So, I've returned from across the mighty pond and it's that time again...A time I never look forward to...A time that always occurs when it's wanted least because it's never wanted...A time that any aspiring musician/comedian/writer/poet/actor/artist can relate to and all regardless of craft equally loathe...day-job time.
Just typing it sends chills. But, alas, I need to get a little supplement income going on. Part-time would suffice.
Last night on Craigslist I saw an ad for a dishwasher at a diner down the street from me. Daylight hours, part-time, I can walk to work, people will leave me alone, why the hell not? So this morning I dressed a little nicer than my regular morning wardrobe of boxers and socks and headed on down the road.
I asked for the person I was supposed to ask for and waited at the end of the bar for her to come out of the kitchen. For those few minutes I was pretty much on display for everyone: To your right, a guy that finished college not too far from a 4.0 and is waiting to apply for a part-time job washing dishes. Summary: Shitty life choices.
My interviewer appears. Woman, looks early 30s, could be attractive if she didn't have the stereo-typical-Seattle-hipster-I've-never-learned-to-think-for-myself-so-I-let-Belle-And-Sebastian-do-it-for-me look going on. Summary: Libido killer.
Anyway, after a few minutes she tells me I don't have the restaurant experience she's looking for. Alas friends, I'm apparently under-qualified to wash dishes. I best let my girlfriend know right away. "Sorry, but you've got to clean the apartment alone..."
To save myself time and headaches and unnecessary early-morning walks to downtown Fremont, I've compiled my list of requirements that will surely have employers diving head over heels for my services. This is all I want in a day-job:
1. Flexibility: I can only work daylight, Monday-Friday. Every now and again the occasional fall-out gig will pop up, sometimes more than one. 2 hours advance notice should suffice for any conflicts that may arise.
2. My Boss: I want someone that isn't a passive-aggressive, condescending, arrogant waste of air and syllables. I realize this will be increasingly difficult in the fine city of Seattle as said behavior is not only common but, in my experience, expected. At the end of the day though, it's not that hard, tell me what to do, I do it, we leave each other alone. I'm not looking for a friend, I have friends, just do the work, go home. This method's flawless, trust me.
3. The Work: I don't work well with customers, but I can get through it when absolutely necessary. I don't do any rabbit gets the carrot garbage, save that for a naive recent college grad or someone from the suburbs that doesn't know any better. Physical labor is fine because it's isolating and one gets in better shape, two birds with one stone. Only thing, I don't do the outdoors for extended periods of time.
References furnished upon request.
Monday, July 13, 2009
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Comedy and the "F" Word
I've heard this countless times, and most recently I heard this come from an 88-year-old woman that decided to do stand-up: The ever famous battle-cry against the "F" word. "If someone's truly talented, if they're truly funny, then they don't NEED to use profanity."
The above mentioned sentiment is little more than narcissistic nonsense. Hear me out. Did people making these statements ever stop to think that maybe some comedians don't feel the NEED to use profanity, maybe they just don't feel the NEED to NOT use profanity? Maybe it's who they are. Maybe it's how they're comfortable. Maybe, just maybe, they're not up there for you, maybe they don't really care about your opinion, maybe they assume that you're focused on their material and their point-of-view, and not the language they use. Maybe their attitude is such that if your level of tolerance is one in which you would dismiss a comedian solely based on language, then, well, fuck ya.
I personally fall into the category of clean. I'm not really vulgar at all. I didn't plan it that way, that's just naturally how my material turns out. I never sat down and was like, "hey, I'm gonna be a clean comic cuz my goal in life is to one day go on tour with Dave Coulier and entertain families, like the Wiggles only with punchlines! I'm gonna make this work!" Never happened. I actually sort of despise children.
I remember once not too long ago I did a show in my hometown of Pittsburgh and after wards was at a bar with a few friends, some who weren't able to make the show. My mom was at the bar so they jokingly asked her how the show went and if I was funny. Her response: "He's not crude or vulgar, he doesn't need to do that." That was it. Of course, she was just being my mom and such, but still, that was a bummer. I looked back at her, "If that's all you got from what I did up there, I really failed tonight." Then the topic was changed because, well, people just chalked it up to me being strange.
Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with not liking vulgarity or whatever else. If you don't dig vulgarity, if it's not for you, if it dilutes everything else for you, that's totally fine. Everyone's entitled to enjoy or not enjoy something. But who is anyone to define what is and isn't acceptable for the rest of us? And if something doesn't meet someone's definition of acceptable who are they to then write that off as talentless?
"There are two types of people in this world, people who create and people who destroy."--George Lucas
The above mentioned sentiment is little more than narcissistic nonsense. Hear me out. Did people making these statements ever stop to think that maybe some comedians don't feel the NEED to use profanity, maybe they just don't feel the NEED to NOT use profanity? Maybe it's who they are. Maybe it's how they're comfortable. Maybe, just maybe, they're not up there for you, maybe they don't really care about your opinion, maybe they assume that you're focused on their material and their point-of-view, and not the language they use. Maybe their attitude is such that if your level of tolerance is one in which you would dismiss a comedian solely based on language, then, well, fuck ya.
I personally fall into the category of clean. I'm not really vulgar at all. I didn't plan it that way, that's just naturally how my material turns out. I never sat down and was like, "hey, I'm gonna be a clean comic cuz my goal in life is to one day go on tour with Dave Coulier and entertain families, like the Wiggles only with punchlines! I'm gonna make this work!" Never happened. I actually sort of despise children.
I remember once not too long ago I did a show in my hometown of Pittsburgh and after wards was at a bar with a few friends, some who weren't able to make the show. My mom was at the bar so they jokingly asked her how the show went and if I was funny. Her response: "He's not crude or vulgar, he doesn't need to do that." That was it. Of course, she was just being my mom and such, but still, that was a bummer. I looked back at her, "If that's all you got from what I did up there, I really failed tonight." Then the topic was changed because, well, people just chalked it up to me being strange.
Don't get me wrong, there's nothing wrong with not liking vulgarity or whatever else. If you don't dig vulgarity, if it's not for you, if it dilutes everything else for you, that's totally fine. Everyone's entitled to enjoy or not enjoy something. But who is anyone to define what is and isn't acceptable for the rest of us? And if something doesn't meet someone's definition of acceptable who are they to then write that off as talentless?
"There are two types of people in this world, people who create and people who destroy."--George Lucas
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Flooded Treasures
Lately I've been reading Oscar Wilde's fairy tales. Interestingly enough I'm coming across some that I had read in class during grade school. Obviously now the societal quips and commentary no longer go over my head, instead they knock me right between the teeth as if Wilde was yelling to me from the grave, "See? Humans haven't changed at all, it's the same bureaucratic nonsense and it always will be...P.S. If I were alive today you know I'd be a stand-up comic."
On Saturday I was walking down the road and there was somewhat of an informal yard sale going on in Fremont. I went to check it out and there were books. Tons of books. Turns out what happened was this guy, he was an older guy, lived in Seattle his whole life, has his own float for the Solstice Parade, believes Seattle Times is a huge conspiracy, cool guy. Anyway, turns out a bunch of these books were flooded, so this guy dove into the dumpster and fished them all out. He was giving them away to any interested parties. Dostoevsky, Kierkegaard, Hunter Thompson (more), all found, all salvageable. I also added some Chomsky and Nietzsche.
He asked for two dollars since some of the books weren't flooded, I insisted on giving him three. Once when I was in between semesters at college there was a leak in my parents' basement and some of my books got it. A blow dryer, a little bit of sunlight, and a stubborn attitude that wouldn't settle for re-buying a soul-less republication from Barnes and Noble was all I needed to get them back to being totally readable. Hopefully I'll have similar success with these books.
Now, when I was in college I worked at Carnegie Mellon University in the receiving warehouse. Every so often I would go to campus to make deliveries to the book store. Sometimes there was a guy, similar to the Seattle guy, that would sell books on campus. I'd always see a flier near the book store so I knew when he'd be there. I'd try to go shop for a bit and since no one really wants to go back to a non-air conditioned warehouse in the middle of summer, it usually wasn't hard for me to convince my co-workers to stall for a bit while I checked out the book selection.
One time, I found the entire collection of "Notes of A Dirty Old Man" by Charles Bukowski. Not the collection that was published later, but all of the original writings that appeared in the paper he used to write for along with some of the other stuff he had been doing during that time that had slipped under the radar. I remember picking it up at the book sale and showing it to the guy. "Spine's ripped, I can't sell that...You want it, it's yours." Since then I've read that collection so many times that the ripped spine did give in completely, the book's held together by athletic tape now, and I still read it from time to time.
Experiences like the above mentioned make me wonder why I spend time worrying about money.
On Saturday I was walking down the road and there was somewhat of an informal yard sale going on in Fremont. I went to check it out and there were books. Tons of books. Turns out what happened was this guy, he was an older guy, lived in Seattle his whole life, has his own float for the Solstice Parade, believes Seattle Times is a huge conspiracy, cool guy. Anyway, turns out a bunch of these books were flooded, so this guy dove into the dumpster and fished them all out. He was giving them away to any interested parties. Dostoevsky, Kierkegaard, Hunter Thompson (more), all found, all salvageable. I also added some Chomsky and Nietzsche.
He asked for two dollars since some of the books weren't flooded, I insisted on giving him three. Once when I was in between semesters at college there was a leak in my parents' basement and some of my books got it. A blow dryer, a little bit of sunlight, and a stubborn attitude that wouldn't settle for re-buying a soul-less republication from Barnes and Noble was all I needed to get them back to being totally readable. Hopefully I'll have similar success with these books.
Now, when I was in college I worked at Carnegie Mellon University in the receiving warehouse. Every so often I would go to campus to make deliveries to the book store. Sometimes there was a guy, similar to the Seattle guy, that would sell books on campus. I'd always see a flier near the book store so I knew when he'd be there. I'd try to go shop for a bit and since no one really wants to go back to a non-air conditioned warehouse in the middle of summer, it usually wasn't hard for me to convince my co-workers to stall for a bit while I checked out the book selection.
One time, I found the entire collection of "Notes of A Dirty Old Man" by Charles Bukowski. Not the collection that was published later, but all of the original writings that appeared in the paper he used to write for along with some of the other stuff he had been doing during that time that had slipped under the radar. I remember picking it up at the book sale and showing it to the guy. "Spine's ripped, I can't sell that...You want it, it's yours." Since then I've read that collection so many times that the ripped spine did give in completely, the book's held together by athletic tape now, and I still read it from time to time.
Experiences like the above mentioned make me wonder why I spend time worrying about money.
Friday, May 15, 2009
At the Airport(s)
I’ve come to terms that I’m one of those people that gets freaked out if I don’t travel regularly. The destination doesn’t matter so much, but I like to have a regular schedule of logistic obstacles. It’s the best time to think, especially when I’m flying.
I like to get to airports extremely early, like super early. I like to be through security with 2 hours to spare, you can do some of your best people watching at an airport. Airports are one of the many venues in which we as humans can realize how far yet how little we’ve actually evolved from animals.
My day started at the Seattle Sheraton where I was to catch the shuttle to the airport. I had a few obligations that I had to attend to in the city early. I planned on catching the 8:43 shuttle but when I got there the 8:13 was still waiting. I got on board, now, the driver’s supposed to be able to take my money, but she sent me inside. I asked her if I had enough time, she responded, “only if you run.” I guess in retrospect she was kind of rude but I wasn’t paying much attention. I waited at the concierge, there was a shuttle booth, but I didn’t notice it. I listened to banter back in forth with a couple trying to get to Vancouver. She informed them that the train left once a day, there was a shuttle that provided a quick service. This is all information one can obtain spending about 2 minutes tops on Google, maybe these people didn’t have laptops with them but let’s be real, they have money and they’re clueless. So I started getting a little anxious, not because I was in a hurry but because the shuttle was waiting, and I didn’t want to be that guy. Finally it took off. The lady gets to me. “How can I help you?” “I wanted tickets for that shuttle that just left.” “O, well their booth is right over there.” “Oops, I didn’t see it.” “No worries I can sell you a ticket here, will you be catching the next one?” “That’s the plan.” “You could’ve just bought it from the driver.” “She wouldn’t take my money.” “He didn’t except your money?” “She wouldn’t take my money.” “That’s strange.”
I went over to the booth I was supposed to go to in the first place. “Hey, just curious, can’t your drivers take money?” “Yeah.” “They wouldn’t take mine, they sent me straight in here, didn’t even offer, I had cash.” The girl sighed, “was it a woman driver?” “Umm yeah, do you guys have some weird policy with women taking money or something?” “Heh, no, she just does that, I don’t know why, I’m really sorry.” “Yeah, I just found it strange, oh well, life goes on.” The girl was cool. I probably could’ve talked her into giving me a comp trip but I wasn’t that bothered by the whole thing.
So I had a half-hour to kill in the Sheraton so I do what I think anybody should do and go around looking for a continental breakfast. I planned to walk in acting like I owned the place and score a free meal. Of course, a hotel as upscale as the Sheraton isn’t going to have such a thing, but I had nothing better to do.
Later at the airport I was waiting in line to check in. I went over to check to see if my bag was small enough to qualify as a carry-on and while doing so the guy behind me cut right in front of me. Proves that animal theory. I got behind him. “Wow, that was classy.” Again, I didn’t care, it’s just interesting how some people have no concept that life’s too short to be a dick for no apparent reason. We’re at the front of the line and they call the next person in line over, dude doesn’t move. They call again, he finally notices. “Let’s wake up buddy.” He didn’t respond to me, if you’re in that big of a hurry that you’re going to do something as petty as cut in front of one person, at least be on the ball with checking in.
As Karma would have it my line was quicker than his and I beat him through security. Yes, I did notice.
I’m at security and I put my stuff through and go through the metal detector. The TSA guy comes up to me. “Hello sir, I need you to either walk through the X-ray, or if you’d prefer I’ll give you a pat-down.”
My verbatim response: “I think I’d like you to pat me down.” I wasn’t trying to be funny or anything it just came out that way, I had nothing in my system but a Monster drink. After I said it though I couldn’t help but start laughing, especially since I could tell dude did not want to pat me down.
I’m now on a plane flying over Chicago, it’s dark out, and I’m listening to Rocket Man by Elton John. Now that’s perfection. “Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids, in fact it’s cold as hell.”
I touch-down in the Burgh around 10ET. You know, come to think of it, I’m not the man they think I am at home…
I like to get to airports extremely early, like super early. I like to be through security with 2 hours to spare, you can do some of your best people watching at an airport. Airports are one of the many venues in which we as humans can realize how far yet how little we’ve actually evolved from animals.
My day started at the Seattle Sheraton where I was to catch the shuttle to the airport. I had a few obligations that I had to attend to in the city early. I planned on catching the 8:43 shuttle but when I got there the 8:13 was still waiting. I got on board, now, the driver’s supposed to be able to take my money, but she sent me inside. I asked her if I had enough time, she responded, “only if you run.” I guess in retrospect she was kind of rude but I wasn’t paying much attention. I waited at the concierge, there was a shuttle booth, but I didn’t notice it. I listened to banter back in forth with a couple trying to get to Vancouver. She informed them that the train left once a day, there was a shuttle that provided a quick service. This is all information one can obtain spending about 2 minutes tops on Google, maybe these people didn’t have laptops with them but let’s be real, they have money and they’re clueless. So I started getting a little anxious, not because I was in a hurry but because the shuttle was waiting, and I didn’t want to be that guy. Finally it took off. The lady gets to me. “How can I help you?” “I wanted tickets for that shuttle that just left.” “O, well their booth is right over there.” “Oops, I didn’t see it.” “No worries I can sell you a ticket here, will you be catching the next one?” “That’s the plan.” “You could’ve just bought it from the driver.” “She wouldn’t take my money.” “He didn’t except your money?” “She wouldn’t take my money.” “That’s strange.”
I went over to the booth I was supposed to go to in the first place. “Hey, just curious, can’t your drivers take money?” “Yeah.” “They wouldn’t take mine, they sent me straight in here, didn’t even offer, I had cash.” The girl sighed, “was it a woman driver?” “Umm yeah, do you guys have some weird policy with women taking money or something?” “Heh, no, she just does that, I don’t know why, I’m really sorry.” “Yeah, I just found it strange, oh well, life goes on.” The girl was cool. I probably could’ve talked her into giving me a comp trip but I wasn’t that bothered by the whole thing.
So I had a half-hour to kill in the Sheraton so I do what I think anybody should do and go around looking for a continental breakfast. I planned to walk in acting like I owned the place and score a free meal. Of course, a hotel as upscale as the Sheraton isn’t going to have such a thing, but I had nothing better to do.
Later at the airport I was waiting in line to check in. I went over to check to see if my bag was small enough to qualify as a carry-on and while doing so the guy behind me cut right in front of me. Proves that animal theory. I got behind him. “Wow, that was classy.” Again, I didn’t care, it’s just interesting how some people have no concept that life’s too short to be a dick for no apparent reason. We’re at the front of the line and they call the next person in line over, dude doesn’t move. They call again, he finally notices. “Let’s wake up buddy.” He didn’t respond to me, if you’re in that big of a hurry that you’re going to do something as petty as cut in front of one person, at least be on the ball with checking in.
As Karma would have it my line was quicker than his and I beat him through security. Yes, I did notice.
I’m at security and I put my stuff through and go through the metal detector. The TSA guy comes up to me. “Hello sir, I need you to either walk through the X-ray, or if you’d prefer I’ll give you a pat-down.”
My verbatim response: “I think I’d like you to pat me down.” I wasn’t trying to be funny or anything it just came out that way, I had nothing in my system but a Monster drink. After I said it though I couldn’t help but start laughing, especially since I could tell dude did not want to pat me down.
I’m now on a plane flying over Chicago, it’s dark out, and I’m listening to Rocket Man by Elton John. Now that’s perfection. “Mars ain’t the kind of place to raise your kids, in fact it’s cold as hell.”
I touch-down in the Burgh around 10ET. You know, come to think of it, I’m not the man they think I am at home…
Wednesday, May 13, 2009
Not after a lousy set, please?
Last night I didn't have the set I wanted to. It was an open-mic. For those non-comics out there open-mic is an opportunity to try out new material, work out a premise on stage, test out new tags to older material to try to expand on bits, etc. Of course, some people beat the same five minutes to death for years but, moving on. I didn't have the set I wanted. I didn't care necessarily that I didn't do well, but I was bummed that some of the newer material that I've been trying to work out and gravitate towards isn't quite clicking.
Rest of the night went on, quick question: Does a public domain(read: internet) joke about sleeping with your cousins in (insert city of ridicule) deserve an applause break? Should it even be uttered on stage? I didn't think so either.
Anyway, after all was over the great Tim Warner and I went for a beer down the street. This place is a biker-esque bar but it's just a stone's throw away from the apartment so we went. The bartender was playing this horrible pop-punk "emo" music, dribble I used to think was cool when I was 16 or so but then saw through once I realized high school didn't matter. Anyway Tim and I were talking shop, I was blowing off steam to a slight degree, and just then the most terrible cover of "Just Like Heaven" by the Cure came on. I mean TERRIBLE. It was absolutely nauseating. There were only like, 5 people in the bar, none of whom looked like they would be into this music with exception to the hipster skinny-jean clad bartender. For some reason, that did me in, I was fed up with it all, fed up with work, fed up with all of it.
So I looked up and said for all to hear, "This is the worst cover I ever heard, this is atrocious, whoever recorded this deserves to be shot in the skull."
It really was that bad. The song continued. "Dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow..." I looked down at the table, there was some cash sitting there which of course was my intended tip. I reached down and took a dollar and put it back in my pocket.
I know, I know, kind of harsh, but I was ticked. And honestly, if you're going to push your horrible taste down peoples' throats you should realize that you may catch one of them on the wrong day and they'll take it out of your tip. I'm a Cure fan, that was some bad old timing. I'm not sure if the bartender noticed or not but Tim was cracking up so I imagine he noticed.
Now it's time for some irony: I got home and pulled up my laptop, my girlfriend had put a drawing of Robert Smith up as my background. At that point I couldn't help laughing about the whole thing. Next time I'm in there I'll tip the bartender a little extra to make up for it, maybe he'll use the money to buy some better music and we both win.
Rest of the night went on, quick question: Does a public domain(read: internet) joke about sleeping with your cousins in (insert city of ridicule) deserve an applause break? Should it even be uttered on stage? I didn't think so either.
Anyway, after all was over the great Tim Warner and I went for a beer down the street. This place is a biker-esque bar but it's just a stone's throw away from the apartment so we went. The bartender was playing this horrible pop-punk "emo" music, dribble I used to think was cool when I was 16 or so but then saw through once I realized high school didn't matter. Anyway Tim and I were talking shop, I was blowing off steam to a slight degree, and just then the most terrible cover of "Just Like Heaven" by the Cure came on. I mean TERRIBLE. It was absolutely nauseating. There were only like, 5 people in the bar, none of whom looked like they would be into this music with exception to the hipster skinny-jean clad bartender. For some reason, that did me in, I was fed up with it all, fed up with work, fed up with all of it.
So I looked up and said for all to hear, "This is the worst cover I ever heard, this is atrocious, whoever recorded this deserves to be shot in the skull."
It really was that bad. The song continued. "Dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow..." I looked down at the table, there was some cash sitting there which of course was my intended tip. I reached down and took a dollar and put it back in my pocket.
I know, I know, kind of harsh, but I was ticked. And honestly, if you're going to push your horrible taste down peoples' throats you should realize that you may catch one of them on the wrong day and they'll take it out of your tip. I'm a Cure fan, that was some bad old timing. I'm not sure if the bartender noticed or not but Tim was cracking up so I imagine he noticed.
Now it's time for some irony: I got home and pulled up my laptop, my girlfriend had put a drawing of Robert Smith up as my background. At that point I couldn't help laughing about the whole thing. Next time I'm in there I'll tip the bartender a little extra to make up for it, maybe he'll use the money to buy some better music and we both win.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Humble Pie's more bitter out west
I had a meeting not too long ago with somebody who has a pretty large role in the political and media relations arena here in Seattle. We talked about work and the world, and of course he asked me what exactly it was I wanted to do. So I told him. Now, he knew I paid my bills through writing, so he asked me some obvious questions, ones I wish I had better answers for...
Do you submit to (City Magazine)? Do you pitch humor pieces online? etc. etc.
Sadly my answer was a constant, "no, I'm going to work on that eventually."
Which lead to the inevitable, "so Ron, what exactly are you doing?"
This guy has 30+ years of success in the field of journalism, I'm sure to him we Hunter Thompson fanatics already seem amateur, nonetheless, I couldn't in my heart tell him what I was actually doing...erotic literature. Yup, in this economy, I gotta take what I can get.
While other people are pitching spec scripts, blogging for Huffington, negotiating publishing pitches, I'm editing orgy scenes between a girl and her two brothers. We all have our peaks and valleys I suppose.
Speaking of which, earlier this month (it's still April 30th) I participated in a comedy competition in Bend, Oregon. Bend is a neat ski-town in the middle of the state. Driving there, however, one must go over a pretty long pass. I hadn't checked the weather conditions. Starting the drive from Seattle it was completely pleasant, ordinary North-west spring weather. The pass was a different story. I hadn't realized how high in the mountains I actually was, and this pass was covered with snow and it was coming down...hard. I literally switched seasons in a matter of seconds. Now, I've never handled snow well, NEVER. When other people see me drive in snow they assume I'm a Seattle native, they're shocked when I tell them I'm from Pennsylvania. What can I say? I don't do snow.
Trucks were sliding, people were pulled over putting their chains on. I was in a Dodge Caliber rental, I didn't have chains nor would I have any clue what to do with them if I did. I wondered just how high up I was, there were little signs of elevation. Had I made a wrong turn somewhere? Am I still on the right road? When this is all over, I'm buying myself a GPS. I put the car in auto-stick, that helped a great deal. At that point, I let out an open call for help. I don't necessarily pray much, but hell, anything was worth a shot. I made it out, and of course once over the mountain the roads were completely normal.
I know it's trite, but after that I decided I was going to have a more positive attitude about things, not take anything for granted, focus more on the bright side...That lasted a few days. If you'll excuse me, cunnilingus calls.
Do you submit to (City Magazine)? Do you pitch humor pieces online? etc. etc.
Sadly my answer was a constant, "no, I'm going to work on that eventually."
Which lead to the inevitable, "so Ron, what exactly are you doing?"
This guy has 30+ years of success in the field of journalism, I'm sure to him we Hunter Thompson fanatics already seem amateur, nonetheless, I couldn't in my heart tell him what I was actually doing...erotic literature. Yup, in this economy, I gotta take what I can get.
While other people are pitching spec scripts, blogging for Huffington, negotiating publishing pitches, I'm editing orgy scenes between a girl and her two brothers. We all have our peaks and valleys I suppose.
Speaking of which, earlier this month (it's still April 30th) I participated in a comedy competition in Bend, Oregon. Bend is a neat ski-town in the middle of the state. Driving there, however, one must go over a pretty long pass. I hadn't checked the weather conditions. Starting the drive from Seattle it was completely pleasant, ordinary North-west spring weather. The pass was a different story. I hadn't realized how high in the mountains I actually was, and this pass was covered with snow and it was coming down...hard. I literally switched seasons in a matter of seconds. Now, I've never handled snow well, NEVER. When other people see me drive in snow they assume I'm a Seattle native, they're shocked when I tell them I'm from Pennsylvania. What can I say? I don't do snow.
Trucks were sliding, people were pulled over putting their chains on. I was in a Dodge Caliber rental, I didn't have chains nor would I have any clue what to do with them if I did. I wondered just how high up I was, there were little signs of elevation. Had I made a wrong turn somewhere? Am I still on the right road? When this is all over, I'm buying myself a GPS. I put the car in auto-stick, that helped a great deal. At that point, I let out an open call for help. I don't necessarily pray much, but hell, anything was worth a shot. I made it out, and of course once over the mountain the roads were completely normal.
I know it's trite, but after that I decided I was going to have a more positive attitude about things, not take anything for granted, focus more on the bright side...That lasted a few days. If you'll excuse me, cunnilingus calls.
Friday, April 10, 2009
An Open Letter to PETA from my Cat, Lucy
Dear PETA,
To avoid getting started on the wrong foot, let me say that I am, overall, in support of what you do. As a proud feline I do appreciate your pursuit of our ethical treatment and due to your informative campaigns my provider and I both refuse to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, among other things.
However, I can't help but have a slightly acerbic taste in my mouth when I ponder issues of world hunger, our struggling economy, the environment, and war. These are issues that affect us animals as well and as I hope you can agree, are of a bit more importance than changing the name of fish to "sea-kittens." Which, by the way, I do enjoy a fine tuna myself, I hope this is not your attempt to paint us cats as cannibals. If so, know that I speak for the rest of the Animal Revolutionary Society when I say we will not be pleased. I have very close ties with the K-9 Chapter as well as everyone over at the Neo-Animal Farm. Anyway, to summarize, dare I say perhaps you should make yourselves aware that there are "fatter fish to fry." And no, I don't apologize for the pun. My provider hasn't written a funny joke in I can't remember how long, I've earned this.
Anyway, this brings me to my next point and what inspired me to write you, your recent request to the musical ensemble Pet Shop Boys. Now, with exception to the Hold Steady double-disc I've little to look forward to in regards to the music industry, and I'm certainly not without a sense of humor. What you seem to forget is that the worst thing you could do to your organization is become a parody of yourself, which in recent events you have taken many steps toward. You'd be naive to not acknowledge and adapt to the fact that you have extremists in your organization that make the far religious right almost look rational. With this in mind, making your request to the Pet Shop Boys to change their name will bear little positive fruit, and on the contrary will further diminish the cause you claim to be fighting for.
I understand your intentions are in the right place, but perhaps it's time to change the Pandora Radio Station in the marketing office. Just a thought.
All the best,
Lucy
President, Animal Revolutionary Society
Editor in Chief to Ron Placone
Activist
To avoid getting started on the wrong foot, let me say that I am, overall, in support of what you do. As a proud feline I do appreciate your pursuit of our ethical treatment and due to your informative campaigns my provider and I both refuse to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken, among other things.
However, I can't help but have a slightly acerbic taste in my mouth when I ponder issues of world hunger, our struggling economy, the environment, and war. These are issues that affect us animals as well and as I hope you can agree, are of a bit more importance than changing the name of fish to "sea-kittens." Which, by the way, I do enjoy a fine tuna myself, I hope this is not your attempt to paint us cats as cannibals. If so, know that I speak for the rest of the Animal Revolutionary Society when I say we will not be pleased. I have very close ties with the K-9 Chapter as well as everyone over at the Neo-Animal Farm. Anyway, to summarize, dare I say perhaps you should make yourselves aware that there are "fatter fish to fry." And no, I don't apologize for the pun. My provider hasn't written a funny joke in I can't remember how long, I've earned this.
Anyway, this brings me to my next point and what inspired me to write you, your recent request to the musical ensemble Pet Shop Boys. Now, with exception to the Hold Steady double-disc I've little to look forward to in regards to the music industry, and I'm certainly not without a sense of humor. What you seem to forget is that the worst thing you could do to your organization is become a parody of yourself, which in recent events you have taken many steps toward. You'd be naive to not acknowledge and adapt to the fact that you have extremists in your organization that make the far religious right almost look rational. With this in mind, making your request to the Pet Shop Boys to change their name will bear little positive fruit, and on the contrary will further diminish the cause you claim to be fighting for.
I understand your intentions are in the right place, but perhaps it's time to change the Pandora Radio Station in the marketing office. Just a thought.
All the best,
Lucy
President, Animal Revolutionary Society
Editor in Chief to Ron Placone
Activist
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