Good Morning Peoples -
I haven't posted a blog in forever and I'm going to start again. But first I had to see if I had the ability to post the blog up on my site. So this is my test. But because you clicked on this fucker, I'll write a little something for you.
I am in Stockholm Sweden and I have to go with Hitler on this one. There are some good looking mother fuckers over here. I don't feel that it justifies trying to annihilate all other races on the planet. What it really makes me feel is that all Hitler needed was a good wing man. If he had a good wing man, he might have been able to land one of these blue eyed broads, lost himself in her blonde pubes and the entire second World War could have been avoided.
Instead he tried to take the long way around.
(Evil Hitler voice) "Vat eff I eliminated al ze other creatures on ze planet? Unt deen I vould have a blond pussy for mineself for der vould be so few others... unt YAH, das ess good."
If you are reading this, then my post was a success. And I will finish the above in a reasonable amount of time.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
My Name is Stan - Part 3
DECEMBER 22ND 2007
Not going home for the holidays is the last phase of cutting the umbilical cord. What the fuck am I doing in my hometown? There are no more familiar faces. Everything has changed and it just makes me feel old. I should be sitting in my apartment in LA watching people stuck at the airport, laughing at their pain.
That’s what I love to do. I mean, I love to help too. But when it’s on TV, I love to laugh.
Ellen starts crying about her dog and I just laugh and then scream at my TV. "THAT’S WHAT YOU GET, YA DUMB BITCH!" Which of course makes absolutely no sense at all. But that doesn’t stop me from yelling at her.
Ahhhhh…who gives a fuck.
None of it makes sense. It’s all fuckin stupid. So that’s why I don’t care. I really wanted to go out and get drunk tonight but no one called me back. Now I feel lonely. I wish this were being filmed so you could laugh at me. Cause it’s funny. Pain is funny, as long as you don’t care or it’s happening to someone else.
Whenever I watch reality shows and people are crying about something that hurt them, it always makes me laugh.
"THAT’S WHAT YOU GET! THAT’S WHAT YOU GET FOR GIVING A FUCK, YOU WEIRD LOOKIN’ BASTARD!"
It’s not that I don’t have empathy. The empathy is the laughing. Actually I don’t know what it is. I’m not happy when bad things happen to people, but for some reason, I always laugh.
The first time I consciously noticed it, was when I went to go see that movie ’Slingblade’. The movie theater was packed and I was on a date. Everything was fine until the part where Dwight Yokam’s character grabbed that guy in the wheelchair and zoomed him out of his house. The whole theater got quiet, but I was fuckin’ roaring. At which point, everyone around me looked at me like I was a psycho.
And I wanted to be like, "I’m laughing cause I KNOW that dude. I grew up with a guy like that. I’ve been that guy getting zoomed out of the house." It still doesn’t make sense as to why it strikes me as funny. But I can’t help it.
Kids crying makes me laugh too. If I ever actually saw a kid drop his ice cream and start crying, I think I would have a hernia trying to hold the laughter in. I mean, I would still feel bad for him and buy the kid another ice cream, but I would still be laughing my ass off.
"Get used to kid. There’s going to be a lot more where that came from."
I’m old enough to have a 16 year old son.
I wish they still fought in the NHL. They should bring back the old divisions and get rid of all those bullshit southern teams. I wish it was 20 years ago, and I could get a case of Haffenreffers and head into the old Boston Garden and watch Jay Miller fight Chris Nilan. Those were the days. Cam would get a hat trick. The old Adams division.
Montreal
Boston
Quebec
Buffalo
Hartford.
You could fuckin’ drive to all the away games. Why didn’t I ever do that?
Now you go to a game and every time there is a stoppage of play, they got those fuckin’ 17 year old girls, in glitter cat suits, skating out onto the rink to clear off the excess shavings. I don’t know what they’re called, but I refer to them as ice whores. And I always heckle them.
"FOR CHRIST SAKE HAVE SOME RESPECT FOR YOURSELVES!!!!!!!!! STAY IN SCHOOL!!!! STAY IN SCHOOOOOOLLLL!!!!!
When the ice whores are done, they always do the "beauty pageant wave" as they skate out of the rink. Most people cheer during that part, but I always boo. Some people give me dirty looks, but the ones who laugh….I see it in their eyes…
"That’s what you get…"
PT 4 NEXT THURSDAY
Thursday, April 3, 2008
My Name is Stan - Part 2
December 21st, 2007
Boston MA
I’m back in Boston for Christmas. When I lived in New York, coming home for Christmas was no big deal. I just called Budget, grabbed a vehicle and drove it like the rented horse that it was. I’d leave around 10 at night, and I could be home in 3 1/2 hours, provided they weren’t doing any late night construction.
So when I booked my travel to go home to Boston from LA, I completely forgot what a big deal going to the airport 5 days before Christmas is. Can you believe that? That has to be the selfish side of me. If it doesn’t affect me, I forget it exists. Kind of like world hunger or the Memphis Grizzlies.
In my defense, I’m not a complete idiot. I knew that the airports were crowded during the holidays, but I felt I had a system that would negate any potential delays. My copyrighted system involved leaving on a THURSDAY. See, in my head, no one gets to travel on a THURSDAY except for the President, widget salesmen, and comedians. Everyone else is just a run of the mill jackass, chained to a cubicle until the whistle blows on FRIDAY.
Part two of "Operation Exit Row" was that I was booked on the 9 PM Red Eye Flight. I felt this was another stroke of brilliance, because at that hour, all of those regular working stiffs would be getting ready for bed. There’s no way they would be going to the airport, for they had to go to work the next day. So not only would they not be on my flight, they wouldn’t even be on the road. "Boy oh boy, this is going to be the best flight ever! I’ll probably get a whole row to myself! I AM A FUCKING GENIUS!"
The final piece of the puzzle came together when I set up a free ride to the airport by calling up a comedian friend of mine by the name of Kevin Shea. (Kevin is Asian, in a good way) Needless to say, he agreed. Not because he’s a wholesome, dependable person, that was in the holiday spirit. He agreed to give me a ride cause in the back of his sneaky Pearl Harbor mind, he thought by giving me a ride, I would repay the favor by hooking him up with some road work.
I forget how we finally got to the highway, but I do remember Kevin having to make some sort of U-turn. As I started to break his balls about not knowing where the fuck he was going, he actually said something that unbeknownst to me, would change my holiday life forever.
"You still go home for the Christmas?"
An odd feeling came over me, but I immediately did what I do with all uncomfortable emotion: I ignored it. "Ahhh...fuck him. What does he know about Christmas? He probably eats frosted Kimchi. Plus I haven’t seen my family in 6 months and I’m leaving on a THURSDAY! I’ll be home in a jiffy!"
We were cruising down the highway, just as I imagined we would, but as we came towards the end of the 105 freeway, we were suddenly staring at 9 million break lights. It was classic LA traffic. Everyone was going about 80 miles and hour, and then for no apparent reason, we came to a complete stop. And a line of cars snaked its way over the horizon, towards the barely visible, giant glow sticks of LAX.
But this wasn’t the usual, run-of-the-mill congestion. This was one of those traffic jams that news helicopters hover over, like fucking vultures. And I knew somewhere there was some cheesy, talking head, newsroom personality, chuckling at my misfortune. In that moment I understood terrorism and the reason civilians aren’t allowed to have RPG’s.
Kevin, to his credit, immediately started laughing at me and telling me what a fuckin’ idiot I was. I tried to play it off by trashing him for how lonely he was going to be on Christmas. But he responded with: "I see my parents for two weeks during the summer. No one goes to my home state during the summer. I stopped going home for the holidays like 5 years ago.."
How could I be this stupid?
It took forever to go the last 1/4 of a fucking mile to get into the airport.
Thus I went from having plenty of time to catch my plane, to wondering if a new form of travel had been invented.
Kevin dropped me off and was still laughing at me as I saw the security line was backed up to the parking garage. As I watched him drive away, I realized that it was the first time I had been envious of a feature act since I was an opener. (He’s actually hilarious and is a headliner. And he would probably be headlining even more rooms if it weren’t for a video clip of a radical preacher from his local church trashing the white man.)
As I waded slowly into the crowded airport, for some reason I began talking to myself in the voice of a high school gym teacher.
"Nice move Bill. Just a heads up fuckin’ play. Way to have your finger on the pulse! It’s 5 days before the Martyrs birthday and every shit head with unresolved childhood issues is going to be standing in front of you, not taking their laptop out of their bag and forgetting to remove their belt. And you know what?...you deserve it. Why? Cause you are a FUCKIN’ MORON!"
Inside the terminal it looked as though the government had been overthrown. The mass confusion and overall panicked look on everybody’s face made me afraid to glance over my shoulder, for fear of seeing aircraft fire lighting up a Best Buy.
For the life of me, I don’t know why I don’t learn from past mistakes. I stick my head in a hole. I get punched in the face. I take my head out. The sting wears off. Then I stick my head right back in the same hole.
And when I fuck up really bad in life, my response is not to remain calm and try to think of a solution. Instead, it is to immediately lose my shit to a completely unacceptable level, and then I follow it up by having random angry thoughts directed at complete strangers.
"Why do all dumb cunts wear Uggs?...Look at these fuckin’ idiots....Just a sea of stupidity....And no one is wearing a condom...."
So as I looked around the ticket area, rather than remain calm and accept that this is par for the course during the "Happiest Time of the Year", my brain just started to babble hurt, hate, and conspiracy theory, as I tried to gauge whether it was better to stand behind the old couple or the family from Laos, with the cardboard luggage.
"Is this what the New World Order is going to look like? God I’m glad I don’t have any kids. I wonder how the North American Union will effect the NHL. Will Winnipeg get a team again?..."
It took about two and a half hours to get to my gate. It would have only taken an hour and forty-five minutes, but no matter how much the TSA rent-a-cops yelled out the rules, the random shitheads, didn’t seem to be catching on.
I swear to God if they would occasionally shoot someone in the leg, for waiting until they were at the front of the line to begin taking their jacket and shoes off, the world would be a more violent, yet faster moving place.
My red eye flight back to Boston was due to leave at 900 PM. By the time I got through security it was 8:45, so I was sprinting through the airport.
"...That fuckin cock suckin’ muther fuckin’ Muhammad Atta..."
There are very few things in life that match the panic of thinking you are going to miss a plane. On the scale of horrific things, I think it’s ranked just before drowning and right after having your crotch set on fire.
The anxiety level is ridiculous. When you actually think about it, it’s not fatal. In fact, I’ve missed about 7 flights in my career and nothing bad has ever happened. I was never stranded and then forced to ride in the hull of a FED-X plane. They just put me on the next available flight and I got home a little later.
But for some reason when you are in the moment of thinking you are going to miss your flight, you completely lose all touch with reality. Your brain takes you to a heightened "fight or flight" mode of awareness and you start to behave as though you are going to miss the last chopper out of Vietnam.
I was so freaked out that I actually contemplated the "Sophie’s Choice" of leaving my ancient 8 pound laptop behind.
"Fuck it...maybe I’ll get a new one for Christmas...I NEED TO BE MOBILE!"
When I finally arrived at my gate I expected to see a gate agent closing the jet-way door, as my plane was being back up by that little truck. Instead, I was relieved to find that the plane had not left. In-fact, not only had the plane not left, it hadn’t even arrived yet. And my flight 9 PM flight was now due to leave at 9:30 PM.
At first there was relief. A little bit of peaceful blue, spilling into my mind.
"Ahh...9:30 is not that bad. I can chill out...Maybe even grab a magazine..."
But that calm only lasted for about 8 seconds.
"Would you look at this fuckin’ twat with her bag on the chair. What a fuckin’ cunt. Doesn’t she see all the people standing up? Oh yeah buddy just stand right fuckin there blocking the flow of traffic. Fuckin’ corduroy slacks and a comb over.. What kind of friends do you have where they don’t tell you how fucking bad that looks. I wish I had my own plane with a giant bed and a big seat belt..."
As the evil troll in my mind continued to rant, I scoped out a small section of all weather carpet, sat down, and caught my breath as I checked to see if I lost anything during my sprint.
About ten minutes later, I had calmed down and was actually having fun waving at this toddler in a stroller. I love how kids wave. You know the way they open and close their entire hand? That always cracks me up.
Anyway, I stopped waving at the kid after about 45 seconds, because when it isn’t your kid, that game quickly goes from being cute, to: "What’s with the sex offender?" It’s a sad state of today’s world, but I get it.
Anyway, some residual paranoia made me glance up at my flight info on the board and I noticed that it was now scheduled to leave at 10:10 PM.
"...10:10?...It just said 9:30...and it was supposed to leave at 9...oh no...oh God no...Don’t do this..."
Twenty minutes later it was pushed back to 10:40PM.
"....Oh fuck...Please God don’t let me be on one of these flights..."
Then they moved the gate.
..."you motherless fuckin’ cunts..."
When I arrived at the new gate, my flight was now pushed back to 11:00PM, and that’s when I began speaking out loud to no one in particular.
"This is fuckin’ bullshit. The fucking plane is on fucking radar. They know where the fuck it is and how fucking long it’s going to take for it to fucking get here. So stop giving me the fuckin’ truth in 20 minute fuckin’ increments."
That’s what I hate about airline travel. They treat you like a child. Like if they just told me at 9 PM that the fucking plane was still over Iowa, I could have done the math.
"So, let’s see.... That gives me roughly three hours to get just drunk enough that I can still board the plane, but pass out for the rest of the flight. Perfect. See ya’ at midnight."
But they don’t do that. They have to keep the fuckin’ herd together. So they keep you on the edge of your seat for hours on end and create the artificial fear that if you leave the immediate gate area for even a minute, the plane will somehow pull up, 250 people will get off, and another 250 will get on, and you’ll spend your entire Christmas sleeping on the tile down near baggage claim.
"Yeah, buddy why don’t you talk a little bit louder, you’re SCREAMING for fuck sakes...I fuckin’ hate wingtip shoes..."
The final time they put up was 1159PM. We didn’t board until 12:30AM. But they never switched the time to later than 1159PM. I don’t think that they felt we could psychologically handle it. It’s the same philosophy as selling something for $19.95. $19.95 is considered a good deal. But if you sold it for20 bucks, somehow everyone would then realize that it’s a complete piece of shit.
"Look at this douche. He looks like the kind of guy who gets drunk and falls overboard during a cruise....Why are you eating yogurt?..."
As embarrassing as my temper is, I do take pride in the fact that I don’t unleash it on people I deem as innocent.
For example: Unlike most douche bags I don’t yell at the people behind the counter, when my flight is delayed. (I prefer to curse amongst the passengers and their children :P ) I realize that the gate agents are merely innocent messengers, that somehow ended up having to do this horrific job.
I can’t imagine a worse, "Well I guess I’ll do this" job, than being a gate agent. The murderous fantasies they must conjure up as yet another out of shape, IRATE customer, is screaming at them while the faint smell of Cinnabon mocks the entire conversation.
I am by no means defending the airlines. I hate the fact that they won’t come out and just tell you that a three hour delay is going to be a three hour delay. That’s the kind of shit that makes me snap.
But when it’s a situation that involves bad weather, as much as it sucks, it’s not their fault. So at that point, I would just liked to be given the option of finding the closest bar and having some drinks. I mean, I get it. It’s snowing. What the fuck do people want them to do? Fly into a blizzard?
Whenever I hear people bitching in that situation, I always fantasize about one of the pilots walking up behind the gate agent with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and in a barely audible Clint Eastwood voice, utter. "Put them on the plane. They want to go? Let’s fucking go."
A lot of those pilots are Vietnam/Iraqi War Vets. So you know they’re bored shitless flying those airborne greyhounds back and forth over the heartland.
A guy like that would probably love nothing more than to reclaim a little of that combat mission excitement, by flying into the heart of a hurricane. Then he could open the cockpit door and scream over his shoulder:
"IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!?!?!?!?!!!!!! IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED!?!?!?!"
These people who complain during bad weather are probably the same ones that freak out every time there is the slightest bit of turbulence. I hate when you hit a bump and then they shoot you a look, begging you to reassure them that everything is OK. They have this fuckin’ scared rodent-like expression. "Oh my God. Are we going to die?"
I wish I had the balls to throw karma to the wind and be like, "Yes your fear is true. We are going down. We’re all going to die, and the worst part is, you’ll have 10 minutes to think about it as we do barrel rolls before taking out a soybean field/crystal meth lab, just east of Hayes Nebraska."
"....Jesus Christ...if your feet look like that why would wear sandals?...Are you somehow blaming the rest of us?...Why am I still going home for Christmas? Great question. I’m old enough to have a 15 year old that resents me for walking out ten years ago...I need some NyQuil."
PART 3 NEXT THURSDAY (PROVIDED I DON’T GET ANOTHER VIRUS)
Boston MA
I’m back in Boston for Christmas. When I lived in New York, coming home for Christmas was no big deal. I just called Budget, grabbed a vehicle and drove it like the rented horse that it was. I’d leave around 10 at night, and I could be home in 3 1/2 hours, provided they weren’t doing any late night construction.
So when I booked my travel to go home to Boston from LA, I completely forgot what a big deal going to the airport 5 days before Christmas is. Can you believe that? That has to be the selfish side of me. If it doesn’t affect me, I forget it exists. Kind of like world hunger or the Memphis Grizzlies.
In my defense, I’m not a complete idiot. I knew that the airports were crowded during the holidays, but I felt I had a system that would negate any potential delays. My copyrighted system involved leaving on a THURSDAY. See, in my head, no one gets to travel on a THURSDAY except for the President, widget salesmen, and comedians. Everyone else is just a run of the mill jackass, chained to a cubicle until the whistle blows on FRIDAY.
Part two of "Operation Exit Row" was that I was booked on the 9 PM Red Eye Flight. I felt this was another stroke of brilliance, because at that hour, all of those regular working stiffs would be getting ready for bed. There’s no way they would be going to the airport, for they had to go to work the next day. So not only would they not be on my flight, they wouldn’t even be on the road. "Boy oh boy, this is going to be the best flight ever! I’ll probably get a whole row to myself! I AM A FUCKING GENIUS!"
The final piece of the puzzle came together when I set up a free ride to the airport by calling up a comedian friend of mine by the name of Kevin Shea. (Kevin is Asian, in a good way) Needless to say, he agreed. Not because he’s a wholesome, dependable person, that was in the holiday spirit. He agreed to give me a ride cause in the back of his sneaky Pearl Harbor mind, he thought by giving me a ride, I would repay the favor by hooking him up with some road work.
I forget how we finally got to the highway, but I do remember Kevin having to make some sort of U-turn. As I started to break his balls about not knowing where the fuck he was going, he actually said something that unbeknownst to me, would change my holiday life forever.
"You still go home for the Christmas?"
An odd feeling came over me, but I immediately did what I do with all uncomfortable emotion: I ignored it. "Ahhh...fuck him. What does he know about Christmas? He probably eats frosted Kimchi. Plus I haven’t seen my family in 6 months and I’m leaving on a THURSDAY! I’ll be home in a jiffy!"
We were cruising down the highway, just as I imagined we would, but as we came towards the end of the 105 freeway, we were suddenly staring at 9 million break lights. It was classic LA traffic. Everyone was going about 80 miles and hour, and then for no apparent reason, we came to a complete stop. And a line of cars snaked its way over the horizon, towards the barely visible, giant glow sticks of LAX.
But this wasn’t the usual, run-of-the-mill congestion. This was one of those traffic jams that news helicopters hover over, like fucking vultures. And I knew somewhere there was some cheesy, talking head, newsroom personality, chuckling at my misfortune. In that moment I understood terrorism and the reason civilians aren’t allowed to have RPG’s.
Kevin, to his credit, immediately started laughing at me and telling me what a fuckin’ idiot I was. I tried to play it off by trashing him for how lonely he was going to be on Christmas. But he responded with: "I see my parents for two weeks during the summer. No one goes to my home state during the summer. I stopped going home for the holidays like 5 years ago.."
How could I be this stupid?
It took forever to go the last 1/4 of a fucking mile to get into the airport.
Thus I went from having plenty of time to catch my plane, to wondering if a new form of travel had been invented.
Kevin dropped me off and was still laughing at me as I saw the security line was backed up to the parking garage. As I watched him drive away, I realized that it was the first time I had been envious of a feature act since I was an opener. (He’s actually hilarious and is a headliner. And he would probably be headlining even more rooms if it weren’t for a video clip of a radical preacher from his local church trashing the white man.)
As I waded slowly into the crowded airport, for some reason I began talking to myself in the voice of a high school gym teacher.
"Nice move Bill. Just a heads up fuckin’ play. Way to have your finger on the pulse! It’s 5 days before the Martyrs birthday and every shit head with unresolved childhood issues is going to be standing in front of you, not taking their laptop out of their bag and forgetting to remove their belt. And you know what?...you deserve it. Why? Cause you are a FUCKIN’ MORON!"
Inside the terminal it looked as though the government had been overthrown. The mass confusion and overall panicked look on everybody’s face made me afraid to glance over my shoulder, for fear of seeing aircraft fire lighting up a Best Buy.
For the life of me, I don’t know why I don’t learn from past mistakes. I stick my head in a hole. I get punched in the face. I take my head out. The sting wears off. Then I stick my head right back in the same hole.
And when I fuck up really bad in life, my response is not to remain calm and try to think of a solution. Instead, it is to immediately lose my shit to a completely unacceptable level, and then I follow it up by having random angry thoughts directed at complete strangers.
"Why do all dumb cunts wear Uggs?...Look at these fuckin’ idiots....Just a sea of stupidity....And no one is wearing a condom...."
So as I looked around the ticket area, rather than remain calm and accept that this is par for the course during the "Happiest Time of the Year", my brain just started to babble hurt, hate, and conspiracy theory, as I tried to gauge whether it was better to stand behind the old couple or the family from Laos, with the cardboard luggage.
"Is this what the New World Order is going to look like? God I’m glad I don’t have any kids. I wonder how the North American Union will effect the NHL. Will Winnipeg get a team again?..."
It took about two and a half hours to get to my gate. It would have only taken an hour and forty-five minutes, but no matter how much the TSA rent-a-cops yelled out the rules, the random shitheads, didn’t seem to be catching on.
I swear to God if they would occasionally shoot someone in the leg, for waiting until they were at the front of the line to begin taking their jacket and shoes off, the world would be a more violent, yet faster moving place.
My red eye flight back to Boston was due to leave at 900 PM. By the time I got through security it was 8:45, so I was sprinting through the airport.
"...That fuckin cock suckin’ muther fuckin’ Muhammad Atta..."
There are very few things in life that match the panic of thinking you are going to miss a plane. On the scale of horrific things, I think it’s ranked just before drowning and right after having your crotch set on fire.
The anxiety level is ridiculous. When you actually think about it, it’s not fatal. In fact, I’ve missed about 7 flights in my career and nothing bad has ever happened. I was never stranded and then forced to ride in the hull of a FED-X plane. They just put me on the next available flight and I got home a little later.
But for some reason when you are in the moment of thinking you are going to miss your flight, you completely lose all touch with reality. Your brain takes you to a heightened "fight or flight" mode of awareness and you start to behave as though you are going to miss the last chopper out of Vietnam.
I was so freaked out that I actually contemplated the "Sophie’s Choice" of leaving my ancient 8 pound laptop behind.
"Fuck it...maybe I’ll get a new one for Christmas...I NEED TO BE MOBILE!"
When I finally arrived at my gate I expected to see a gate agent closing the jet-way door, as my plane was being back up by that little truck. Instead, I was relieved to find that the plane had not left. In-fact, not only had the plane not left, it hadn’t even arrived yet. And my flight 9 PM flight was now due to leave at 9:30 PM.
At first there was relief. A little bit of peaceful blue, spilling into my mind.
"Ahh...9:30 is not that bad. I can chill out...Maybe even grab a magazine..."
But that calm only lasted for about 8 seconds.
"Would you look at this fuckin’ twat with her bag on the chair. What a fuckin’ cunt. Doesn’t she see all the people standing up? Oh yeah buddy just stand right fuckin there blocking the flow of traffic. Fuckin’ corduroy slacks and a comb over.. What kind of friends do you have where they don’t tell you how fucking bad that looks. I wish I had my own plane with a giant bed and a big seat belt..."
As the evil troll in my mind continued to rant, I scoped out a small section of all weather carpet, sat down, and caught my breath as I checked to see if I lost anything during my sprint.
About ten minutes later, I had calmed down and was actually having fun waving at this toddler in a stroller. I love how kids wave. You know the way they open and close their entire hand? That always cracks me up.
Anyway, I stopped waving at the kid after about 45 seconds, because when it isn’t your kid, that game quickly goes from being cute, to: "What’s with the sex offender?" It’s a sad state of today’s world, but I get it.
Anyway, some residual paranoia made me glance up at my flight info on the board and I noticed that it was now scheduled to leave at 10:10 PM.
"...10:10?...It just said 9:30...and it was supposed to leave at 9...oh no...oh God no...Don’t do this..."
Twenty minutes later it was pushed back to 10:40PM.
"....Oh fuck...Please God don’t let me be on one of these flights..."
Then they moved the gate.
..."you motherless fuckin’ cunts..."
When I arrived at the new gate, my flight was now pushed back to 11:00PM, and that’s when I began speaking out loud to no one in particular.
"This is fuckin’ bullshit. The fucking plane is on fucking radar. They know where the fuck it is and how fucking long it’s going to take for it to fucking get here. So stop giving me the fuckin’ truth in 20 minute fuckin’ increments."
That’s what I hate about airline travel. They treat you like a child. Like if they just told me at 9 PM that the fucking plane was still over Iowa, I could have done the math.
"So, let’s see.... That gives me roughly three hours to get just drunk enough that I can still board the plane, but pass out for the rest of the flight. Perfect. See ya’ at midnight."
But they don’t do that. They have to keep the fuckin’ herd together. So they keep you on the edge of your seat for hours on end and create the artificial fear that if you leave the immediate gate area for even a minute, the plane will somehow pull up, 250 people will get off, and another 250 will get on, and you’ll spend your entire Christmas sleeping on the tile down near baggage claim.
"Yeah, buddy why don’t you talk a little bit louder, you’re SCREAMING for fuck sakes...I fuckin’ hate wingtip shoes..."
The final time they put up was 1159PM. We didn’t board until 12:30AM. But they never switched the time to later than 1159PM. I don’t think that they felt we could psychologically handle it. It’s the same philosophy as selling something for $19.95. $19.95 is considered a good deal. But if you sold it for20 bucks, somehow everyone would then realize that it’s a complete piece of shit.
"Look at this douche. He looks like the kind of guy who gets drunk and falls overboard during a cruise....Why are you eating yogurt?..."
As embarrassing as my temper is, I do take pride in the fact that I don’t unleash it on people I deem as innocent.
For example: Unlike most douche bags I don’t yell at the people behind the counter, when my flight is delayed. (I prefer to curse amongst the passengers and their children :P ) I realize that the gate agents are merely innocent messengers, that somehow ended up having to do this horrific job.
I can’t imagine a worse, "Well I guess I’ll do this" job, than being a gate agent. The murderous fantasies they must conjure up as yet another out of shape, IRATE customer, is screaming at them while the faint smell of Cinnabon mocks the entire conversation.
I am by no means defending the airlines. I hate the fact that they won’t come out and just tell you that a three hour delay is going to be a three hour delay. That’s the kind of shit that makes me snap.
But when it’s a situation that involves bad weather, as much as it sucks, it’s not their fault. So at that point, I would just liked to be given the option of finding the closest bar and having some drinks. I mean, I get it. It’s snowing. What the fuck do people want them to do? Fly into a blizzard?
Whenever I hear people bitching in that situation, I always fantasize about one of the pilots walking up behind the gate agent with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth and in a barely audible Clint Eastwood voice, utter. "Put them on the plane. They want to go? Let’s fucking go."
A lot of those pilots are Vietnam/Iraqi War Vets. So you know they’re bored shitless flying those airborne greyhounds back and forth over the heartland.
A guy like that would probably love nothing more than to reclaim a little of that combat mission excitement, by flying into the heart of a hurricane. Then he could open the cockpit door and scream over his shoulder:
"IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED?!?!?!?!?!!!!!! IS THIS WHAT YOU WANTED!?!?!?!"
These people who complain during bad weather are probably the same ones that freak out every time there is the slightest bit of turbulence. I hate when you hit a bump and then they shoot you a look, begging you to reassure them that everything is OK. They have this fuckin’ scared rodent-like expression. "Oh my God. Are we going to die?"
I wish I had the balls to throw karma to the wind and be like, "Yes your fear is true. We are going down. We’re all going to die, and the worst part is, you’ll have 10 minutes to think about it as we do barrel rolls before taking out a soybean field/crystal meth lab, just east of Hayes Nebraska."
"....Jesus Christ...if your feet look like that why would wear sandals?...Are you somehow blaming the rest of us?...Why am I still going home for Christmas? Great question. I’m old enough to have a 15 year old that resents me for walking out ten years ago...I need some NyQuil."
PART 3 NEXT THURSDAY (PROVIDED I DON’T GET ANOTHER VIRUS)
Thursday, March 13, 2008
My Name is Stan - Part 1
Cleveland Ohio, 10PM Wednesday December 12th 2007. 27 degrees Chance of more shit weather.
I was sitting alone in a Mexican restaurant, getting ready to order a taco. The waitress informed me that her shift was over and that the bartender was going to be my server. I looked across the restaurant and saw two other people grabbing their coats. They walked out the door, and I realized that I was the lone customer sitting in a burnt sienna booth, next to a badly drawn cactus.
A horrific combination of wind, snow and rain, was slapping against the front window. There were some dirty glasses sitting on a table near by as the manager stared vacantly out the front window. He was probably wondering what ever happened to his dream of being a paleontologist. If only he had worn a condom.
The lights were dim and all I could hear was this awful version of Silver Bells, playing in the background. I took all this in, looked down at the menu for a moment and then suddenly glanced up and thought, "Shouldn’t I be lonely?"
And with that, I just burst out laughing. And I don’t mean a quick chuckle. I’m talking about slapping the table, head thrown back, just cackling. To hear me laugh you would have thought there were a group of old high school buddies, talking about some long ago incident, that today would be classified as a sex crime.
I can’t tell if I’m going crazy, or if I just see things for what they are.
The bartender was about to come over and bring me my drink. But once I started laughing, I could tell he was now pretending to be engaged in some other activity, when he was actually trying to figure out what my fuckin’ problem was. And the band played on…
….IT’S CHRISTMAS TIIIIIIIMMMMMMMEEEEE…IN THE SIIITTT-TEEEEE!
To make him feel comfortable I started to pretend that I was texting someone and trying to top the hilarious text message that I never received. About three minutes later the bartender finally came over. As he took my order, we began to have a context/subtext conversation.
HIM: "SO…WHAT CAN I GET YOU?" (Dude, are you crazy?)
ME: "AHHH…LET ME GET TWO CHICKEN TACOS." (No I’m not crazy.)
HIM: "ANYTHING ELSE?" (Are you sure?)
ME: "NO, THAT SHOULD BE FINE." (I think so.)
HIM: "OK THAT SHOULD BE UP IN ABOUT 15 MINUTES." (Back away slowly…don’t take eyes off of subject.)
…SOOOOOOON IT WILL BEEEEEE CHRISTMAS DaaAAAAAYYYYYY!
I don’t know why that song was bugging me so much. The voices on the track reminded me of the back up singers on that Ray Charles song, "Georgia on my Mind." In my opinion those singers ruin that fuckin’ tune. Whenever they sing, I have to turn the volume down. The problem is, towards the end of the song their bullshit singing overlaps Ray’s incredible voice, so you really have to try and focus.
Anyway, I’ve battled my way back from subtle depression to being right at the cusp of thinking positive. For a while, most days I would get on the positive side. Lately, I’ve been going the negative route. But one thought has stood firm throughout this long battle. I don’t seem to give a fuck either way. In reality, I know I do, or I’m supposed to, but I can’t seem to connect with that feeling.
I moved to LA and I’m having a great time. A large part of southern California burned down during the first month I arrived. It was awesome. The smoke carried for miles and miles. On final approach into LAX, I imagined I was flying over Dresden.
I always wondered what would happen if LA got bombed. Just thinking about all the famous people, flavors of the month, A-listers, and has-beens that would die would be incredible. It would be the ultimate in TV viewing. Pearl Harbor meets Anna Nichole Smith.
Not even TV snobs could resist the allure of hearing…
"This just in: The body of Grant Goodeve was found early this morning, on a hillside in Laurel Canyon. The 55 year old, former star of Eight is Enough, was on his way to Larry Wilcox’s when…"
(I just Googled Grant Goodeve and found out that the son of a bitch is happily married and living in Seattle.)
Speaking of happy: I met an old friend recently and he told me I was the happiest he’s ever seen me. That was like a month ago. It made me feel good at first. But then I realized that, that is how everyone describes a friend right after they find them at the bottom of a swimming pool.
"I was just talking to him….He seemed so happy. He was finally turning his life around."
What is it about turning your life around that makes the chopper you’re flying in slam into the side of a hill? It’s unbelievable. If you’re miserable you live forever. That’s life’s big joke.
Why did I book myself in Cleveland at this time of the year? At least I’ve got the Browns game on Sunday. What am I doing. What the fuck am I doing….
(PART 2 NEXT THURSDAY)
I was sitting alone in a Mexican restaurant, getting ready to order a taco. The waitress informed me that her shift was over and that the bartender was going to be my server. I looked across the restaurant and saw two other people grabbing their coats. They walked out the door, and I realized that I was the lone customer sitting in a burnt sienna booth, next to a badly drawn cactus.
A horrific combination of wind, snow and rain, was slapping against the front window. There were some dirty glasses sitting on a table near by as the manager stared vacantly out the front window. He was probably wondering what ever happened to his dream of being a paleontologist. If only he had worn a condom.
The lights were dim and all I could hear was this awful version of Silver Bells, playing in the background. I took all this in, looked down at the menu for a moment and then suddenly glanced up and thought, "Shouldn’t I be lonely?"
And with that, I just burst out laughing. And I don’t mean a quick chuckle. I’m talking about slapping the table, head thrown back, just cackling. To hear me laugh you would have thought there were a group of old high school buddies, talking about some long ago incident, that today would be classified as a sex crime.
I can’t tell if I’m going crazy, or if I just see things for what they are.
The bartender was about to come over and bring me my drink. But once I started laughing, I could tell he was now pretending to be engaged in some other activity, when he was actually trying to figure out what my fuckin’ problem was. And the band played on…
….IT’S CHRISTMAS TIIIIIIIMMMMMMMEEEEE…IN THE SIIITTT-TEEEEE!
To make him feel comfortable I started to pretend that I was texting someone and trying to top the hilarious text message that I never received. About three minutes later the bartender finally came over. As he took my order, we began to have a context/subtext conversation.
HIM: "SO…WHAT CAN I GET YOU?" (Dude, are you crazy?)
ME: "AHHH…LET ME GET TWO CHICKEN TACOS." (No I’m not crazy.)
HIM: "ANYTHING ELSE?" (Are you sure?)
ME: "NO, THAT SHOULD BE FINE." (I think so.)
HIM: "OK THAT SHOULD BE UP IN ABOUT 15 MINUTES." (Back away slowly…don’t take eyes off of subject.)
…SOOOOOOON IT WILL BEEEEEE CHRISTMAS DaaAAAAAYYYYYY!
I don’t know why that song was bugging me so much. The voices on the track reminded me of the back up singers on that Ray Charles song, "Georgia on my Mind." In my opinion those singers ruin that fuckin’ tune. Whenever they sing, I have to turn the volume down. The problem is, towards the end of the song their bullshit singing overlaps Ray’s incredible voice, so you really have to try and focus.
Anyway, I’ve battled my way back from subtle depression to being right at the cusp of thinking positive. For a while, most days I would get on the positive side. Lately, I’ve been going the negative route. But one thought has stood firm throughout this long battle. I don’t seem to give a fuck either way. In reality, I know I do, or I’m supposed to, but I can’t seem to connect with that feeling.
I moved to LA and I’m having a great time. A large part of southern California burned down during the first month I arrived. It was awesome. The smoke carried for miles and miles. On final approach into LAX, I imagined I was flying over Dresden.
I always wondered what would happen if LA got bombed. Just thinking about all the famous people, flavors of the month, A-listers, and has-beens that would die would be incredible. It would be the ultimate in TV viewing. Pearl Harbor meets Anna Nichole Smith.
Not even TV snobs could resist the allure of hearing…
"This just in: The body of Grant Goodeve was found early this morning, on a hillside in Laurel Canyon. The 55 year old, former star of Eight is Enough, was on his way to Larry Wilcox’s when…"
(I just Googled Grant Goodeve and found out that the son of a bitch is happily married and living in Seattle.)
Speaking of happy: I met an old friend recently and he told me I was the happiest he’s ever seen me. That was like a month ago. It made me feel good at first. But then I realized that, that is how everyone describes a friend right after they find them at the bottom of a swimming pool.
"I was just talking to him….He seemed so happy. He was finally turning his life around."
What is it about turning your life around that makes the chopper you’re flying in slam into the side of a hill? It’s unbelievable. If you’re miserable you live forever. That’s life’s big joke.
Why did I book myself in Cleveland at this time of the year? At least I’ve got the Browns game on Sunday. What am I doing. What the fuck am I doing….
(PART 2 NEXT THURSDAY)
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Chinese Democracy
Here is a comment I received in an email the other day. It is a criticism that I get every couple of months.
"It takes more brains and emotional intelligence to entertain without swearing than with, and I think you are a very emotionally intelligent white dude.
p.s. When you wanted to smash those women's muffins at the street fair on a hot day, I could really relate lol"
The above comment is obviously part of a nice email and I don't think this person was trying to be a jerk. She was just trying to give me some advice that she felt would make me a better comic. And I have to admit that I sometimes struggle with the whole working clean versus working blue.
There are definitely nights when I get off stage that I've cursed so much that I feel like I have a bad taste in my mouth. It's on those nights that I think back to the beginning of my career.
(Cue dream sequence music and release the dry ice)
When I first started my comedy career, believe it or not, I worked squeaky clean. In fact, the first half hour of material that I wrote, was so clean that I didn't even use the word "heck". I prided myself on not cursing at all. One of my early, personal triumphs was writing a bit about "Who was the first guy to ever give the finger?" (What's the deal with the finger people…Is this CRAZY?…) And the thing I enjoyed most about the bit was that I never gave the finger at any point during the joke, yet I still was able to convey the idea and get a big laugh.
I worked this way for the first two years of my career. And in the process, quickly gained a reputation as a funny, new, clean comedian. A lot of people would tell me how great it was that I worked clean and that I was going to be a "TV Guy". I remember people telling me, "You're perfect for the Tonight Show. They are going to love you."
I have to admit; I loved hearing all those compliments. And with each one, I was already envisioning myself sitting on the Tonight Show couch and having Jay Leno ask me, "How in the world did you become so funny?" This fantasy also included a rock star and an A-list actress, sitting to my right, in equal amazement of my abilities. Of course the night ended with me playing drums in the rock star's band, hooking up with the actress, and somehow accepting an Oscar… I forget how it all played out. It was a long time ago.
Anyway, the weird thing is, when I look back and think about it, I realize that I didn't work clean in the beginning because I was a "comedy purist". I mean, I have to admit, part of the reason I worked clean, was I wanted to make sure that I learned how to write a joke and that I was actually funny. But the main reason I worked clean was that I was afraid to work dirty. I didn't have any confidence on stage. So I didn't work blue, because I wanted people to like me. I wanted the crowd to like me, I wanted the headliners to like me and I wanted the club owners like me.
That may sound ridiculous, but that is the major reason that I took that approach. I noticed a lot of headliners would complain to the bookers, if the opener worked too dirty. I didn't need that stress. I was under enough already.
Basically, I was 23 years old, mentally about 11, had zero self-esteem, and I didn't possess any sort of mental filter. At that point in my life, anything someone told me, I believed. If someone said I was good. I thought I was good. If someone said I sucked. I thought I sucked. I had no ability to shake anything off, so the last thing I wanted to do was irritate people and bring negative attention that would feel like shotgun blasts to my thin-skinned comedy torso. And I certainly didn't want to offend anyone in the crowd, because I didn't possess the skills to be able to handle them if they turned on me.
Early on, I had my entire act memorized. Every night I did the exact same jokes, in the exact same order. Yet I would still make a set list before going on stage, because I was so afraid that I was going to forget what I wanted to talk about. If that wasn't psychotic enough, I had another Rain Man compulsion. When the MC was about to bring me up, I would quickly untie and then re-tie my sneakers. I was deathly afraid that they were going to somehow come undone and then I would trip on my way up to the stage and be completely humiliated.
Some nights, during my set, the top part of one of my feet would start to tingle from the lack of circulation, because I tied my sneakers so tight. Even though I was aware on stage, as to why my foot was falling asleep, it never occurred to me to end this ridiculous ritual. The thought of avoiding potential humiliation as opposed to losing a couple of toes was an easy decision for me to make. To put it mildly, I was an absolute mess of a human being.
Every night when I went on stage, I would recite my act rather than DO my act. It was like there was an invisible teleprompter rolling in front of me as I presented my material. I couldn't even bring myself to take the mic out of the stand for the first 8 months of my career. I was too afraid that I would either drop it, or that it would take too long to get it out of the stand. Whatever the imagined scenario, it would all end with me being laughed at and having my little stand up dream die a shameful death.
Despite my precautions, I still got heckled on a regular basis. (Looking like Ron Howard was never an asset) And whenever I did, it would completely throw me off. I didn't have any problem stopping my act. I didn't have any problem addressing the heckler. The problem would come when I would try and return to my act. I could never remember where I was.
This would create a looooooooooong three-second pause that in the embryo stages of being a comedian would feel like 35 minutes. My brain would go into panic mode about .7 seconds in.
"Oh my God…What was I talking about?….Fuck, FUCK…think…fuck…Oh God they're waiting…everybody is WAITING…TALK! ….OH GOD…they know, they know EVERYBODY KNOWS… I'LL NEVER GET BOOKED HERE AGAIN….THEY'LL TELL EVERYONE….MY CAREER IS OVER…SAY SOMETHING… FUUUUUUUUCCCCKKK!!!!!"
Two second into this thought process my mouth would be dry up. At 2.2 seconds in, the meticulous teleprompter reading me, would mentally faint. And then I would just be standing there, starring at the crowd. My brain would no longer be in my notebook. It would just be blank, looking back at a crowd that was looking back at me.
It was in those moments that I would actually truly notice the crowd for the first time. Then it was like the regular me would just start talking. But it didn't feel quite feel like me, because I was way too self –conscious. Despite that fact, this nervous version of me would just start talking, stalling for time, while teleprompter guy was being revived in the back of my brain.
During these terrifying moments on stage, when this "in the moment" me was stalling, I noticed that I would immediately begin cursing and speaking the way I did off stage. It wasn't a Tourette's kind of cursing. It was more conversational. Actually it would have been conversational if I could have controlled the nervous quiver in my voice. Picture Don Knotts auditioning for Pulp Fiction. (Not getting the part of course) But it felt really good, really natural and above all: It felt like me.
Those early episodes of losing my place and having to improvise are the most vivid memories I have of learning how to become a stand up. Those moments would always be my favorite part of the show because it seemed like real comedy to me. Jokes that worked night after night seemed liked the repeated moves they teach you in a karate class. Where as having to deal with something in the moment on stage felt like an actual fight where you don't know what your opponent is going to do.
Early in my career, these real deal moments would only last for an excruciating 7 or 8 seconds, before the teleprompter guy would regain consciousness. (WE'VE GOT A PULSE!) Then the "In the Moment" me would disappear, along with the nasty words and I would mentally go back behind the podium and continue my wholesome act.
After sets like this, I would be really frustrated. I felt trapped in my act. And I was also becoming aware that I wasn't being myself on stage. I was so busy trying to learn how to write jokes that I didn't notice, I became this "Stand Up Comedy Guy", the second I began my act.
On stage, I was a happy, sort of goofy guy, and off stage I was actually a really angry and depressed person. It took a minute, but eventually I realized that this first approach wasn't working for me. I wanted to feel the way I felt during those 7 to 8 seconds. Cause even when it went bad, I still got an incredible rush from it. So thus began my long journey towards being the foul mouthed jackass that I am on stage today. I was sick of being locked in my act. And I didn't want to talk about cookies and end tables on stage. I wanted to vent and go off on things the way I did in my every day life.
So the more I began working on becoming the guy who made my co-workers laugh, the more that cursing just sort of naturally worked it's way into my act. I like to think that I wasn't cursing for the sake of cursing. I was just kind of talking the way that I talked.
By this time it was the fall of 1994. This was a great time to be a comic. OJ had been arrested, the last of the Dan Quayle jokes died a merciful death, and I was having a great time on stage trying to figure out how not to sound like an insurance salesman. I was finally beginning to tell stories and I was pretty psyched about the new direction I was headed. But once the cursing was in my act and I wasn't "TV Guy" anymore, I started to get the first negative comments of my stand up career.
"Wow, I never heard you curse on stage before."
"Dude, what happened to you?"
And my all time favorite:
"You shouldn't curse. That's not you."
Those comments bugged me, but they were my fault. All those insights were based on the phony "Please Like Me" persona that I presented on stage for two years. And all they did was reinforce my decision to become more of myself on stage:
Becoming "Me" took about ten years. It wasn't until about 2004 that I felt I had finally begun to get it right. It was a very long process that involved a lot of bombing, and deliberately going on in front of crowds that I knew were going to scare the life out of me. I went up in front of all kinds of different groups of people and I had a lot of brutal sets, but the great ones kept me going. It was a ton of work, but in the end. It's all paid off. I'm 16 years into this thing and I'm having more fun on stage than I've ever had. And the reason I'm having the fun I'm having, is because I took the time to figure out what works for me on stage.
So anyway, that's the story as to why I perform the way I do. I do it, because it works for me. And admittedly, there are many nights where I feel I need to clean it up a little bit. And even worse, some nights I feel like I'm up on stage just yelling and not even telling jokes. I'm just screaming for 50 minutes. But despite this, I don't think I will ever go back to working squeaky clean. It just doesn't work for me. I don't know. This may sound ignorant, and prove the above person's initial point, but sometimes you just have to use the word fuck to get your point across.
"It takes more brains and emotional intelligence to entertain without swearing than with, and I think you are a very emotionally intelligent white dude.
p.s. When you wanted to smash those women's muffins at the street fair on a hot day, I could really relate lol"
The above comment is obviously part of a nice email and I don't think this person was trying to be a jerk. She was just trying to give me some advice that she felt would make me a better comic. And I have to admit that I sometimes struggle with the whole working clean versus working blue.
There are definitely nights when I get off stage that I've cursed so much that I feel like I have a bad taste in my mouth. It's on those nights that I think back to the beginning of my career.
(Cue dream sequence music and release the dry ice)
When I first started my comedy career, believe it or not, I worked squeaky clean. In fact, the first half hour of material that I wrote, was so clean that I didn't even use the word "heck". I prided myself on not cursing at all. One of my early, personal triumphs was writing a bit about "Who was the first guy to ever give the finger?" (What's the deal with the finger people…Is this CRAZY?…) And the thing I enjoyed most about the bit was that I never gave the finger at any point during the joke, yet I still was able to convey the idea and get a big laugh.
I worked this way for the first two years of my career. And in the process, quickly gained a reputation as a funny, new, clean comedian. A lot of people would tell me how great it was that I worked clean and that I was going to be a "TV Guy". I remember people telling me, "You're perfect for the Tonight Show. They are going to love you."
I have to admit; I loved hearing all those compliments. And with each one, I was already envisioning myself sitting on the Tonight Show couch and having Jay Leno ask me, "How in the world did you become so funny?" This fantasy also included a rock star and an A-list actress, sitting to my right, in equal amazement of my abilities. Of course the night ended with me playing drums in the rock star's band, hooking up with the actress, and somehow accepting an Oscar… I forget how it all played out. It was a long time ago.
Anyway, the weird thing is, when I look back and think about it, I realize that I didn't work clean in the beginning because I was a "comedy purist". I mean, I have to admit, part of the reason I worked clean, was I wanted to make sure that I learned how to write a joke and that I was actually funny. But the main reason I worked clean was that I was afraid to work dirty. I didn't have any confidence on stage. So I didn't work blue, because I wanted people to like me. I wanted the crowd to like me, I wanted the headliners to like me and I wanted the club owners like me.
That may sound ridiculous, but that is the major reason that I took that approach. I noticed a lot of headliners would complain to the bookers, if the opener worked too dirty. I didn't need that stress. I was under enough already.
Basically, I was 23 years old, mentally about 11, had zero self-esteem, and I didn't possess any sort of mental filter. At that point in my life, anything someone told me, I believed. If someone said I was good. I thought I was good. If someone said I sucked. I thought I sucked. I had no ability to shake anything off, so the last thing I wanted to do was irritate people and bring negative attention that would feel like shotgun blasts to my thin-skinned comedy torso. And I certainly didn't want to offend anyone in the crowd, because I didn't possess the skills to be able to handle them if they turned on me.
Early on, I had my entire act memorized. Every night I did the exact same jokes, in the exact same order. Yet I would still make a set list before going on stage, because I was so afraid that I was going to forget what I wanted to talk about. If that wasn't psychotic enough, I had another Rain Man compulsion. When the MC was about to bring me up, I would quickly untie and then re-tie my sneakers. I was deathly afraid that they were going to somehow come undone and then I would trip on my way up to the stage and be completely humiliated.
Some nights, during my set, the top part of one of my feet would start to tingle from the lack of circulation, because I tied my sneakers so tight. Even though I was aware on stage, as to why my foot was falling asleep, it never occurred to me to end this ridiculous ritual. The thought of avoiding potential humiliation as opposed to losing a couple of toes was an easy decision for me to make. To put it mildly, I was an absolute mess of a human being.
Every night when I went on stage, I would recite my act rather than DO my act. It was like there was an invisible teleprompter rolling in front of me as I presented my material. I couldn't even bring myself to take the mic out of the stand for the first 8 months of my career. I was too afraid that I would either drop it, or that it would take too long to get it out of the stand. Whatever the imagined scenario, it would all end with me being laughed at and having my little stand up dream die a shameful death.
Despite my precautions, I still got heckled on a regular basis. (Looking like Ron Howard was never an asset) And whenever I did, it would completely throw me off. I didn't have any problem stopping my act. I didn't have any problem addressing the heckler. The problem would come when I would try and return to my act. I could never remember where I was.
This would create a looooooooooong three-second pause that in the embryo stages of being a comedian would feel like 35 minutes. My brain would go into panic mode about .7 seconds in.
"Oh my God…What was I talking about?….Fuck, FUCK…think…fuck…Oh God they're waiting…everybody is WAITING…TALK! ….OH GOD…they know, they know EVERYBODY KNOWS… I'LL NEVER GET BOOKED HERE AGAIN….THEY'LL TELL EVERYONE….MY CAREER IS OVER…SAY SOMETHING… FUUUUUUUUCCCCKKK!!!!!"
Two second into this thought process my mouth would be dry up. At 2.2 seconds in, the meticulous teleprompter reading me, would mentally faint. And then I would just be standing there, starring at the crowd. My brain would no longer be in my notebook. It would just be blank, looking back at a crowd that was looking back at me.
It was in those moments that I would actually truly notice the crowd for the first time. Then it was like the regular me would just start talking. But it didn't feel quite feel like me, because I was way too self –conscious. Despite that fact, this nervous version of me would just start talking, stalling for time, while teleprompter guy was being revived in the back of my brain.
During these terrifying moments on stage, when this "in the moment" me was stalling, I noticed that I would immediately begin cursing and speaking the way I did off stage. It wasn't a Tourette's kind of cursing. It was more conversational. Actually it would have been conversational if I could have controlled the nervous quiver in my voice. Picture Don Knotts auditioning for Pulp Fiction. (Not getting the part of course) But it felt really good, really natural and above all: It felt like me.
Those early episodes of losing my place and having to improvise are the most vivid memories I have of learning how to become a stand up. Those moments would always be my favorite part of the show because it seemed like real comedy to me. Jokes that worked night after night seemed liked the repeated moves they teach you in a karate class. Where as having to deal with something in the moment on stage felt like an actual fight where you don't know what your opponent is going to do.
Early in my career, these real deal moments would only last for an excruciating 7 or 8 seconds, before the teleprompter guy would regain consciousness. (WE'VE GOT A PULSE!) Then the "In the Moment" me would disappear, along with the nasty words and I would mentally go back behind the podium and continue my wholesome act.
After sets like this, I would be really frustrated. I felt trapped in my act. And I was also becoming aware that I wasn't being myself on stage. I was so busy trying to learn how to write jokes that I didn't notice, I became this "Stand Up Comedy Guy", the second I began my act.
On stage, I was a happy, sort of goofy guy, and off stage I was actually a really angry and depressed person. It took a minute, but eventually I realized that this first approach wasn't working for me. I wanted to feel the way I felt during those 7 to 8 seconds. Cause even when it went bad, I still got an incredible rush from it. So thus began my long journey towards being the foul mouthed jackass that I am on stage today. I was sick of being locked in my act. And I didn't want to talk about cookies and end tables on stage. I wanted to vent and go off on things the way I did in my every day life.
So the more I began working on becoming the guy who made my co-workers laugh, the more that cursing just sort of naturally worked it's way into my act. I like to think that I wasn't cursing for the sake of cursing. I was just kind of talking the way that I talked.
By this time it was the fall of 1994. This was a great time to be a comic. OJ had been arrested, the last of the Dan Quayle jokes died a merciful death, and I was having a great time on stage trying to figure out how not to sound like an insurance salesman. I was finally beginning to tell stories and I was pretty psyched about the new direction I was headed. But once the cursing was in my act and I wasn't "TV Guy" anymore, I started to get the first negative comments of my stand up career.
"Wow, I never heard you curse on stage before."
"Dude, what happened to you?"
And my all time favorite:
"You shouldn't curse. That's not you."
Those comments bugged me, but they were my fault. All those insights were based on the phony "Please Like Me" persona that I presented on stage for two years. And all they did was reinforce my decision to become more of myself on stage:
Becoming "Me" took about ten years. It wasn't until about 2004 that I felt I had finally begun to get it right. It was a very long process that involved a lot of bombing, and deliberately going on in front of crowds that I knew were going to scare the life out of me. I went up in front of all kinds of different groups of people and I had a lot of brutal sets, but the great ones kept me going. It was a ton of work, but in the end. It's all paid off. I'm 16 years into this thing and I'm having more fun on stage than I've ever had. And the reason I'm having the fun I'm having, is because I took the time to figure out what works for me on stage.
So anyway, that's the story as to why I perform the way I do. I do it, because it works for me. And admittedly, there are many nights where I feel I need to clean it up a little bit. And even worse, some nights I feel like I'm up on stage just yelling and not even telling jokes. I'm just screaming for 50 minutes. But despite this, I don't think I will ever go back to working squeaky clean. It just doesn't work for me. I don't know. This may sound ignorant, and prove the above person's initial point, but sometimes you just have to use the word fuck to get your point across.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
The Secret
THE SECRET
I'm in a great place right now. For the first time in my life, I'm actually learning from failure. When I used to fail, the only knowledge I would gain was, "Well… that fuckin' sucked."
Not anymore. Lately, I've actually been analyzing why I keep ending up in the same place, in the same room, with the same disappointments. It's been a pretty strange experience. I've always just sort of reacted to anything that came at me and when the danger went away, I never thought about how to avoid it in the future.
In January of this year, I hit a fork in the road. Either I was going to continue to fuck up and live an unexamined life, or I was going to start accepting life's ups and downs, figure out what works for me, what doesn't, and begin living a happier life.
So I've been doing a little introspection, and now that I've quieted my mind, I'd like to share with you some of the knowledge that I've gained in the last six months. And hopefully with the information in this blog, maybe I can save some of you from unproductive hours, days, or possibly years in your one and only life.
Below is a list of Truths that I've obtained with my new approach to ridding myself of unhappiness.
TRUTH #1
WHORES ARE A WASTE OF TIME:
If there were a way to turn the food at McDonald's into it's human equivalent, it would arrive in the form of a whore: A gum snapping, short skirted, absentee father having, tramp, with absolutely no nutritional or spiritual value to speak of.
If you ever find yourself thinking, "You know, I don't believe I'm feeling empty or alone enough. I wish there were some way to drop even further into this unending void of nothingness." Go out and get yourself a whore. 'A Whore' is the only answer to the age-old question: "What would you get if a Dorito had a vagina?"
The feeling you have after hooking up with a whore is the same feeling you have after you eat at KFC. "Oh God, why did I just do that? I feel like shit. I have to get the fuck outta here."
But the problem with whores is that the do-gooders basically got rid of the brothel. I guess they thought if they removed the whorehouses, that the whores would somehow magically leave. But the whores didn't leave. Yet they didn't join the work force either. To be honest, I don't know where whores are during the day. They just sort of show up at night.
Think about it. How many times have you been out at a party and all of a sudden you see a group of girls starring daggers across the room? You then follow their gaze, as you do a slow, John McClane, one eyebrow up, look over your shoulder, and there she is. No bra, titties out, ass cheeks moving in a 4 against 3 polyrhythm, to the latest, "Let's Fuck" R&B/Rap hit song.
Who is she? Who did she come with? Did anyone invite her? Nobody fuckin' knows. She's just there and someone is about to waste an evening. Someone is about to have major reason to start sweating the next time they go to get a physical. Whores bring you closer to God.
"Lord, I swear to you, if my test comes back negative, I promise I will never, ever…."
You want to stay away, but you can't.
It's amazing. Whores are pussy's fast food. Everyone knows it's bad for you, but the second you smell it, you become a fuckin' zombie and you just walk right up to the register. "Yeah, give me the number 2 with an overbite. Oh and could you have the thong match the earrings and shoes? Thanks."
That's why they need to bring the Whorehouse back. In fact whores should have locations around town just like fast food chains. Then you could have them quarantined, just like the awful food at Roy Rogers. I've never eaten at a Roy Rogers, cause the only way to eat that shit is if you actually go into one of their locations. And why the fuck would you ever do that?
Using that logic, if you just had all the whores in one franchise, all you'd have to do is avoid that ONE franchise. It'd be easy. I'd just treat it like I treat Taco Bell. "FUCK THAT PLACE."
Unfortunately, the closest thing we have to realizing that dream is the Titty Bar. And it was in this lovely establishment that I learned another truth that I hope will save you thousands of hangovers, and plenty of funny money:
TRUTH #2
STRIPPERS DO NOT SMELL GOOD:
Strippers smell like the truckers they grind up against. Some don't even shower before they come to work. It's kind of this passive aggressive "fuck you" to the meathead customer.
I can't tell you how many hours of my life I wasted in Titty bars "learning" this lesson over and over and over again. Just holding on to the hopeful thought of: "Maybe this will be the one who won't be a jaded psycho and actually enjoys this horrific job…God Damn what the fuck is that smell…" as the smell of sweat, shame and body make up wafted over me.
The problem is, strippers have across the room beauty. From 20 feet away they're gorgeous. Unfortunately, up close they look like they sleep upside down in a cave. Every time I go to a titty bar, I end up feeling stupid and I always have this strange urge to rent The Lost Boys.
It's amazing how long I've had those feelings sitting on my mental desktop, yet I would still continued to go into those fucking places. Thinking it was going to be a fulfilling experience, only to leave feeling like a fool.
But as dumb as I've been in the past, I never got suckered into the VIP room. It's always struck me as hilarious that you would have a roped off, VIP section in a Titty bar. The only thing funnier than that concept is the people that actually go in there.
The people in the VIP are always wearing shinny shirts, smoking cigars, and throwing their money around. They look like they just came out of wardrobe to be extras in skit about a bunch of shit heads that go to the VIP in a strip club. But no! It's not a skit! They actually own those clothes. They actually own those pinky rings and yes, they still use mousse.
I would always look at them and think, "Don't they know that they are talking to whores? What are they doing? Why are they acting like they're pimps? The only pimp in this place is the guy who owns the club. And if there IS another pimp in here, he's not in the VIP. He's up at the bar, talking to the other whores, trying to get them to come work for him."
I always wanted to share this philosophy with the people in VIP. The only reason I didn't, is because they would all beat the shit out of me. And the last thing you want to do in a titty bar, is to have an open wound, while lying down on that carpet.
But despite the end of that equation, I still have the urge to fuckin' throw something at the people in VIP. The fuckin' people in there: One half is plotting the next big terrorist attack, while the other half tell stories that are punctuated with high fives. Which brings me to the next truth that I've learned:
TRUTH #3
ANY STORY THAT ENDS WITH A HIGH FIVE NEVER HAPPENED:
Have you ever had someone begin to tell you a story, and half way through you start to think, "Is this guy just making this shit up?" But you don't want to be a rude so you start to rationalize; "Well maybe he did double team some chick with Billy Idol. They are both kind of the same age…"
The "Tell Tale Heart" of a bullshit story is if Spalding Grey goes for the high five at the end of his story. The high five is the quintessential sign that not only are you listening to a lie,
…"SO THEN I TOLD MY BOSS TO GO FUCK HIMSELF!!!!"
…you are also watching someone try to pave over a lifetime's worth of regret.
There are many ways to deal with regret. Some people invent "I'm the shit/high five me" stories. Others sit quietly in a hotel room, rubbing their forehead whilst writing a blog about people who have regret. Still others become chronic whistlers. Or maybe they constantly hum a tune that doesn't exist.
Every job I ever had there was always someone walking around going, "Bah bah boo….de dah dah dee". And it wasn't every once in a while. It would be every time there was a moment of silence longer than 12 seconds.
"Dee dee die…Dah bah bah boo…!"
It's like: "What song IS that? And more importantly: Does it ever end? There's no melody. What the fuck!!!!"
It actually the soundtrack to someone trying to drown out the voice in his/her head that is saying things like, "Why are you still working here? I thought you wanted to travel. Why did you just sit there and do nothing? You should have got out of this relationship 17 years ago, Dah dah deeeee, dah dah dah doooooooo"
But when someone goes the "Made up story/high five" route, they are taking more of the Joseph Stalin approach. They rewrite history; start deleting people from their family photos and adding accomplishments to their resumes. (FYI: Special Forces credit is a major red flag.)
So the next time someone goes to give you the high five,
"….SO THEN I SAID FUCK IT, AND I BANGED HER SISTER TOO!!!!!"
Do not reciprocate. Just be very still and start reciting the dialogue from the Robin Williams/Matt Damon scene in Good Wil Hunting. "It's not your fault….It's not your fault…It's not your fault…"
And hopefully the storyteller will collapse and weep in your arms.
But then again, what the fuck do I know? Which brings me to the most important truth that I've learned:
TRUTH #4
MOST PEOPLE ARE CUNTS:
A lot of people don't listen to their inner voice, which is sad, because it's that voice that tells you what you want in life. Ignoring this voice causes misery and then before you know it, you've become a cunt.
I've been a cunt for years. For two decades, I basically had access to two emotions: Depression and Rage. I became a cunt because I grew up with cunts. Any time I would try and step out to do something different, all the other cunts would chime in and tell me to get back in formation.
The reason for this is because the last thing a cunt wants is for you to be happy and for you to make your dreams a reality. A cunt wants you to stay right there and spoon with all the other cunts. It's a form of dysfunctional intimacy.
I learned this recently when I decided to move to Los Angeles. I had been thinking for a while that I had basically done everything I could do in New York. So why not give it a shot and see what's at the next level? I thought it made sense.
But the second I started to tell others of my plan, I noticed that a lot of people tried to talk me out of it. They painted a bleak future for me out in La-La Land.
"Stage time is tough man." "There are a lot of joke thieves out there." "Everyone is a phony in LA."
It was really bothering me but then I got some great advice from a friend of mine, who isn't a cunt. He's actually more of a dick but I think he got that rep from other cunts. Cunts don't like people who ignore their shit. It steals their power. Thus, anyone who ignores a cunt, is immediately branded "A Dick."
Anyway, this Dick basically told me that anytime he was making a major move in his life, be it a career move, getting married, or whatever, he learned that people's reaction, had nothing to do with him. It was all about them.
It was a pretty amazing piece of information. Because once he told me that, I began to notice it everywhere I went. Not only in my own life but even in the conversations of random people during the day.
I'd hear stuff like:
Douche Bag #1:
"I'm putting an addition on my house."
Douche Bag #2:
"Really?….You sure you want to do that? A buddy of mine was telling me it's kind of a bad time to take out a home improvement loan. Plus ,what about your backyard? Don't you want to…blah,blah,blah…."
If you could plug headphones into that second guy's ears you would have heard:
"Fuck, how come I'm not doing that? His house is going to be worth more than mine. I shouldn't have blown all that money in A.C. I'm a loser! FUCK!"
So the next time you tell a cunt about a major move you're making, just sit back and enjoy their reaction. I like to do a lot of nodding and not say anything. The silence usually causes cunts to get nervous and in some weird way they actually start to hear all the negativity that they just spewed. At that point they usually try and cover their tracks and say something positive.
Just keep staring at them and you'll get to watch them unravel in front of you. It's has a nice Hannibal Lector quality to it, in that you get to see what their fears are in life.
"Tell me about the Lambs Clarice!"
So anyway, those are my truths: Stay away from whores, people that high five and cunts. I just reread that last sentence and realized that I probably haven't told you anything you didn't already know. So considering I'm a late bloomer with the whole, "Learning from past failures" thing: If you have any wisdom you could pass on to me, by all means leave it below.
Thanks
I'm in a great place right now. For the first time in my life, I'm actually learning from failure. When I used to fail, the only knowledge I would gain was, "Well… that fuckin' sucked."
Not anymore. Lately, I've actually been analyzing why I keep ending up in the same place, in the same room, with the same disappointments. It's been a pretty strange experience. I've always just sort of reacted to anything that came at me and when the danger went away, I never thought about how to avoid it in the future.
In January of this year, I hit a fork in the road. Either I was going to continue to fuck up and live an unexamined life, or I was going to start accepting life's ups and downs, figure out what works for me, what doesn't, and begin living a happier life.
So I've been doing a little introspection, and now that I've quieted my mind, I'd like to share with you some of the knowledge that I've gained in the last six months. And hopefully with the information in this blog, maybe I can save some of you from unproductive hours, days, or possibly years in your one and only life.
Below is a list of Truths that I've obtained with my new approach to ridding myself of unhappiness.
TRUTH #1
WHORES ARE A WASTE OF TIME:
If there were a way to turn the food at McDonald's into it's human equivalent, it would arrive in the form of a whore: A gum snapping, short skirted, absentee father having, tramp, with absolutely no nutritional or spiritual value to speak of.
If you ever find yourself thinking, "You know, I don't believe I'm feeling empty or alone enough. I wish there were some way to drop even further into this unending void of nothingness." Go out and get yourself a whore. 'A Whore' is the only answer to the age-old question: "What would you get if a Dorito had a vagina?"
The feeling you have after hooking up with a whore is the same feeling you have after you eat at KFC. "Oh God, why did I just do that? I feel like shit. I have to get the fuck outta here."
But the problem with whores is that the do-gooders basically got rid of the brothel. I guess they thought if they removed the whorehouses, that the whores would somehow magically leave. But the whores didn't leave. Yet they didn't join the work force either. To be honest, I don't know where whores are during the day. They just sort of show up at night.
Think about it. How many times have you been out at a party and all of a sudden you see a group of girls starring daggers across the room? You then follow their gaze, as you do a slow, John McClane, one eyebrow up, look over your shoulder, and there she is. No bra, titties out, ass cheeks moving in a 4 against 3 polyrhythm, to the latest, "Let's Fuck" R&B/Rap hit song.
Who is she? Who did she come with? Did anyone invite her? Nobody fuckin' knows. She's just there and someone is about to waste an evening. Someone is about to have major reason to start sweating the next time they go to get a physical. Whores bring you closer to God.
"Lord, I swear to you, if my test comes back negative, I promise I will never, ever…."
You want to stay away, but you can't.
It's amazing. Whores are pussy's fast food. Everyone knows it's bad for you, but the second you smell it, you become a fuckin' zombie and you just walk right up to the register. "Yeah, give me the number 2 with an overbite. Oh and could you have the thong match the earrings and shoes? Thanks."
That's why they need to bring the Whorehouse back. In fact whores should have locations around town just like fast food chains. Then you could have them quarantined, just like the awful food at Roy Rogers. I've never eaten at a Roy Rogers, cause the only way to eat that shit is if you actually go into one of their locations. And why the fuck would you ever do that?
Using that logic, if you just had all the whores in one franchise, all you'd have to do is avoid that ONE franchise. It'd be easy. I'd just treat it like I treat Taco Bell. "FUCK THAT PLACE."
Unfortunately, the closest thing we have to realizing that dream is the Titty Bar. And it was in this lovely establishment that I learned another truth that I hope will save you thousands of hangovers, and plenty of funny money:
TRUTH #2
STRIPPERS DO NOT SMELL GOOD:
Strippers smell like the truckers they grind up against. Some don't even shower before they come to work. It's kind of this passive aggressive "fuck you" to the meathead customer.
I can't tell you how many hours of my life I wasted in Titty bars "learning" this lesson over and over and over again. Just holding on to the hopeful thought of: "Maybe this will be the one who won't be a jaded psycho and actually enjoys this horrific job…God Damn what the fuck is that smell…" as the smell of sweat, shame and body make up wafted over me.
The problem is, strippers have across the room beauty. From 20 feet away they're gorgeous. Unfortunately, up close they look like they sleep upside down in a cave. Every time I go to a titty bar, I end up feeling stupid and I always have this strange urge to rent The Lost Boys.
It's amazing how long I've had those feelings sitting on my mental desktop, yet I would still continued to go into those fucking places. Thinking it was going to be a fulfilling experience, only to leave feeling like a fool.
But as dumb as I've been in the past, I never got suckered into the VIP room. It's always struck me as hilarious that you would have a roped off, VIP section in a Titty bar. The only thing funnier than that concept is the people that actually go in there.
The people in the VIP are always wearing shinny shirts, smoking cigars, and throwing their money around. They look like they just came out of wardrobe to be extras in skit about a bunch of shit heads that go to the VIP in a strip club. But no! It's not a skit! They actually own those clothes. They actually own those pinky rings and yes, they still use mousse.
I would always look at them and think, "Don't they know that they are talking to whores? What are they doing? Why are they acting like they're pimps? The only pimp in this place is the guy who owns the club. And if there IS another pimp in here, he's not in the VIP. He's up at the bar, talking to the other whores, trying to get them to come work for him."
I always wanted to share this philosophy with the people in VIP. The only reason I didn't, is because they would all beat the shit out of me. And the last thing you want to do in a titty bar, is to have an open wound, while lying down on that carpet.
But despite the end of that equation, I still have the urge to fuckin' throw something at the people in VIP. The fuckin' people in there: One half is plotting the next big terrorist attack, while the other half tell stories that are punctuated with high fives. Which brings me to the next truth that I've learned:
TRUTH #3
ANY STORY THAT ENDS WITH A HIGH FIVE NEVER HAPPENED:
Have you ever had someone begin to tell you a story, and half way through you start to think, "Is this guy just making this shit up?" But you don't want to be a rude so you start to rationalize; "Well maybe he did double team some chick with Billy Idol. They are both kind of the same age…"
The "Tell Tale Heart" of a bullshit story is if Spalding Grey goes for the high five at the end of his story. The high five is the quintessential sign that not only are you listening to a lie,
…"SO THEN I TOLD MY BOSS TO GO FUCK HIMSELF!!!!"
…you are also watching someone try to pave over a lifetime's worth of regret.
There are many ways to deal with regret. Some people invent "I'm the shit/high five me" stories. Others sit quietly in a hotel room, rubbing their forehead whilst writing a blog about people who have regret. Still others become chronic whistlers. Or maybe they constantly hum a tune that doesn't exist.
Every job I ever had there was always someone walking around going, "Bah bah boo….de dah dah dee". And it wasn't every once in a while. It would be every time there was a moment of silence longer than 12 seconds.
"Dee dee die…Dah bah bah boo…!"
It's like: "What song IS that? And more importantly: Does it ever end? There's no melody. What the fuck!!!!"
It actually the soundtrack to someone trying to drown out the voice in his/her head that is saying things like, "Why are you still working here? I thought you wanted to travel. Why did you just sit there and do nothing? You should have got out of this relationship 17 years ago, Dah dah deeeee, dah dah dah doooooooo"
But when someone goes the "Made up story/high five" route, they are taking more of the Joseph Stalin approach. They rewrite history; start deleting people from their family photos and adding accomplishments to their resumes. (FYI: Special Forces credit is a major red flag.)
So the next time someone goes to give you the high five,
"….SO THEN I SAID FUCK IT, AND I BANGED HER SISTER TOO!!!!!"
Do not reciprocate. Just be very still and start reciting the dialogue from the Robin Williams/Matt Damon scene in Good Wil Hunting. "It's not your fault….It's not your fault…It's not your fault…"
And hopefully the storyteller will collapse and weep in your arms.
But then again, what the fuck do I know? Which brings me to the most important truth that I've learned:
TRUTH #4
MOST PEOPLE ARE CUNTS:
A lot of people don't listen to their inner voice, which is sad, because it's that voice that tells you what you want in life. Ignoring this voice causes misery and then before you know it, you've become a cunt.
I've been a cunt for years. For two decades, I basically had access to two emotions: Depression and Rage. I became a cunt because I grew up with cunts. Any time I would try and step out to do something different, all the other cunts would chime in and tell me to get back in formation.
The reason for this is because the last thing a cunt wants is for you to be happy and for you to make your dreams a reality. A cunt wants you to stay right there and spoon with all the other cunts. It's a form of dysfunctional intimacy.
I learned this recently when I decided to move to Los Angeles. I had been thinking for a while that I had basically done everything I could do in New York. So why not give it a shot and see what's at the next level? I thought it made sense.
But the second I started to tell others of my plan, I noticed that a lot of people tried to talk me out of it. They painted a bleak future for me out in La-La Land.
"Stage time is tough man." "There are a lot of joke thieves out there." "Everyone is a phony in LA."
It was really bothering me but then I got some great advice from a friend of mine, who isn't a cunt. He's actually more of a dick but I think he got that rep from other cunts. Cunts don't like people who ignore their shit. It steals their power. Thus, anyone who ignores a cunt, is immediately branded "A Dick."
Anyway, this Dick basically told me that anytime he was making a major move in his life, be it a career move, getting married, or whatever, he learned that people's reaction, had nothing to do with him. It was all about them.
It was a pretty amazing piece of information. Because once he told me that, I began to notice it everywhere I went. Not only in my own life but even in the conversations of random people during the day.
I'd hear stuff like:
Douche Bag #1:
"I'm putting an addition on my house."
Douche Bag #2:
"Really?….You sure you want to do that? A buddy of mine was telling me it's kind of a bad time to take out a home improvement loan. Plus ,what about your backyard? Don't you want to…blah,blah,blah…."
If you could plug headphones into that second guy's ears you would have heard:
"Fuck, how come I'm not doing that? His house is going to be worth more than mine. I shouldn't have blown all that money in A.C. I'm a loser! FUCK!"
So the next time you tell a cunt about a major move you're making, just sit back and enjoy their reaction. I like to do a lot of nodding and not say anything. The silence usually causes cunts to get nervous and in some weird way they actually start to hear all the negativity that they just spewed. At that point they usually try and cover their tracks and say something positive.
Just keep staring at them and you'll get to watch them unravel in front of you. It's has a nice Hannibal Lector quality to it, in that you get to see what their fears are in life.
"Tell me about the Lambs Clarice!"
So anyway, those are my truths: Stay away from whores, people that high five and cunts. I just reread that last sentence and realized that I probably haven't told you anything you didn't already know. So considering I'm a late bloomer with the whole, "Learning from past failures" thing: If you have any wisdom you could pass on to me, by all means leave it below.
Thanks
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Who Will Protect You?
I was recently given a gift that would enable me to watch my TV wherever I go. All I have to do is sync this mechanism up to my TV, Phone, and Computer and next thing you know, I can watch Animal Planet while sitting in the upper deck of Controlthewatersupply.com Field.
How cool is that? I think it's awesome. I believe in the future every human will have one of those, "I broke my neck but somehow I can still walk" halos drilled into his/her skull, with a video I-Pod mounted six inches in front of his/her face and an optional drool cup to be mounted under the chin.
Every TV series, every movie, and every youtube video will all be available to watch at any moment. Maybe they will be able to sync it up to your brain and all you would have to do is think of the show you wanted to watch and it would then magically appear.
And instead of having conversations, you will simply select dialogue from any of the three sources and then use said clip to convey your feelings.
For example: If someone wanted to ask me how I was doing, they would just select audio of a Mike Douglas/Bill Bixby interview. Then I would respond with my own sound bytes.
Mike Douglas – "How you doing Bill?"
Tony Montana – "Fack you mang."
Carrie Bradshaw – "But you're doing so well."
Jack Nicholson "The Departed" - "That's called a paradox."
When we arrive at this level of advancement, we won't have to waste time having conversations. Then we could spend our quality time focusing on more important things in the future like: How to turn an Office Max desk into a canoe while fighting off a polar bear.
I'm in an extra cynical mood today because I was reading about NYC's plans to make it a greener city. All it consisted of were a bunch of scams to get more money. One of the bright ideas was to charge cars 8 dollars to come into the city during the hours of 6AM to 6PM. This is supposed to help ease the traffic/pollution problems in Manhattan.
People are already paying 6 bucks to drive in. So I'm to believe that in order to avoid a two-dollar surcharge, people are going to jump on a train and fight for a seat, with a bunch of other douche bags. And then spend the rest of the day worrying about what time the last train heads out of town, instead of just paying the fee and riding in the comfort of their own car? That's never going to happen.
The only decent proposal they had, was to plant more trees. Other than that, they weren't asking people to change their lifestyles one bit. It just was full steam ahead with fucking your brains out and filling up your Excursion with more rug rats. That's the kind of forward thinking that makes me want to learn the skill of being able to start a fire without a match.
I think that's really the next step you need to take in order to survive as a human in the future. Fuck learning about computers and all this techno shit. You need to kick it old school. Learn how to kill a rabbit, skin it and cook it over a fire that you started with two rocks and some dead accountants spreadsheet.
Learn what berries to eat and take some self-defense classes, so you can protect yourself, when a clan of former plumbers comes over the hill, lead by a barely recognizable Michael Richards.
When the whole world goes to shit, the first six months will be the most critical. I think it will take at least three days for the average person to stop waiting for Will Smith to show up. During this time, if you can just get your ass out into the wilderness, you could then sit on a hill and watch the apocalypse play itself out.
The greatest thing about the Apocalypse will be instant Abs. Nothing gets you cut faster than the total collapse of society.
Granted most of us will end up looking like Tom Hanks in that movie he made with the soccer ball, but I still think there are going to be a lot of hotties running around.
God what bad fuckin' time to be famous: The End of the World.
There's going to be a lot of US Magazine hate fucks going down.
"Hey Carl, what's up man?"
"Funny you should ask. Me and my Clan of former cell phone salesmen just had forced sex with one of the chicks on Friends" "Nice, I just broke Larry King's glasses. Hey do you know how to make a sling shot out of suspenders?"
Anyway, so that's what I'm thinking about today: The end of the fucking world. All the signs are there. I just heard another jumbo jet pass over my building, making that hole just a little bigger. We are one nice day into the spring season, and it's already uncomfortably hot.
But despite this, I'm more interested in the fact that Alec Baldwin left an angry message on his daughter's cell phone. I watched every clip I could find, even though he didn't say anything that out of the ordinary. Even though my parents said shit ten times worse to me when I was a kid. AND even though I fuckin' deserved it cause by the time I was in the sixth grade I thought I knew everything. Despite all that, I just sat there and watched the reports for hours. Letting another opportunity to learn how to start a fire with two staplers and the residue from a three-hole punch slip away.
How cool is that? I think it's awesome. I believe in the future every human will have one of those, "I broke my neck but somehow I can still walk" halos drilled into his/her skull, with a video I-Pod mounted six inches in front of his/her face and an optional drool cup to be mounted under the chin.
Every TV series, every movie, and every youtube video will all be available to watch at any moment. Maybe they will be able to sync it up to your brain and all you would have to do is think of the show you wanted to watch and it would then magically appear.
And instead of having conversations, you will simply select dialogue from any of the three sources and then use said clip to convey your feelings.
For example: If someone wanted to ask me how I was doing, they would just select audio of a Mike Douglas/Bill Bixby interview. Then I would respond with my own sound bytes.
Mike Douglas – "How you doing Bill?"
Tony Montana – "Fack you mang."
Carrie Bradshaw – "But you're doing so well."
Jack Nicholson "The Departed" - "That's called a paradox."
When we arrive at this level of advancement, we won't have to waste time having conversations. Then we could spend our quality time focusing on more important things in the future like: How to turn an Office Max desk into a canoe while fighting off a polar bear.
I'm in an extra cynical mood today because I was reading about NYC's plans to make it a greener city. All it consisted of were a bunch of scams to get more money. One of the bright ideas was to charge cars 8 dollars to come into the city during the hours of 6AM to 6PM. This is supposed to help ease the traffic/pollution problems in Manhattan.
People are already paying 6 bucks to drive in. So I'm to believe that in order to avoid a two-dollar surcharge, people are going to jump on a train and fight for a seat, with a bunch of other douche bags. And then spend the rest of the day worrying about what time the last train heads out of town, instead of just paying the fee and riding in the comfort of their own car? That's never going to happen.
The only decent proposal they had, was to plant more trees. Other than that, they weren't asking people to change their lifestyles one bit. It just was full steam ahead with fucking your brains out and filling up your Excursion with more rug rats. That's the kind of forward thinking that makes me want to learn the skill of being able to start a fire without a match.
I think that's really the next step you need to take in order to survive as a human in the future. Fuck learning about computers and all this techno shit. You need to kick it old school. Learn how to kill a rabbit, skin it and cook it over a fire that you started with two rocks and some dead accountants spreadsheet.
Learn what berries to eat and take some self-defense classes, so you can protect yourself, when a clan of former plumbers comes over the hill, lead by a barely recognizable Michael Richards.
When the whole world goes to shit, the first six months will be the most critical. I think it will take at least three days for the average person to stop waiting for Will Smith to show up. During this time, if you can just get your ass out into the wilderness, you could then sit on a hill and watch the apocalypse play itself out.
The greatest thing about the Apocalypse will be instant Abs. Nothing gets you cut faster than the total collapse of society.
Granted most of us will end up looking like Tom Hanks in that movie he made with the soccer ball, but I still think there are going to be a lot of hotties running around.
God what bad fuckin' time to be famous: The End of the World.
There's going to be a lot of US Magazine hate fucks going down.
"Hey Carl, what's up man?"
"Funny you should ask. Me and my Clan of former cell phone salesmen just had forced sex with one of the chicks on Friends" "Nice, I just broke Larry King's glasses. Hey do you know how to make a sling shot out of suspenders?"
Anyway, so that's what I'm thinking about today: The end of the fucking world. All the signs are there. I just heard another jumbo jet pass over my building, making that hole just a little bigger. We are one nice day into the spring season, and it's already uncomfortably hot.
But despite this, I'm more interested in the fact that Alec Baldwin left an angry message on his daughter's cell phone. I watched every clip I could find, even though he didn't say anything that out of the ordinary. Even though my parents said shit ten times worse to me when I was a kid. AND even though I fuckin' deserved it cause by the time I was in the sixth grade I thought I knew everything. Despite all that, I just sat there and watched the reports for hours. Letting another opportunity to learn how to start a fire with two staplers and the residue from a three-hole punch slip away.
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