My New Diet

At times I have a weird eating schedule. Sometimes I won't be hungry in the afternoon, go out and do comedy, then be starving by the time I get home. I've decided that from now on whenever I have a terrible set I won't eat when I get home...because I ate already, I dined on a shit-sandwich. It only seems fair.

Tonight was definitely one of those nights where I wouldn't be eating, but I decided to let it slide because I was starving and knew I wouldn't sleep well if I didn't eat something. I'm already slacking off.

I did canvassing for a bit, not just because I needed some quick cash but because I thought a job like that would help with stand-up, if I can convince a stranger to give me their credit card information on the street I can convince them a joke's funny. It was tough. The toughest job I've ever had. And it's brutal. I felt like shit everyday, mentally and physically. My day would start at around 7:30am, and it would end around midnight. I wouldn't have time to go home after the shift because I'd go straight to stand-up somewhere. I got sick nearly immediately. I lasted three days. With everything else I had going on, it just wasn't going to work at the moment. Still, I enjoyed seeing that side of humanity, in terms of human interaction you're just a pan-handler that makes an hourly wage. Within my three days somebody told me to fuck off once, a woman propositioned me for sex and three people signed up with me. I would see tourists finding their way through downtown, looking for the library, Pike's Place, Pioneer Square, the Space Needle at times, though I was never really near the Center.

According to my supervisor one of my flaws was my low energy and the fact that I didn't approach a ton of people. We found that it was because I pre-judged them. "Why?" He asked me. "Because I've lived, I've seen shit, I know we're supposed to be optimistic about human compassion but I'm not sold." "Everyone that comes through our doors have seen shit, you've got to give people a little bit of credit." He was right about the first part, and he had a point, most of the people there were well-traveled, eclectic, cultured, but we all see different things. With the path I've chosen over the past several years I feel that I give my fellow man enough credit. We're flawed, we're animals, the best may be behind us, but we can learn and we can love. Some would call it misanthropy, others cynicism, I call it a healthy dose of realism.

By the way, here's what our health-care bill should say:

"Non-Profit Single Payer. There. Any room for misinterpretations or bogus death panel claims? No, I didn't think so. All of you insurance industry moguls can get new jobs selling used American cars. As for the rest of you, you're welcome."

A Small Victory

Over five years ago I had a dream that I got pulled over by a cop. It was a female officer and when she approached my window she was gorgeous. She told me to watch my speed and that I was lucky I was cute. She winked at me and left.

Tonight I was driving home from a gig in Tumwater (had a great time, always a fun room) and I got pulled over by a female cop! It was an interesting situation, initially I had no idea why I was pulled over.

"Do you know why I pulled you over?"

I was upfront, "to be honest, no, I don't." I said it cordially.

"Well you were driving right on top of the person in front of you, and you were swerving in and out of your lane."

Technically, both things she said were true. I was on top of the car and front of me briefly, because I was trying to get around said car, they were going maybe 50, but I couldn't get around them because there was a car in the other lane also riding their break. For whatever reason in my experience the northwest has no concept of the fast lane.

As for the swerving thing, yes, I slightly swerved once, because their flashing lights startled me, I swerved slightly and then pulled over.

So both things she said were true, albeit a stretch.

Her next question: "How much did you have to drink tonight?"

Which I could've taken personally but chose not to.

"Nothing."

"What about earlier?"

"I have had absolutely nothing to drink tonight."

Which was true, I'm incredibly strict about drinking before shows, I feel like it throws my timing off, and I didn't drink afterward because I left after the show was over.

"So if I give you a breathalyzer you'll blow zero?"

"Yeah, unless mouthwash or something makes it go above."

She took my license. She came back a few minutes later and told me to watch my driving. I started to apologize and explain myself, but she stammered off. No goodnight, nothing. In my side mirror I saw her waving off the car behind her. She reminded me off a pouting kid, the school bully that didn't get to beat up the small kid because an adult showed up.

This wasn't an officer that was concerned about my safety or the safety of others on the road, this was an officer that was one of the cars involved in a speed trap and they wanted to slap a DUI on somebody. They wanted to humiliate someone and make them walk in a straight line, say the alphabet backwards, see them squirm. And, tonight it wasn't this guy.

Now don't get me wrong, there are some good cops out there, you hear about people giving their lives for the cause. On the flip-side you also hear about police officers killing people with tazers. I salute law enforcement for doing the job they do but I'm not naive enough to ignore the fact that police brutality is a huge problem in the United States and elsewhere. I have this theory that for every good cop there are about 6 or so bad ones. I base this on experience and I have yet to meet an officer that falls into that one in 6.

Eh, so it goes. She didn't wink at me, didn't tell me I was cute, oh and just for the record she was heinous.

In a Bathtub no less!

Amici, I've been a lousy blogger. Usually I like to grace the inter-cyberspace with my ramblings twice a month. Not necessarily every other week, my time management isn't that disciplined, if it were I'd probably be much more successful in the game. I blame it on Kaplan, and I blame it on the heat.

In Seattle we've had record-breaking temperatures, for those that don't live in Seattle and may not find meteorology all that interesting. Around 83% of all buildings in the Seattle area do not have air conditioning, our temperatures broke 100. My apartment of course falls into the 83%. At one point I filled my bathtub with cold water, set my computer and cell phone on the toilet, and sat in the tub to go about my day. My "home-office" is by no means glamorous to begin with so it wasn't much of an adjustment. To an on-looker who didn't know there was a heatwave it probably looked like the most bizarre suicide attempt they'd ever seen.

Anyway, enough on the heat.

A woman in the Bronx is suing Monroe College because she claims their career center did not help her get a job. She majored in information technology. The college defends the effectiveness of their career center, indicating several recent English majors that have gone on to be successful baristas.

Lastly, Over the next month or so I'm going to be deciding what to do about my novel. I've been trying to get it picked up, I've gotten some interest but no small presses have any money these days, they're hardly putting out anything and understandably so. I'm aware of many more innovative and cost-efficient ways to get this thing out there independently but I haven't considered them out of fear of rejection from the publishing industry. Alas, I've reconsidered and reality gave me a slap. The publishing industry, in many ways, is a sinking ship. A renaissance is coming and they either have to embrace it or go the way of the Buffalo. Not to mention I made the decision to walk away from the industry back in May, so why not go all out?

Back in the Saddle

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.

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

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.

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…