Tuesday, November 29, 2005

TV the Great Educator

TV offers up many life lessons, but it doesn't spoon feed them to us. We must forage for the lessons as we watch. For example, Who wants to be a Millioniare chock full of philosophical guidance, not to mention all the great trivia.

I watched a fat guy on the early afternoon version of the show get a simple question wrong. (Maybe I don't have to mention he's fat, but you know...whatever.) I know the question was simple because the value of the question was below the $1000 mark. He was asked which verb in the four choices is a "passive" verb. Or maybe it was which one wasn't. But it definitely was about passive verbs. A passive verb is the conjugation of the verb "to be." As opposed to passive aggressive verbs which would be "to be like my mother." The man had an idea of the answer but was not sure. So he polled the audience. They majority of the audience gave him the correct answer. But that was not the answer he thought was correct. Next he wastes yet ANOTHER lifeline and takes a 50/50. The correct answer still remaining on the board. (Supposedly it has to otherwise he wouldn't know to choose it. Yeah, exactly. Seems ridiculous to me as well. I thought when does he have to eat the bugs?) He then calls a friend. The friend gives him the right answer. Instead of picking the correct answer he proclaims he has to go with gut. Turns out his gut failed English or was too busy daydreaming about eggplant parm sandwiches because he proceeds to choose the incorrect answer. Though, I concede that only my daydreams may have been filled with eggplant.

Lesson? At first you might think it's that fat people are stupid or at least bad at determining the parts of speech. But that hypothesis is disproved by my very large, yet bright high school English teacher. No! The life lesson is that people's instincts are very wrong. That inner voice we all have, as opposed to the multitude of voices only some of us have, should not be listened to. We should ignore it at all costs! The audience knows best. That gut feeling only knows when we're hungry, and even then it can be wrong like in the case of this contestant.

In the end we learn it's best to just follow the majority of the crowd, not the full crowd because some of them didn't know the answer either. Apparently anywhere up to 20% of the crowd is completely off their rockers. However, you must not think for yourself otherwise you'll be humiliated on national TV and not even win the minimum $1000 that Millioniare sets up for its contestants to win. And then your trip to NYC from some small midwestern town was all for naught.

Monday, November 28, 2005

A couple divided

Jack is still disappointed that I chose to spend Thanksgiving with my parents and their friends in Florida this year instead of going with him to Pittsburg to participate in their family traditions. He got all pissy last night and said, "I'm going to celebrate Christmas with your family this year at the very least you could have come home with me for Thanksgiving."
"But you guys don't celebrate Christmas." I protested. And they don't. As I posted previously Jack's dad is a freelance Indian Chief so Jack's family celebrates the holidays of the tribe Mr. Kundera is chiefing that year and it's never Christmas.

I told him I'll go next year. He said, "Well, we may not burn the Pilgrim effigy next year." I said, "You guys burn the effigy every year." "Well, maybe we won't next year." "Yes, you will." He hung his head and muttered, "Yeah, I know. You still could have come this year." I kissed him on the cheek.

The thing with Jack's family is that they are white themselves so they don't burn actual white people they just burn the effigies as a symbol of solidarity with all the creatures and peoples who used to inhabit this land. I don't know. To each his own. Who am I to judge? My family's Thanksgiving tradition is to argue about the fastest way to get to my aunt and uncle's house from any given point in the universe. Maybe burning pilgrims could be fun with some wine and apple pie ala mode.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Until after we give the Thanks

I'm leaving for Florida in less than 9 hours. Unfortunately, I'll be flying. Flying always brings up the question, "Do I bring my journal on the plane?" The flight presents perfect journal writing time. Nothing much to do but, read, write and sip beverages uninterrupted for hours. But if the plane explodes in a fiery crash--Poof! There goes the journal, deepriving the world of my thoughts and feeling for the last 2 months, and I know the world is very interested. The world would have to be interested if it's going to put in the long hours trying to decipher my atrocious handwriting. My mother once said to me as she glanced on a note I had scribbled, "That looks like a retarded person wrote that." Thanks mom. And if the journal disappears she'll never know I've forgiven her.
When I lived in Portland we had a mic that at times could be awesome: packed with an attentive laughing audience. Other times it could be dismal: almost no audience or an audience looking to decimate the performers. One night the audience was particularly hostile. They heckled each comic that came to the stage. Not one of us could get them to shut up. The bar, which had bouncers, did nothing. And then a comedian named Danny Norton took the stage. He stood 5 feet 5 inches maybe a 135 pounds. The heckling continued. He tried telling jokes over them. He tried making fun of them, and then... He jumped off stage with the mic in hand and wrapped the mic chord around the heckler's neck and began to strangle him. What Danny lacks in comedic ability he makes up for with loads of self-destructive insanity. The bouncer broke up the attack and threw the heckling troglodites out of the bar. The host for the late show came in and asked, "What happened? I saw Danny out on the median of Burnside Road stomping on the flowers."

The story made the alternative weekly in town. You'd think the new public knowledge that comedians will literarly try to kill you if you harass them would have stopped Portlanders from heckling. But alas no.
People, I know the blog has lacked the comedic heroics you're used to at smallhands_ick these last couple of weeks. I'm blaming it on the fact that I've been accidently loosing weight the last couple of months. I'm hoping this long weekend will have me back fully nourished, rested and ready to take on winter with full on absurdity. Have a great Thanksgiving.

Tuesday, November 22, 2005


Last night I socialized with a group of people, most of whom I didn't know well. During the conversation a 27 year old male used the phrase, "Balls to the wall." After uttering the words he looked across the table at me and apologized for using such rough language in my presence. I then became offended and uneasey. How dare he treat me like a woman! I'm no delicate flower. And to prove this I trumped his "balls to the wall" with "cunt to the front." Respect me, Ha! I'll make sure that never happens again!

How lucky am I that I met Jack? He's the only one who would ever put up with my inner sailor.

Monday, November 21, 2005

Poetry in Music

Frequently, bloggers will post the lyric to a song written by a popular muscian in order to express the blogger's mood that day. I kind of feel like this is cheating. As a writer it's the writer's responsibilty to create his or her own lyric or poetry to express his or her feelings and mindset. However, today I feel like Erykah Badu's words from her album, "Erykah Badu Live" track 3 entitled "Reprise" says what I've been feeling deep inside me for sometime. She says it so perfectly, How could I ever think that I have the skill to express this sentiment any better. For this blog post, I'd like to be a hypocrite and post these moving and thoughtful words. I hope you get as much inspiration from them as I have these past few years.

Ya'all know what a cipher is? There’s all kind of ciphers. Right. But a cipher can be represented by a circle. Which consists of how many degrees? What? 360 degrees. A circle. And my cipher keeps moving like a rolling stone. So when in my song when I say that my cipher represents myself, or the atoms in my body. And the rolling stone represents the Earth. The atoms in the body rotate at the same rate on the same axis as the Earth rotates. Giving us a direct connection with the place we call Earth. There for we can call ourselves earth. OK?

On my hand I wear an unch. This is an Unch. An Unch is an ancient chemetic symbol. The word chemet is the original name for Egypt. This symbol can be found on the walls of the Hieroglyphics in Chemet. And this symbol represents life. Alright? This portion represents the womb. Sisters put your hands on your wombs. This portion represents the male principle of the birth canal. Brothers put your hands your male principle. (chuckle). And this portion represents the fallopian tubes. 120. 120. 120. 360 degrees of life: completion. You and me--life. And in all that I do I try to represent life. Give birth to different things: melody, music, prayers, babies.

Ahmen, Sister! Perfect.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Light Bulb Over My Head

Long underwear doesn't work. It works at first. When you first leave the house you are indeed warmer than you would have been sans the long underwear. But then you go inside. And as we are warm blooded animals our bodies adjust our temperature so we don't overheat. So now we're inside with long underwear on feeling completely comfortable. Eventually we have to go back outside to get back home or to the next exciting experience and now the long underwear doesn't work. Our legs are shivering. Yeah, I've tried not shaving my legs but the same principle applies. (So now I don't shave them for different reasons.)

I have a solution--Pant Coats. They'd be like wool chaps. You put them on OVER your pants right before you go outside. Then when you reach your indoor desitination you take off your top coat and then you whip off your pant coats! Your body adjusts to the indoor tempature, but who cares you only have one layer of pants on. You're going to put the second layer on right before you head back out into the freezing bleekness. Ha Ha! Take that winter.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Show Tonight

Minty Fresh presents a comedy show.

I'm up first.


Our first show at Mo Pitkins!! Come meet beautiful
Irish bartender, Thomas!
Thursday, November 17 @ 8PM
MintyfreshMo Pitkins (Sadie's Lounge)
34 Ave A b/t East 2nd and 3rd Sts
featuring Ben Chaney, Wes Connelly, Laura Mannino,
Michael Muldoon, Rachael Parenta, Baron Vaughn, Sven
Weschler and hosted by Shawn Hollenbach.

Let's Stay together. Sort of

My best friend Anna hates when people break up with her because the sex well dries up. She then has to go back out into the world and find a boy that won't stab her in her sleep. Or won't be harshly critical. This one time Anna took home an uncircumcised gentleman caller. At one point in their semi-naked evening he shouted, "You're doing it wrong!" She responded, "Looks like our time here is up." So she hates when non-homicidal non-critical men leave. Sure she is just as aware as the boy of how it's not working out. She asks, "But can't we still have sex? Yeah, I know it's awkward, how can it not be you've got fifteen years on me, so let's not talk. I don't need dinner. Hell, I don't even need dessert. Let's never speak again and continue to have sex. Come on, be a pal. "

Wednesday, November 16, 2005

Bear Hunt

They want to hunt black bear in NJ this year. Apparently, there are almost 1000 black bear living in NJ which is just slightly less than the 8,414,350 people living in the same state. (US Census 2000). Those pesky bears living in the remaining five acres of woods. How dare they!
Let me put it this way Bears have killed 3 people on the entire Eastern Seaboard where as cops have killed 81 people in the city of San Diego (some random website). Even if that statistic is not accurate you know that cops especially in NJ kill more than three people a year. And in 2003 there were approximately 22,000 cops in NJ that's just the employed ones that's not including the NY cops living in the garden state (http://www.state.nj.us/lps/njsp/info/ucr2003/pdf/2003_sect9.pdf). So I'm thinking instead of hunting bear we should hunt cops. They kill more people, bother more drivers, use more resources, beat more wome. There has never been a report of a black bear beating it's wife. Nor has there been a case of his black bear friends covering up the fact that he beat his wife. Granted you can't eat a cop after you kill one. Well, you could but then you increase your odds of getting mad human disease. Further, I think hunting cops would present hunters with a greater challenge. Bears don't shoot back, but we all know cops do.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Jack's Present

My dearest Jack surprised me with tickets to see Gabriel Byrne in Eugene O'Neil's play "A Touch of the Poet." So sweet. For those of you who've never seen my act you might not know that Gabe and I actually had a thing for awhile. ---It's a long story, but basically it never really worked out between the two of us. You'll have to hear the song and see the pictures to fully understand. You'd think that with what we went through he could throw me a couple of comps. But that's Byrne for you, out of sight out of mind.---The fact that Gabe and I have history makes Jack's gift that much sweeter. I know that I could never buy tickets for Jack and me to attend a lecture on proper food distribution techniques to blind orphans in cinderblock devastated nations if the lecture was given by one of his old flames. Did you know that poorer nations that can't afford conventional ammunition resort to hurling cinderblocks at each other. You'd think that these nations would just abstain from war at least until they've saved up enough money for bullets or a cannon. Not to write that the cinder blocks don't destroy these countries. The damage suffered...words can't even describe. Have you seen people dying of thirst because their creek has been completely displaced by blocks of cement?

But the suffering of remote peoples is not the point of this post. The point is I'm a jealous person and Jack is not. Jack even went so far as to say that if Gabe and I wanted to have one last fling after the show I should go for it. I told Jack I'm committed to Jack and my relationship. Jack said, "Well, I guess, I could join you if you really find yourself wanting him." Oh my God!!! How unbelievably giving. Jack isn't even bi-sexual. Not one bit. I told him, "Babe that is super generous of you, but I could never do that to you." The truth is I could never do that to me. Like I wrote, I'm jealous. I know I'd see one of them give the other a look. Or think I wasn't getting the same attention as Gabe or Jack. My mind would betray me and I'd flip out, "Fine! You two are so in love why don't you just be alone together. Move to Hawaii and get married. Have fun. Hope you don't get sunburned you bastards!" I'd storm out and slam the door. BAM! I think instead I'll avoid the threesome, enjoy some theatre, and keep my relationship intact.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Some Questions. Maybe Someone Relates

Here's something I found in Massachusettes this weekend: Black is the new Jewish.
Do you guys ever find yourselves standing in an elevator with only one other person whom you don't know and think, "This dude is totally going to try to stab me before we reach the nineth floor?" And then he does, and you're like "I knew it! I'm totally psychic. Psychic and bleeding, but psychic nonetheless."
I'm so paranoid that I think I'm out to get me.
Actually, have you ever told the truth but felt like you're lying and that no one in the room should believe you because if you weren't with yourself the whole day you wouldn't believe you either? But the thing is you are telling the truth but it all feels like a lie. What is that?

Friday, November 11, 2005

God, Mesopotamian System, & Two Links

It upsets me when people remind me there's no God. I'm like, "Oh yeah, right. I'm never going to get what I want. Great! Yay! rational thought."
Interview question: "Why do you want to work here?"
Me: "I don't want to work here. "
Interview: "huh?"
Me: "Ahh, look the food is locked away and the only way to get some of it is to do some bullshit for you or some other stupid thing of nothingness, that no one cares about including you. Stop."
Anyway, due to lack of sleep most of this week I'm going to bail on a post. This month I've rediscovered Dario Fo, a brilliant solo performer and winner of the Noble Prize for Literature in 1997. Also I bought myself my first i-tune yesterday-- "Hotel Lorraine" performed by Otis Spann. I used to play it every week on "Bluesology," a radio show I hosted in Boston. I haven't heard it in years, great tune. I tried to find it for free but alas, I had to pay the man. Pisses me off because he's dead, so the only people making a profit off this thing are people who had nothing to do with its creation.

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Do I have to Spoon Feed You the Answer?

I tried getting into a museum for a student price. I showed my 10-year-old college ID to the money-collecting woman. She looked at my ID and said this expired. I protested slightly, but knew I had been caught so I let it go. Then, all offended, she asks me, "Why would you lie?" What kind of stupid question is that? "Why would I lie?" To pay less money. A better question would have been, "Why wouldn't you want to pay full price and support the museum and the culture held within it?" And then I would have had to admit, "Because I'm a cheap soulless creature." Which is not something she could have necessarily rationally deducted.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

So I'm a Little High Strung

I like making fun of myself so here's a story I think is funny.

I’m not really what one would call a “wallflower.” Unless of course wallflowers have taken to loudly expressing a torrent of emotions in public--and when I type “in public” I don’t mean on a stage in public, I just mean in public like at a public library--if wall flowers do that than I sit corrected.

One evening I totally lost my mind, I did eventually find it the next morning. It turns out my mind was right next my bed. I had left home without it that day. No one noticed at my temp job. I must admit I am always misplacing and loosing my mind. I think I’m so tightly wound it kind of just pops right out of my head and then I forget to pick it up and put it back in. Frequently, I wind up having to go back to the bar the next morning to retrieve it from the lost and found box under the bar.

OK so a couple of months ago I ran into a dude I once dated, Kyle. He was with a very cute girl. Granted I was also with a girl, but it was clear I wasn't fucking her, and I was having a humongous hair day. And by humongous I don't mean really good, I mean big like 1980s Jersey Big (that's double big, people). So my ego kind of felt like it had cliff dived into cement. See, ex types aren't allowed to do well after you. They need to be crumpled with regret in the corner of their kitchen. All the girls before you should be hotties. You want to be part of that club, but after you the club should be set ablaze. Soon after introductions and a little small talk the ex and cute gilr left to have hot sex in the bathroom of a swank bar. OK, they may not even have been on a date, but you know rational thought is hardly appropriate, and who are we kidding I’m sure they’re married now and as I type this are enjoying their honeymoon in Fiji. Nonetheless, they said "good-bye" and walk away. I don't know that they were out of ear shot when I loudly questioned my remaining friends and the rest of the venue, "Why do I always loose?!"
Obviously, it's a competition. Of what? I have no idea. All I know is that I lost. My buddy says to me, “I’m not going to tell you she’s not cute.” No shit Sherlock.

I continue to have melt down for a few more minutes and then hop on my bike to peddle to Brooklyn. Somehow I perform a set of jokes and people actually laughed. I get off stage and go right back to flipping out in the back of the room. In my defense I'd like to mention that it was a full moon or nearing one. And I’m sure I was premenstrual and having premature menopause and I was possibly pregnant, and let’s not forget the heroin, and all the mood elevators the doctors have me on. Between sips of vodka I tell this dude Kevin, who also knows Kyle, that he should tell Kyle that he has seen me with this really hot guy. Turns out the competition is who can get the hottest hook up. Now, also understand that Kevin is an inebriation enthusiast---so much so that Kevin can't remember what the word "memory" means. However, somehow his beer-soaked mind remembers my statement. So what does this degenerate do? The next day he friggin’ tells Kyle that I SAID to say that Kevin saw me with a hot guy. Not that I actually was with a hot guy. What kills me is I never thought Kevin would relay the original hot guy fake gossip. I didn’t think Kevin would remember having lived that day. I was just being nutty. So now not only does Kyle know that I lost, but now he knows that there was something to loose, so I wound up loosing twice!

Monday, November 07, 2005

Waxing Nostalgic

This weekend I got my 'stache ripped off my upper lip with hot wax. It is only the 2nd time in my life that I have had this done. The procedure left my upper lip slightly broken out. I have to admit it wasn't that noticeable until... today. At work I found myself bored so I picked and prodded face until the slight irritation became red and obscene. To hide my mutilation I took my hair out of the bun so my locks would cover my face. Later that day I took the subway downtown and my nose began to run. I had no paper products to with which to wipe my nose. I now had to carefully keep my hair over my face to camaflouage the upper lip atrocity while at the same time keeping my curls out of my snot.

Yes, I'm quite the lady.

less painful than a waxing

Sunday, November 06, 2005

My hands are tied

I think we should kill one of my roommates. And when I write "we," I mean all of us or any of us or one of us, or Elijiah the Prophet. After a weekend in NJ I came home to find the bathroom without toilet paper and Chinese food turned pencillin in the fridge. I went out and over paid for a roll of toilet paper as the grocery store in the neighborhood was closed. I think I should keep the TP in my room with my robe. He never replaces any of the common commodities, and for this he should die.

I would kill him myself right now, but I don't have a gun. Perhaps I could poison him, but he never gets around to eating anything in the apartment. And without a gun or poison I'd have to use my empty hands--a.k.a. karate. Turns out I'm only allowed to use karate for self-defense. When committing acts of violence sans firearms it's hard to know what is and isn't karate. I think I can poke him in the eyes but only with a single finger. If I put my fingers together and strike his pupil that's called a shote and is there by forbidden. I can strangle him, but only if I avoid the many pressure points I'm now aware of due to my studies. What if this ignoramus tries to defend himself. It seems unlikely because that would require effort, but that's just my luck. All of a sudden he would decide to get off his lazy ass and do something at the exact moment I need him to just sit still and take a beating. In the event that he starts flailing about I have to block and parry because if I don't I'll get hit, ouch. But if I block his strikes I'm using karate again and we're right back where we started.

I've thought of asking my other roommate to kill him, as my other roommate has no martial arts training, but my other roommate does so much around the apartment already. I just feel guilty asking for a favor.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Hold onto that Gal

Last night I heard a comedic acquaintance explained why he had to dump his 24-year-old girlfriend--he's 37. The girl thought Felicia Rashad was Rosa Parks. According to the comic she expressed this belief in the middle of performing fellatio. I think he should reconsider the dumping. I mean, a girl with that kind of ventriloquism skill is a keeper. Maybe that's why she's not so well versed in American history and pop culture because she spends most of her time working on that unbelievable talent. It's either that or my father's warning about Irish guys is right and the comic left enough room in her mouth for her to give a discourse on the Cosby Show. In which case, he should try to get her back, and now.

2 lines off a mirrored table

I got kicked out of denial the other day. I've been trying to drink my way back ever since.

I was trying to illegally download love. Turns out no one has it in their shared folder.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

I'm No CS Lewis, but Two Paragraphs on Pain

People really suffer out there in the world. There are people without parents. People who are victims of violent crimes and abuse. Their are people whose homes have been obliterated by natural disasters. When I'm feeling highly depressed I think about these people. And I feel worse. Not only do I remain depressed, but now I feel guilty because I have no reason to be sad. So then I start to think about the people who have it so much better than me--those who have great sucess in their careers and love lives. Those who can buy all the chipwiches they want. I still feel sad, but feel justified in my self-pity.

To further justify my wallowing I like to make analogies. Like this one: when I stub my toe or get a paper cut, I say ouch and swear. Why? Because it hurts. In my agony I don't think about veterans who have had their legs blown off, or people with arthritis. Though they suffer exponentially more, my paper cut still hurts like a bitch, and I can't help that. I didn't invent the sensation I feel-- it friggin' hurts. Like really. And unlike a baseball bat to the head it's one of those annoying pains.

And so let me take all I have for granted.

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

At least I can admit it

I hate when people excuse their bad behaviour with the fact that they are aware that they have a bad personality trait. For example I'm a self involved asshole. I know I'm a self involved asshole, but my knowing that about myself doesn't make my self involvedness OK. I argue that it makes it worse. I know that I suck and why I suck, and yet I don't change. Meanwhile, a non-self aware self involved asshole can't change because they don't know anything is wrong. What's even worse is that the rest of the population seems to accept this. You disarm their criticism by merely admitting what a douche you are.

To me it's like if Ted Bundy said, "Yes, I'm a serial killer. But at least I can admit it. Jeffrey Domar is walking around in denial, see I'm not as bad as Domar." And then the jury finds him not guilty by reason of self-awareness. How about this, stop killing people, Ted!

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Singing in the Rain

My parents are much better at choosing friends than me. They've had friends they've known since before high school. Me? Let's put it this way, in elementary school I belonged to a clique of girls. They were cute, smart, and fucking evil. When we weren't working on our slam books we were emotionally scarring each other, the torture didn't stop until someone shed tears and doubted their right to exist. I never witnessed that behaviour from my parents or their friends. Especially with regards to slam books.

By the time I was 13 I decided not to belong anywhere. In 8th grade I also decided to avenge myself. I charged long distance phone calls to Lisa Nazar's phone number. How? Well, all you have to do is dial the operator and explain you want to charge the following call to said phone number. That was it. Who knew that Bell Atlantic would list the telephone number from which the call was placed on Lisa Nazar's parents' phone bill. Oopsy. I got caught. My parents, very upset with my behaviour, grounded me.

The punishment seemed to include going to the home John and Markaye Taylor for dinner. Who? High school friends of my parents. And the funniest people I've ever met in my entire life. And I've met some friggin hysterical comedians. I always enjoyed these people. Unlike most of my parents friends John and Markaye didn't argue about driving directions, Reagan, and dietary problems. Instead the Taylors were loud and funny. They swore, drank hard liquor, told dirty jokes, the introduced me to the word "hebe" and the always had the best stories. I never tried to wrangle out going to their house. If dinner at John and Markaye's was part of my sentence for stealing long distance then hells yeah! I'll charge phone calls every day.

During the course of dinner this particular evening my vengeful deed came up. My parents explained what I had done with grave disappointment on their faces and in their voices. John and Markaye responded, "Good for you! She was a bitch right. Screw her. Next time, though, don't get caught." My Dad's head dropped to his chest, he shook his head and laughed.

John Taylor will be missed.