latte Retribution.
The Torrent
I’m miffed. Nay, I’m angered. Nay, just annoyed be I, but quite so. This is okay. Anger is NOT a bad emotion. That’s a natural reaction to a situation. It’s a bizzarro happiness, a reflection of acceptance in a crack’d and blood-caked mirror under a nearly-shorted lightbulb.
Why are we so down on anger in this country? Anger Management was not only a (moderately decent) movie, it’s a multi-million dollar industry now. Like anything good and healthy, Anger has a bad reputation because it was mis-used. Same thing happened with firearms, marijuana, and Paris Hilton’s audition tape. Someone did wrong with it, and now we all must suffer.
This is perspective. This is where we have a view of what we MIGHT have, were it not for idiots ruining it for us. The Government playing a backwards Robin Hood, (see: “trickle down economics”), cutting taxes for the wealthiest Americans while at the same time cutting welfare benefits to those at or under the poverty line. While I don’t agree that the wealthiest folks should have giant tax cuts, I also don’t feel they should be penalized for having the where-with-all to make that kind of dough.
Just because they can afford to pay 50% in taxes doesn’t mean they should have to. I can afford a Jaguar S-Type yet nobody forces me to buy and drive one. But if we didn’t have to pay taxes, none of us would. Sales tax would be 30% across the board, so they government would get it one way or another. It’s not like the government’s track record for spending is stellar. It’s like a redneck 4th Of July: Got some extra cash, gonna get some cheap beers, throw a BBQ, and blow the crap out of a stump or two. The neighbors, meanwhile, stare in amazement as the young’uns find their only nourishment suckling what’s left of their BBQ sauce-dipped rat-tail. At what point does a wealthy neighbor help out? When the poor neighbor volunteers to clean up his yard, mow the lawn, and paint the house. Love thy neighbor, got it. But I ain’t coddling thy neighbor.
And I’m the A-hole for having an opinion? America was built on angry opinions! Taxes were too high! Restrictions on my G*d worship! Arranged marriages! And when the system could not be beat, the founders set sail for a new land, a new time and place, to build a nation from the ground up. Hard work and toil and faith were the ingredients. And we worked VERY hard to dupe the natives out of land and impart slavery so the White Folks wouldn’t have to do any of the actual work, because damn, have you been to Georgia in August? HOOOO boy, that’s HAWT! We’re adept at telling people what to do, it’s just usually wrong for the masses and should be kept to ourselves. And I know that now because of perspective. I’ve worked hard, and I’ve hardly worked. I like them both, and I've rarely had anyone do either of them for me.
More anger to come as I hit the roads.
I’m miffed. Nay, I’m angered. Nay, just annoyed be I, but quite so. This is okay. Anger is NOT a bad emotion. That’s a natural reaction to a situation. It’s a bizzarro happiness, a reflection of acceptance in a crack’d and blood-caked mirror under a nearly-shorted lightbulb.
Why are we so down on anger in this country? Anger Management was not only a (moderately decent) movie, it’s a multi-million dollar industry now. Like anything good and healthy, Anger has a bad reputation because it was mis-used. Same thing happened with firearms, marijuana, and Paris Hilton’s audition tape. Someone did wrong with it, and now we all must suffer.
This is perspective. This is where we have a view of what we MIGHT have, were it not for idiots ruining it for us. The Government playing a backwards Robin Hood, (see: “trickle down economics”), cutting taxes for the wealthiest Americans while at the same time cutting welfare benefits to those at or under the poverty line. While I don’t agree that the wealthiest folks should have giant tax cuts, I also don’t feel they should be penalized for having the where-with-all to make that kind of dough.
Just because they can afford to pay 50% in taxes doesn’t mean they should have to. I can afford a Jaguar S-Type yet nobody forces me to buy and drive one. But if we didn’t have to pay taxes, none of us would. Sales tax would be 30% across the board, so they government would get it one way or another. It’s not like the government’s track record for spending is stellar. It’s like a redneck 4th Of July: Got some extra cash, gonna get some cheap beers, throw a BBQ, and blow the crap out of a stump or two. The neighbors, meanwhile, stare in amazement as the young’uns find their only nourishment suckling what’s left of their BBQ sauce-dipped rat-tail. At what point does a wealthy neighbor help out? When the poor neighbor volunteers to clean up his yard, mow the lawn, and paint the house. Love thy neighbor, got it. But I ain’t coddling thy neighbor.
And I’m the A-hole for having an opinion? America was built on angry opinions! Taxes were too high! Restrictions on my G*d worship! Arranged marriages! And when the system could not be beat, the founders set sail for a new land, a new time and place, to build a nation from the ground up. Hard work and toil and faith were the ingredients. And we worked VERY hard to dupe the natives out of land and impart slavery so the White Folks wouldn’t have to do any of the actual work, because damn, have you been to Georgia in August? HOOOO boy, that’s HAWT! We’re adept at telling people what to do, it’s just usually wrong for the masses and should be kept to ourselves. And I know that now because of perspective. I’ve worked hard, and I’ve hardly worked. I like them both, and I've rarely had anyone do either of them for me.
More anger to come as I hit the roads.
Monday, February 23, 2004
What A Really Great Day
First off, YES, my schedule is out of date. My File Transfer program is having iss-ues, so I can't send updates to the Hosting site to get all my news up. I'll have it fixed before week's end. Let me know if you're interested in the schedule this week, send me an e-mail at geofflottrules@yahoo.com
Ideas shared on the AT&T Wireless Sellout.
I got up late today, like a little before 9am, which is when I should be at work. I was up late talking about all kinds of stuff with a really awesome woman, heretofore referred to as "M," to protect her privacy and spare her the embarrassment of being at all involved with me. Not that she WOULD be, but with the whole "Six Degrees Of Turkey Bacon" or whatever that is, someone else she knows or I know may be an embarrassment to both of us, and it's better left in the dark. "The dark" = Hoquiam.
I had a great weekend. The weather was great, sunny and clear all over the Puget Sound region. I got to see "M" on Friday night for a bit, got to hang with my boy Shoogs and talk about all kind of stuff, and topped it all off with a couple of stellar sets that launched me into the finals of the Giggles Comedy Club Laugh-Off And Tax Return Fund. I really let it all hang out on Saturday night, wallowing in 6th place and had not yet grabbed a set by the short ones and showed it who's Idi Amin in this comedy jungle. The less I care about scores, the better I do. I got back to enjoying my performances, and kaboom! It all turned out the way I paid the owner for it to.
Annoying neighbor laugh. I think I need to replace her cat pictures with the menu of a Cantonese restaurant, chill the "Golly Wally Doodle All Day" happy fun times over there. Life's fun, but not deliriously so.
My gawd, people in general are really NOT funny. Thanks to the miracle of Courtesy Laughter, many of these people will never know of their affliction. I never courtesy laugh. If something doesn't hurt, I don't ice it. If I don't have to use the restroom, I don't push until something comes out. And if it doesn't strike me as funny, hey baby, I don't laugh at it.
Blinking IM bar says I have someone who wants to talk to me. It's Mastermind. It wasn't funny. I'm leaving, going home to watch AquaTeenHungerForce, the best cartoon ever.
I love you, you love me, now it's time for us to fight,
Geoff
First off, YES, my schedule is out of date. My File Transfer program is having iss-ues, so I can't send updates to the Hosting site to get all my news up. I'll have it fixed before week's end. Let me know if you're interested in the schedule this week, send me an e-mail at geofflottrules@yahoo.com
Ideas shared on the AT&T Wireless Sellout.
I got up late today, like a little before 9am, which is when I should be at work. I was up late talking about all kinds of stuff with a really awesome woman, heretofore referred to as "M," to protect her privacy and spare her the embarrassment of being at all involved with me. Not that she WOULD be, but with the whole "Six Degrees Of Turkey Bacon" or whatever that is, someone else she knows or I know may be an embarrassment to both of us, and it's better left in the dark. "The dark" = Hoquiam.
I had a great weekend. The weather was great, sunny and clear all over the Puget Sound region. I got to see "M" on Friday night for a bit, got to hang with my boy Shoogs and talk about all kind of stuff, and topped it all off with a couple of stellar sets that launched me into the finals of the Giggles Comedy Club Laugh-Off And Tax Return Fund. I really let it all hang out on Saturday night, wallowing in 6th place and had not yet grabbed a set by the short ones and showed it who's Idi Amin in this comedy jungle. The less I care about scores, the better I do. I got back to enjoying my performances, and kaboom! It all turned out the way I paid the owner for it to.
Annoying neighbor laugh. I think I need to replace her cat pictures with the menu of a Cantonese restaurant, chill the "Golly Wally Doodle All Day" happy fun times over there. Life's fun, but not deliriously so.
My gawd, people in general are really NOT funny. Thanks to the miracle of Courtesy Laughter, many of these people will never know of their affliction. I never courtesy laugh. If something doesn't hurt, I don't ice it. If I don't have to use the restroom, I don't push until something comes out. And if it doesn't strike me as funny, hey baby, I don't laugh at it.
Blinking IM bar says I have someone who wants to talk to me. It's Mastermind. It wasn't funny. I'm leaving, going home to watch AquaTeenHungerForce, the best cartoon ever.
I love you, you love me, now it's time for us to fight,
Geoff
Friday, February 20, 2004
Rx: What Not To Do. Apply To Life As Necessary
You can't stop it, you can only hope to contain it, and you can't contain it, neither!!!
Tonight was the first night of the SemiFinals of the Giggles Laugh-Off. Aptly named because I surely will need to laugh the Thursday show off, or somebody will get Punk'd. By "punk'd," I of course mean a serious and public tongue lashing. Don't cross a professional orator after a bad performance, especially one who's bench press is back up to 300lbs. I'm not feeling velvety 'bout now.
It is normally bad form to blame the crowd, but they were groaning at, nay... BOOING certain jokes about a certain President. These jokes are like Olive Garden breadsticks: Even a bad one's not that bad, but you don't want to fill up on them, either.
To boo a joke about a politician is to publicly express that you are lacking a sense of humor. "What? Making fun of the President of the United States? Blasphemy! Treason! Why is nobody stopping this person from saying these terribly hurtful..." So yeah, the President had a joke made about him, a very lame joke that is truly pandering and lowest of the low in "Political Satire." It's not satire, by the way, it's schlock, but that's for another website. So yeah, the crowd wasn't as ready to laugh tonight as they were last week, and it was pretty packed in there. If you boo to say "I've heard it before," great. If you're just verbally turning up your nose, put a sock in it. Cut the "boo," Casper.
So I get on stage after a dude leans into the goofy/dirty boundary, and I'm neither of those. I have a hard time being cute anymore. Regardless, I get moving along in my set, and from the get-go it was a little sluggish. I finally get the crowd on my side, 3 minutes in, and guess what happens? Heckler? Nope. Drinks spill? Too easy! The Rapture?!?! Goose egg. Here's what happened:
5 guys in the back of the club, about 50 feet from the stage, standing above everyone who is seated, and the dudes talk, talk, and keep talking. It's hard enough to perform when the only voices I hear are mine and the 3 in my head. (editor's note: They're harmless, just Sir Isaac Newton and 2 poncey Age Of Enlightenment swags.) But this show is LIVE, there's no "do not call list" to sign them up on. Why isn't there a Spam filter on a-holes in crowds? These people are human "pop-ups," and they can't be clicked away.
So why am I edged on this? Three reasons: First of all I had to waste time in my set to berate the idiots. Couldn't get up to speed, so I couldn't tell if a joke worked, just had to wing it and be in the moment. Not bad, but not what I intended to do tonight. Second, the group should have been told by the staff to quiet down or leave. Didn't happen, so I had to do it and waste my time. Third, the only person who could have made the evening better is in Arizona until tomorrow, and until I have some face time with that beautiful human I'm gonna focus on sleepy pups, because they're soft and they don't talk during my set. YOU try being mad looking at THIS. If you don't get a little sugar inside on that, I ask you this: Is it fun collecting Student Loans?
Let's bring it all back to what really matters: What did I learn from this, and what can I pass on? I learned, early on in the week, that it's vital for me to go out and have fun and worry not a bit about "competing." So I had a great attitude going in. But I didn't have any fun tonight. 3 hours of driving for 8 minutes of blathering and 2 minutes of berating trucker hat/pooka shell necklace clad frat remnants. I feel a Limp Bizkit song coming to life.
In conclusion, it's after 3am, so this is not at all funny, nor as aggressive as I felt after my set. But I learned this: Even when it's going poorly and you have to make your own fun, stand strong into the wind. That way you can find where your enemies are, and be upwind if you get scared and mess yourself.
God bless. I will, I will, rock you.
~Geoff
You can't stop it, you can only hope to contain it, and you can't contain it, neither!!!
Tonight was the first night of the SemiFinals of the Giggles Laugh-Off. Aptly named because I surely will need to laugh the Thursday show off, or somebody will get Punk'd. By "punk'd," I of course mean a serious and public tongue lashing. Don't cross a professional orator after a bad performance, especially one who's bench press is back up to 300lbs. I'm not feeling velvety 'bout now.
It is normally bad form to blame the crowd, but they were groaning at, nay... BOOING certain jokes about a certain President. These jokes are like Olive Garden breadsticks: Even a bad one's not that bad, but you don't want to fill up on them, either.
To boo a joke about a politician is to publicly express that you are lacking a sense of humor. "What? Making fun of the President of the United States? Blasphemy! Treason! Why is nobody stopping this person from saying these terribly hurtful..." So yeah, the President had a joke made about him, a very lame joke that is truly pandering and lowest of the low in "Political Satire." It's not satire, by the way, it's schlock, but that's for another website. So yeah, the crowd wasn't as ready to laugh tonight as they were last week, and it was pretty packed in there. If you boo to say "I've heard it before," great. If you're just verbally turning up your nose, put a sock in it. Cut the "boo," Casper.
So I get on stage after a dude leans into the goofy/dirty boundary, and I'm neither of those. I have a hard time being cute anymore. Regardless, I get moving along in my set, and from the get-go it was a little sluggish. I finally get the crowd on my side, 3 minutes in, and guess what happens? Heckler? Nope. Drinks spill? Too easy! The Rapture?!?! Goose egg. Here's what happened:
5 guys in the back of the club, about 50 feet from the stage, standing above everyone who is seated, and the dudes talk, talk, and keep talking. It's hard enough to perform when the only voices I hear are mine and the 3 in my head. (editor's note: They're harmless, just Sir Isaac Newton and 2 poncey Age Of Enlightenment swags.) But this show is LIVE, there's no "do not call list" to sign them up on. Why isn't there a Spam filter on a-holes in crowds? These people are human "pop-ups," and they can't be clicked away.
So why am I edged on this? Three reasons: First of all I had to waste time in my set to berate the idiots. Couldn't get up to speed, so I couldn't tell if a joke worked, just had to wing it and be in the moment. Not bad, but not what I intended to do tonight. Second, the group should have been told by the staff to quiet down or leave. Didn't happen, so I had to do it and waste my time. Third, the only person who could have made the evening better is in Arizona until tomorrow, and until I have some face time with that beautiful human I'm gonna focus on sleepy pups, because they're soft and they don't talk during my set. YOU try being mad looking at THIS. If you don't get a little sugar inside on that, I ask you this: Is it fun collecting Student Loans?
Let's bring it all back to what really matters: What did I learn from this, and what can I pass on? I learned, early on in the week, that it's vital for me to go out and have fun and worry not a bit about "competing." So I had a great attitude going in. But I didn't have any fun tonight. 3 hours of driving for 8 minutes of blathering and 2 minutes of berating trucker hat/pooka shell necklace clad frat remnants. I feel a Limp Bizkit song coming to life.
In conclusion, it's after 3am, so this is not at all funny, nor as aggressive as I felt after my set. But I learned this: Even when it's going poorly and you have to make your own fun, stand strong into the wind. That way you can find where your enemies are, and be upwind if you get scared and mess yourself.
God bless. I will, I will, rock you.
~Geoff
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Back At It, etc.
A lot has happened since my last blog. I took a trip to Las Vegas, the company I work for was purchased, I finished "The Da Vinci Code," and my new bedroom furniture arrived! That’s quite a bit of news for 4 days. I won’t go over all of those things in detail (see previous blog), so here’s a synopsis of things:
AT&T Wireless is being purchased by Cingular for $41,000,000,000.00. That’s $15 per share of stock, buying every last one. The stock was around $5 a year ago. The CEO of ATTWS, John Zeglis, will be out once Cingular takes over. He will receive about $9,000,000 in severance pay. (ed. note: The New American Dream: Better retirement through underachieving?)
Read “The Da Vinci Code” if you have any interest in politico-religious fireworks, art history, the Knights Templar, the Louvre, Leonardo Da Vinci’s subtle story-telling works, or romantic tension. It’s like “Indiana Jones” meets “The Thomas Crown Affair.” Buy this book, not the audio version.
I got new bedroom furniture. Real stuff, none of that particle-board and four-nail construction bull. I deserved it, I wanted it, I bought it. Over the years I’ve plunked a good $700 + for the Scandi-naïve-ian furniture that is touted by a plucky ice-fisherman on vacation from herring round-up. Of all that I purchased, I believe I still hold about $150 of all I spent, $50 of which will soon be donated, if they’d even take the pile.
Oh, and apparently Hollywood is still letting Meg Ryan and Adam Sandler make movies. I won’t listen to a single political slant from the Hollywood contingent until I get a public apology for Carson Daly, “Howard the Duck,” and the lack of a Monk marathon on USA.
Las Vegas was fun, but it’s the middle of February so it wasn’t exactly worthy of calling a lawyer before blogging the news. I’m not one who usually goes for opulence, but as I was passing the 400th stripper-card solicitor I remembered that this really is America. Las Vegas is a microcosm of everything America stands for. Some people hate America because of places like Las Vegas. I feel they hate America in spite of places like Las Vegas. Las Vegas is there to entertain you. If New York is the City That Never Sleeps, Las Vegas is The City That Doesn't Care. It's all there for your taking, if you reach out and grab a tassle or a buffet plate. You give a little, you get a lot. You pay $90 for a ticket to see “O,” and you get about a $200 show. If you can’t find something to do there, you’re too picky. You should stay home and re-organize your coupon box or clip frayed strings off your undergarments, which are probably white, cotton, and stop just above your navel.
Kanye West is gettin’ mad love from the streets right now. ‘ats all you need ta know!
I can’t figure it all out tonight, sir, I think I’m just gonna date your daughter.
~G
A lot has happened since my last blog. I took a trip to Las Vegas, the company I work for was purchased, I finished "The Da Vinci Code," and my new bedroom furniture arrived! That’s quite a bit of news for 4 days. I won’t go over all of those things in detail (see previous blog), so here’s a synopsis of things:
AT&T Wireless is being purchased by Cingular for $41,000,000,000.00. That’s $15 per share of stock, buying every last one. The stock was around $5 a year ago. The CEO of ATTWS, John Zeglis, will be out once Cingular takes over. He will receive about $9,000,000 in severance pay. (ed. note: The New American Dream: Better retirement through underachieving?)
Read “The Da Vinci Code” if you have any interest in politico-religious fireworks, art history, the Knights Templar, the Louvre, Leonardo Da Vinci’s subtle story-telling works, or romantic tension. It’s like “Indiana Jones” meets “The Thomas Crown Affair.” Buy this book, not the audio version.
I got new bedroom furniture. Real stuff, none of that particle-board and four-nail construction bull. I deserved it, I wanted it, I bought it. Over the years I’ve plunked a good $700 + for the Scandi-naïve-ian furniture that is touted by a plucky ice-fisherman on vacation from herring round-up. Of all that I purchased, I believe I still hold about $150 of all I spent, $50 of which will soon be donated, if they’d even take the pile.
Oh, and apparently Hollywood is still letting Meg Ryan and Adam Sandler make movies. I won’t listen to a single political slant from the Hollywood contingent until I get a public apology for Carson Daly, “Howard the Duck,” and the lack of a Monk marathon on USA.
Las Vegas was fun, but it’s the middle of February so it wasn’t exactly worthy of calling a lawyer before blogging the news. I’m not one who usually goes for opulence, but as I was passing the 400th stripper-card solicitor I remembered that this really is America. Las Vegas is a microcosm of everything America stands for. Some people hate America because of places like Las Vegas. I feel they hate America in spite of places like Las Vegas. Las Vegas is there to entertain you. If New York is the City That Never Sleeps, Las Vegas is The City That Doesn't Care. It's all there for your taking, if you reach out and grab a tassle or a buffet plate. You give a little, you get a lot. You pay $90 for a ticket to see “O,” and you get about a $200 show. If you can’t find something to do there, you’re too picky. You should stay home and re-organize your coupon box or clip frayed strings off your undergarments, which are probably white, cotton, and stop just above your navel.
Kanye West is gettin’ mad love from the streets right now. ‘ats all you need ta know!
I can’t figure it all out tonight, sir, I think I’m just gonna date your daughter.
~G
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Spare Me The Details
Last night was the final show of the last week of the 7th Annual Wiggles Comedy Laugh-Off Preliminaries, Round 2: Comedian Boo-Ga-Loo. I'm on to the SemiFinals, which means I'm one of the 10 most-likeable comedians in the competition. The key to this, for me, is to go have fun and forget about whatever anyone else does. I cannot control another comic's performance, not with any tact and morality, anyway, so I have to be having SOME fun if I'm going to do this. Otherwise I'm just shilling for the club, and not until I get some more $$$ out of this will I do that. $ = $3,000 USD. Winner gets a couple Bennies and their name on the menu as the Nacho platter. My secret ingredient? Pure Hatred for Low-Brow Talk Radio!
So where does the title of this blog come in? From the gutters-full of pap that I've dealt with the past 3 nights from a number of other performers. There's one in particular who, the better they performed, the more annoyingly boisterous they became. I understand that confidence carries a long way, but this was utter cockiness. If I am interrupted by that person again, ever, so they can try out a line or work a bit they will step away from me with a singed ear and a dumbfounded look 'ponst their horrendous mug. If you butt-in with nothing to say you best be prepared to answer a few questions of mine, including "Quick, tell me why you think you can interrupt me!" No, I don't have to be nice.
Anybody who annoys you should be told so, because they are forcing their way into moments of your life that could be filled with something memorable, funny, touching, or at the very least, not a total waste of time. Instead you get to hear a made-up story or recitation of a joke from a long-dead, unfunny comedian that does nothing other than make you reach for a billy-club that you never had, but could really use. Have something to say, or say nothing at all.
I'm not mentioning names here for one reason only: I paid for this website, and there's no way I'm going to allow their names get through the gaps on my dime. Except for these Comedy Gangstas, what-what?
Blaze Rider, The Safe Cracker, Doogles, and Shoogs B. I love this band of 4, as comics, as people, as smut poets, and friends. Ya step to them, ya step to me. Coo'? Ah'ight den.
I'm off to Vegas tomorrow morning. Send liver.
You're Worth Everything You Think You Are, If Not More. Yes, muffin head... Yes you are.
Geoff Lott... who rules.
Last night was the final show of the last week of the 7th Annual Wiggles Comedy Laugh-Off Preliminaries, Round 2: Comedian Boo-Ga-Loo. I'm on to the SemiFinals, which means I'm one of the 10 most-likeable comedians in the competition. The key to this, for me, is to go have fun and forget about whatever anyone else does. I cannot control another comic's performance, not with any tact and morality, anyway, so I have to be having SOME fun if I'm going to do this. Otherwise I'm just shilling for the club, and not until I get some more $$$ out of this will I do that. $ = $3,000 USD. Winner gets a couple Bennies and their name on the menu as the Nacho platter. My secret ingredient? Pure Hatred for Low-Brow Talk Radio!
So where does the title of this blog come in? From the gutters-full of pap that I've dealt with the past 3 nights from a number of other performers. There's one in particular who, the better they performed, the more annoyingly boisterous they became. I understand that confidence carries a long way, but this was utter cockiness. If I am interrupted by that person again, ever, so they can try out a line or work a bit they will step away from me with a singed ear and a dumbfounded look 'ponst their horrendous mug. If you butt-in with nothing to say you best be prepared to answer a few questions of mine, including "Quick, tell me why you think you can interrupt me!" No, I don't have to be nice.
Anybody who annoys you should be told so, because they are forcing their way into moments of your life that could be filled with something memorable, funny, touching, or at the very least, not a total waste of time. Instead you get to hear a made-up story or recitation of a joke from a long-dead, unfunny comedian that does nothing other than make you reach for a billy-club that you never had, but could really use. Have something to say, or say nothing at all.
I'm not mentioning names here for one reason only: I paid for this website, and there's no way I'm going to allow their names get through the gaps on my dime. Except for these Comedy Gangstas, what-what?
Blaze Rider, The Safe Cracker, Doogles, and Shoogs B. I love this band of 4, as comics, as people, as smut poets, and friends. Ya step to them, ya step to me. Coo'? Ah'ight den.
I'm off to Vegas tomorrow morning. Send liver.
You're Worth Everything You Think You Are, If Not More. Yes, muffin head... Yes you are.
Geoff Lott... who rules.
Friday, February 13, 2004
ARE YOU NOT ENTERTAINED?
To compete in anything that is subjective is a farce. Whether it's Iron Chef, Dairy Cattle, or a Comedy Competition, there's no way to properly judge anything based on perception. Or, is perception the only way to judge anything? OR, if you're not reaching 'neath your futon in hopes of finding my point, is perception proper only when judging, though it is vital we separate JUDGING and SCORING. How can you score points when it's a solo performance with no measurement? All competitive runners are timed. Discus throwers are measured. Atkins Dieteers have their Before & After & Regression & Really After photos!
I cannot say what good comedy is, I can only say what I like. It's like trying to define a person's coolness. They either got it or they don't, and what's "Cool" to you may be "Dad-hating sociopathic credit card stealing Hell-strumpet" to me, no that I've had experience with one of those ever. 'twas not "cool," I assure thee.
This is where any expression through artistic endeavors becomes a metaphor of Life. Expressions of art can be judged but should not be scored. How can a painting of an eye be better than a blank canvas, entitled "Yet Empty Everstill" which shows the artist's rendition of their heart after their girlfriend left them for a local coven of Joan Osborne fanatics? Because the guy with the eye at least TRIED, okay? Blank is blank. No apologies, regardless of your emotional bankruptcy, you still gotta produce in this world, and if you have no artisitic ability then stick to motorsports, but do NOT tell me that what I do is not good, because you haven't stared down the wire of a microphone in front of 300 people and made them laugh with one look. You haven't walked off a stage and been hugged by fraternity pledges and high-fived by 80 year-old women. Until you've been in somebody elses shoes, you have no clue as to how those shoes go with the outfit.
Sometimes the shoes aren't for the outfit.
Sometimes the shoes are for the mood.
Sometimes the shoes are to keep the feet dry and warm.
Sometimes... no shoes at all.
Let he who hath no shoes walk lightly in the glass house.
Put that on a T-shirt and E-Bay it, baby.
I'm Geoff Lott, thank you and Maude bless.
To compete in anything that is subjective is a farce. Whether it's Iron Chef, Dairy Cattle, or a Comedy Competition, there's no way to properly judge anything based on perception. Or, is perception the only way to judge anything? OR, if you're not reaching 'neath your futon in hopes of finding my point, is perception proper only when judging, though it is vital we separate JUDGING and SCORING. How can you score points when it's a solo performance with no measurement? All competitive runners are timed. Discus throwers are measured. Atkins Dieteers have their Before & After & Regression & Really After photos!
I cannot say what good comedy is, I can only say what I like. It's like trying to define a person's coolness. They either got it or they don't, and what's "Cool" to you may be "Dad-hating sociopathic credit card stealing Hell-strumpet" to me, no that I've had experience with one of those ever. 'twas not "cool," I assure thee.
This is where any expression through artistic endeavors becomes a metaphor of Life. Expressions of art can be judged but should not be scored. How can a painting of an eye be better than a blank canvas, entitled "Yet Empty Everstill" which shows the artist's rendition of their heart after their girlfriend left them for a local coven of Joan Osborne fanatics? Because the guy with the eye at least TRIED, okay? Blank is blank. No apologies, regardless of your emotional bankruptcy, you still gotta produce in this world, and if you have no artisitic ability then stick to motorsports, but do NOT tell me that what I do is not good, because you haven't stared down the wire of a microphone in front of 300 people and made them laugh with one look. You haven't walked off a stage and been hugged by fraternity pledges and high-fived by 80 year-old women. Until you've been in somebody elses shoes, you have no clue as to how those shoes go with the outfit.
Sometimes the shoes aren't for the outfit.
Sometimes the shoes are for the mood.
Sometimes the shoes are to keep the feet dry and warm.
Sometimes... no shoes at all.
Let he who hath no shoes walk lightly in the glass house.
Put that on a T-shirt and E-Bay it, baby.
I'm Geoff Lott, thank you and Maude bless.
Thursday, February 12, 2004
The First of The Rest of the Last
Apparently I have more money than Mike Tyson right now. I knew this day would come.
Last night I did 2 sets, one at the Comedy Underpants, then a surprise (to me) set at Pegasus Pizza in Kirkland. I did well enough to have someone give me a free beer, send me a shot of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 , and get to meet some people I work with, but had never met before. They seemed unaffected by the forthcoming layoffs . One woman was also ridiculously attractive, and she BOOO'ed when I touted Road Rage as a healthy outlet to anger. I guess things just work out better when you're gorgeous. Ask Tom Cruise about that. He can't even read. It's a condition the medical industry has dubbed "scientology."
Tonight's the first night of the Jiggles Comedy Laff-Off-A-Thon For the Alcholically Incapacitated 2004: "It's For the Kid's Kids!" contest. The first night for MY week, anyway, the others went last week. I'm not too hot on comedy contests because some guys think it shows who the better comic is, but what is good comedy? Depends on who you are, what you think is funny, and how many friends you brought to the club so you could go long on an open-mic night. Am I funny? I think so. Many crowds think so. I guess that's enough to move it along.
So why put myself through a process that grades and degrades comedians? Because I get to do 5 sets over the next 3 nights that actually mean something. I get to perform with some guys who swing the microphone like they are the king of FunnyLand and we'll get to see how it all plays out. I'm not looking to show anyone up. That's the wrong idea for doing comedy. I want to do the best I can, and when I do the best I can, people have a reeeeeeallly good time. That means, in the end, enough people laughing and liking me turns into me winning some mony-mony. The winner gets an eventual headline set at Giggles and a fight with the club owner over the use of the F-word somewhere between July 4th and Labor Day. WOO HOO!
Also, I get to hang with my peeps, two of whom are America-bound at the moment after a few days Canadia (motto: "Keep It Down, We're Drinkin', Eh!"). I want all of them to do really well in the contest, and I think one of them will be a sleeper pick, getting in to the second round. I hope so. At least we're not road-doggin' it all over the state for 5 minutes of stage time. I'm gonna encourage everyone, but really now, I want my money, and if anyone else is sniffin' for it, I'm throwin' comedy elbows. Dig it.
What are YOU doing, laying out tomorrow's outfit? Remember THAT when you're 55 and staring into the bottom of a bottle of ripple, asking where your life went. You wanna know where? To the back of your sock drawer, nicely folded, waiting for a special occasion. Live, now. Unfold that Life, wrap it around your glistening torso, and strut proudly into the streets, ignoring all snickers and bounds of proper fashion etiquette. Be you. That's enough a job for anyone.
I hate comics who get jokes off the internet or from books, however. I'll verbally face-fork the next one I see. INTEGRITY, my friends. It's still an art form, make it look like you know what the horse should look like without Paint By Numbers. I'm out for coffee.
Hallmark is a Cult created by Homecoming Queens who peaked in High School, and devout women who've only layed with a man for the purposes of pro-creating. But dang, Shoebox cards are FUNNY.
No, YOU are sexy,
Geoff
Apparently I have more money than Mike Tyson right now. I knew this day would come.
Last night I did 2 sets, one at the Comedy Underpants, then a surprise (to me) set at Pegasus Pizza in Kirkland. I did well enough to have someone give me a free beer, send me a shot of Jack Daniel's Old No. 7 , and get to meet some people I work with, but had never met before. They seemed unaffected by the forthcoming layoffs . One woman was also ridiculously attractive, and she BOOO'ed when I touted Road Rage as a healthy outlet to anger. I guess things just work out better when you're gorgeous. Ask Tom Cruise about that. He can't even read. It's a condition the medical industry has dubbed "scientology."
Tonight's the first night of the Jiggles Comedy Laff-Off-A-Thon For the Alcholically Incapacitated 2004: "It's For the Kid's Kids!" contest. The first night for MY week, anyway, the others went last week. I'm not too hot on comedy contests because some guys think it shows who the better comic is, but what is good comedy? Depends on who you are, what you think is funny, and how many friends you brought to the club so you could go long on an open-mic night. Am I funny? I think so. Many crowds think so. I guess that's enough to move it along.
So why put myself through a process that grades and degrades comedians? Because I get to do 5 sets over the next 3 nights that actually mean something. I get to perform with some guys who swing the microphone like they are the king of FunnyLand and we'll get to see how it all plays out. I'm not looking to show anyone up. That's the wrong idea for doing comedy. I want to do the best I can, and when I do the best I can, people have a reeeeeeallly good time. That means, in the end, enough people laughing and liking me turns into me winning some mony-mony. The winner gets an eventual headline set at Giggles and a fight with the club owner over the use of the F-word somewhere between July 4th and Labor Day. WOO HOO!
Also, I get to hang with my peeps, two of whom are America-bound at the moment after a few days Canadia (motto: "Keep It Down, We're Drinkin', Eh!"). I want all of them to do really well in the contest, and I think one of them will be a sleeper pick, getting in to the second round. I hope so. At least we're not road-doggin' it all over the state for 5 minutes of stage time. I'm gonna encourage everyone, but really now, I want my money, and if anyone else is sniffin' for it, I'm throwin' comedy elbows. Dig it.
What are YOU doing, laying out tomorrow's outfit? Remember THAT when you're 55 and staring into the bottom of a bottle of ripple, asking where your life went. You wanna know where? To the back of your sock drawer, nicely folded, waiting for a special occasion. Live, now. Unfold that Life, wrap it around your glistening torso, and strut proudly into the streets, ignoring all snickers and bounds of proper fashion etiquette. Be you. That's enough a job for anyone.
I hate comics who get jokes off the internet or from books, however. I'll verbally face-fork the next one I see. INTEGRITY, my friends. It's still an art form, make it look like you know what the horse should look like without Paint By Numbers. I'm out for coffee.
Hallmark is a Cult created by Homecoming Queens who peaked in High School, and devout women who've only layed with a man for the purposes of pro-creating. But dang, Shoebox cards are FUNNY.
No, YOU are sexy,
Geoff
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