Comedians: Funny or Really Sad?

Saturday night I saw the face of fear.  It peered at me through thick, horn-rimmed glasses.  Mostly obscured by a little man on his lap, the beholder of the terror could send his SOS with only one eye.  Still his message was more than sufficient.  Facial muscles straining to shape the moment framed a larger-than-normal, magnified eyeball.  Behind the dire expression sat the slight build of a bespectacled comedian who wasn’t sure he’d ever breathe again.  Mounting him was another, smaller gentlemen who had been displaced—like most of the air in the car—by a man who was markedly larger than any of us had imagined.  

Larry is a good guy.  He’s short, he’s a plumber and he does a great set on stage.  (You can say whatever you want about a comedian as long as you say he’s funny.) But Larry might be taller lying down than standing up.  And after performing what could be likened to a reverse birthing to get into my little car, he spread out against the firm surface of my Corolla seat like dough on a countertop.  This wave of humanity carried Jeff, the diminutive funnyman, onto the lap of the really scared guy, Ben.  I had scooted my driver’s seat as far forward as I could without sustaining rib damage.  My wife had the best perch, sitting shotgun in front of terrified Ben.  She had turned and watched with great joy the drama unfolding behind her.  Ben let out a barely audible squeal.  Jeff served up a sarcastic comparison to Brokeback-of-the-car Mountain.

Larry started slamming away at my back door with hopes of it bending around his protruding body and latching shut.   It did not. So my wife, who I’ve already acknowledged as my hero (and only coincidentally my major financier), volunteered to switch seats with Larry.  This meant that not only would she be pinned in the back with two males of only mere acquaintance, but she’d be their literally captive audience.  Comics tell jokes like golden retrievers fetch but with much less success.  A dog quite regularly brings the ball back to its master.  A comic takes a conversation and runs away with it.  The slightest acknowledgement of a comic’s existence can turn any spouse or priest or passerby—a comic will corner a drunken derelict—into a test subject for their jokes.  

My wife knows this.  A fine example of how my  association with other comics has scarred her is found in one of her painfully honest quips.  One night I forgot my camera at a local comedy venue and had to whip back around to pick it up.  Upon getting back to the theater we noticed a few comics still loitering out front.  Sarah made it clear she didn’t want to get out of the car.  I tried to comfort her by saying “we know these guys.  They aren’t going to molest you.”  Sarah, being funnier than anyone I’ve ever known replied, “I’d rather they rape me than talk to me.”  

Point made.  Sarah was a true hero humoring these guys during the two-plus hour round trip to Greeley and back.  And I gotta say that despite it being rather suspiciously tucked away in an alley behind a grocery store, the Down Under is a great place.  We all had great sets and I’m still married.  Below you can view a couple of minutes from my time on stage.  It's mostly clean.  There's one 'cowsh*t'.  That's it.  But how else do you talk about Greeley?

The rare air of a town near a slaughterhouse.

Operation Swarmer

I'm very disappointed in the Bush Administration.  Both dad and son Bush are legendary for their cool sounding war and policy monikers.  'Desert Storm' inspired images of a great spinning maelstrom whipping sand and camels and fleeing Iraqis into a punishing frenzy.  'No Child Left Behind' is such a compelling title it could draw compassion for Neverland Ranch.   And what about the irony of Bush's "Clear Skies" initiative driving John Kerry to near madness, bumbling something about Orwell and pollution and flipping his hands in the air as if to either acknowledge the heavens or signal for help.  

But 'swarmer'?  Is that even a word?   Did someone let Bush brainstorm this on his own?  "Not only are we going to swarm  but our swarms will be swarmer than ever before," he might have said to a room of somewhat stupefied generals.  But despite it not living up to previous nicknames, Swarmer has got the networks all giddy.  I've seen so much footage of flying machines it looks like Jerry Bruckheimer is directing the news.  Which is why I don't understand why the Bush team didn't summon the swarmerers earlier.  Nothing drums up support for a war like F-16's flying in formation and those super kickass helicopters toying around the desert.  (I only need remind you of Jan Michael Vincent cresting Airwolf over a sun-drenched hill.) 

Whenever I see flyovers at football games I'm nearly moved to tears.  Just imagine if you were some terrorist fellow spending a quiet Sunday grooming your goat.  Suddenly you hear something akin to thunder and before you can get your umbrella are faced with a plane with more guns than all of the Republican Guard. 

That's the big problem for the peace movement.  What's more motivating, the bat-like stealth bomber slicing through the sonic barrier, or a smelly person yelling in the street?  I know what I'd put on my news cast.  (Barring one of those naked PETA girls.)  The solution?  The anti-war crowd needs a jet.  It needs the baddest, swarmiest sky-screamer ever built.  While the mere sight of the Ph-16 would be most impressive, it would be it's payload that would help save the world.  Fleets of these peace planes would at first seem like impending doom to our enemy, but when its bomb bays would open, out would come the world's most effective weapon against violent discourse.  Pot.  Bails of marijuana dropped on insurgent strongholds would most certainly reduce the most vile terrorists to giggling, Cheeto-munching tweakers.  From there we could either apprehend them or await the deadly results of diabetes. 

Bush, Rove, I implore both of you to investigate this option.  It's time to unleash Operation  Weeder.

Please, someone kill me. Or hire me.

I'm self-employed.  At first I was a very cool boss.  I could drink beer and surf porn at work.  I even let me have friends over during the day and we'd spend the afternoon playing foosball in my basement.  But now things aren't so cheery.  Employee morale is at an all-time low.   Because of my leniency I haven't been able to pay all that well.  Add to the fact that when I talk trash about my boss my confidence starts to ebb a bit.  If there's anything good that a bad boss can do it's unite the employees in their dislike of him or her.  Well, at my work it's just me and all of the rumors flying around are started by me about me.  I'd like not to believe all of them but there comes a time when layoffs are imminent and everyone who works for me will have to find another job. 

And so today I embarked on doing just that.   While money is usually the best result of getting a job I've also discovered that the more time I have the less I get done.  So getting some job, any job might force me to accomplish more.  There's no motivation like cleaning bathrooms for a living. 

My search started this morning at 7-11.  I'm surrounded by them and figured I have the skills to get a job there.  So I called 1 866 4711 JOB.  The lady was very nice.  And I was excited to wow her with my work experience.  She asked me my name.  I told her.  She got my address and phone number and whether or not I was at least 18 and legal to work in the country.  She took  some of this down.  I filled the silence regaling her about my successes in management and retail and how great I am with people and she cut me off and asked if I'd ever been convicted of a felony.  No, I have not.  She said "great, we have some openings and we'll contact you very soon."  

I have learned that if someone hires you on the spot, it most likely won't be your dream job.   Whatever.  It just might be worth it.   My current boss is driving me crazy. 

Deity Update

Sorry Newhart.  Opening for Bhudda might be a bigger deal.

 

The Drunkest I've Ever Been

OK, on this most nauseous morning after, I want to do two things.  Rather, I NEED, to A) Try and recount exactly what happened to me last night and B) apologize to everybody with whom I came in contact.  So I'll do both at once, telling my story through this sincere attempt at begging for forgiveness.

You know how the craziest things happen when you least expect it?  I went out for a few drinks to talk over future comedy gigs with my good friend Dave Johnson.  Several Harp and shots of Tillamore Dew later I don't think the family sitting next to us at all expected me to recommend that their daughter start "breeding as soon as possible".  So I’m sorry about that little bit of unsolicited advice.  

I’d also like to apologize to the African-American man with whom I somehow engaged in conversation about how he should overcome his contempt for Caucasians.  I don’t think I helped. So I’m sorry about that, too.  

The establishment where Dave and I imbibed also deserves some attention.  Upon receiving our ninety-dollar tab I gathered and lectured the wait staff of The Auld Dubliner about how beer should not be so expensive.  I recall having quite an audience for my hypothetical story problems.  For example, I illustrated that with the same 90 bucks I could have purchased an old motorcycle or twenty cases of Strohs or even a latte at Starbucks (that line got some laughs).  But it’s not their fault that with reckless abandon I drank without checking the price.  Sorry.

And a special shout-out to our waitress who apparently knew I was rapidly drowning my sobriety and brought us some chips.  For like fifty bucks—no, sorry you were helping an idiot and I’m very appreciative.  

Finally, Dave I’m very, very sorry.  You shared with me your life story and I made fun of you.  At the time it seemed hilarious.  Sorry.

And, oh jeez, my lovely wife who came and picked me up.  I’m sorry for crying and blubbering and then vomiting and then passing out in the kitchen.  Once again, I apologize.  

But at least she got the joy of taking this picture.  Something I'd forgotten about until I went to take one of our neighbor's dog Meeka.   You see, God is punishing me by having me take care of a yellow lab with severe separation anxiety.  I desperately want to sleep but she likes to stand at the door and bark.

 
Above: There I am at some odd time in the morning looking very sorry.  I am indeed very, very sorry.

Right: Drinking is bad.  Especially when I've apparently given up moderation for  Lent.  So to fully pay my penance I'm forgoing a nap and giving in to the incredible persuasive powers of this very needy animal. 

Other Symptoms of Madness

In less than a day's time we'll have our final 65 teams.  I have no idea how the repeated halving of an odd number gets us to a Final Four, but that's what I've read.   It would look like this 65, 32.5, 16.25, 8.125, and then the much ballyhooed Final Four Point Zero Six Two Five!   "I tell you, Bob, it's going to be tough for that sixty-two hundredths of a team.  But they are certainly this year's Cinderella story..."

I think .0625 of a basketball team might most accurately be represented by me, a perennial bench-sitter for Walden's North Park high school, wearing the too-tight uniform.  Apparently our unitards were once long ago made for a smaller people.   I'm guessing they were plundered spoils of our victory in the Pacific.  But I shouldn't complain.  The kids before us wore animal pelts.  But since puberty had wrought upon me a monkeyback and healthy neck mane, I still looked like I might be smuggling furs.  Imagine Chewbaca wearing Calista Flockhart's halter top and Hanes Her Way.   That was me.  I'd sprint out of the locker room with the rest of the team, rock n' roll blaring, parents cheering.  My era of  pump-up music included, for the most part, AC/DC's "Thunderstruck."  It was so common to hear this song accompanying team warm-ups that often both sides would play it, thus doubling the guitar solo into a kind of "Flight of the Bumblebee" with screaming.  It's hard to forget the intensity of the pre game rituals.  Mostly because that's the only time the coach would allow me on the court.   The rest of the time Brent, Donnie, Bert and myself would come up with our own little games.  Like bored kids in the back of a car we'd put our ingenuity to work on such classic pastimes as "Punch the Guy in the Middle" and "Pull a Hair out of Jared Whenever the Other Team Scores."  Our end-of-the bench antics often garnered us more attention than the game itself.  This was good news when people laughed and made us feel a purpose on our piney perch.  It was bad news when we'd be up or down by the prerequisite thirty points with twenty seconds left and the coach would actually call for us to go in.   One time he had to yell my name three or four times.  When I finally heard him I leapt at my chance to showcase my devotion to the team.  And then I had to run back off the court to remove my warm-up pants.   Oh how fondly I remember one of the starters actually sending a pass my way.  I also cannot forget, no matter how hard I try, ducking to avoid the oncoming ball.  It was those displays of  athletic prowess, and perhaps the time at the Wiggins tournament when I shot the ball over the backboard, that lead me to believe I'm ready for prime time college hoops.  Look for me during the Final Four as the point zero six-two-five team.

March really Madness

It's here. My fandom of the sport of basketball returns this time every year. Ever since Michael Jordan left I've found I really have a hard time caring about the NBA and since we don't have cable we miss most of the collegiate regular season. When the college tourney pops up on CBS--which, by the way, you can further erode your workplace efficiency with free webcasts of the games--I'm catapulted into the hoops madness, leaping around the living room screaming for some team from some place I never knew existed. What in the heck is a Saluki anyway? They're in the tournament. And so are the Great Danes of Albany. These are the teams that I go for. These are also the teams that screw up everyone's bracket. My wife even gets into the game. It's amazing how fast she switches gears. Today during most the Indiana and Ohio State matchup she was on the phone engaged in delicate girly-talk with her sister-in-law. Mere moments after bidding her brother's wife adieu she was sprinting at the TV, yelling and shaking her finger at a Buckeye who she felt had committed a foul. This irrational behavior is purely acceptable this time of year. I started imagining her at JC Penny's enjoying her time looking at blouses and picture frames all the while being soothed by the Wilson Phillips trickling from overhead and then, upon seeing another woman encroach on her favorite bras, start shouting "foul! foul!!" And then cornering a nearby retail professional continue her rage,"If you had one more eye you'd be a cyclops!!! Did you not see that was my bra! My bra!" Since that isn't entirely acceptable it's good that we have these few weeks in the spring when we can unleash. All of those bitter epithets we have swallowed instead of hurling at our superiors, all of those birds that you were too civil to let fly in traffic, the 'no thank you' somehow making it's way past the instinctive 'get a real job, loser' when the bumbling credit card phone rep calls with an offer to charge your card for a service to protect your card from unwanted charges--All of that anger and frustration saturates your soul. And then, when your husband least expects it, some gangly sophomore from Ohio playing sloppy defense breaks the levee. Like a squeezed sponge you gush unbridled discontent for this kid who has no idea someone in Colorado is yelling at him. His actions warrant acute telekinetic pain. With Bewitched and Harry Potter in mind you shoot a glance at the TV and wait for him to drop. Nothing happens. The game is over. Indiana, a team that had earned my wife's respect because that's where her mother went to graduate school, has lost. After this commercial break we'll get passionate about the Bears of the University of California. I don't even know which U of C. But I know that today I'm a fan.