Sunday, December 31, 2006
Friday, December 29, 2006
"Yeah, I know."
"Sure, you know. Intellectually. In theory you know. But I know for real. Alright, so Matt and Sue dropped out of the music project."
"That sucks, man. I'm sorry. I thought they approached you about collaborating on your music project."
"Yeah, they did. Who cares. That's not the point. The point is that guy I'm not dating is going to collaborate with me on the project."
"Oh that guy who had an extra ticket to the Opera. You thought it was a date but then in an email he called you his 'Opera buddy.'"
"Yeah Yeah Yeah. That guy. We email all the time. And here is the brilliant bit. He's going to work on this music project with me which never would have happened if I wasn't so consumed with heartache over some other boy or boys. I don't even know anymore. I just know I don't want to love every again. If I was truly open to the possibilty of dating someone new I probably would have actually liked this dude despite him disgustingly wreaking of cigarette smoke. Remind me, Rachael to bring Febreeze to our meetings. I would have been completely destraught that our Opera outing wasn't a date, instead I could have cared less. The heartache I refused to move-on from has allowed me to find a creative partner. I creative partner I would have eightysixed because 'he just wasn't that into me' and by that logic I shouldn't have wasted my time. Rather, though I shouldn't have wasted my time with Matt and Sue--lovely as they are."
"Well, Anna, I'm glad I'm right again."
"Rachael, I'm glad I could prove you were right."
"A soup kitchen?!" I exclaimed and questioned at the same time.
"Gotcha!" Jack retorted.
We laughed. He got me good. I immediately felt better. After the laughter subsided Jack invited me to Pittsburgh to celebrate Christmas with his family. In our 8 years of dating I've never once celebrated a holiday with the Kunderas. I had a bit of trepidation about it. Every family has their own way of celebrating holidays and I didn't know if I'd feel awkward and out of place with someone else's family.
Well, Jack and his mom went out of their way to recreate the Christmas traditions my parents and I have established over the years. Christmas morning we awoke in the Kunderas home and went downstairs to open presents. Surprisingly there were presents for me their from Jack's mom. I was really touched. She didn't have to do that. I opened them up. The first one was a sweatshirt. It had rainbow sewn on it. I have to say it was hideous, but I smiled and thanked her very much. The next box I opened contained plaid knickers. Again I smiled. Another box had buttoned down shirt with a lacy collar. She also bought me a rainbow beret. Jack was like, "That's awesome it matches the sweatshirt." There was nothing I could do but smile and say thank you.
After everyone had opened their presents Jack's mom suggested I go ahead and try on the stuff she bought me. I tried to politely get out of it. But she wouldn't take "no" for an answer. Jack smiled and asked "Does it feel like a Parenta Christmas yet?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know, clothes you don't like you're forced to try on."
Oh my god! It was the sweetest thing ever. Jack and his mom had conspired to recreate every Christmas morning I've ever experienced in my life. Every year I open presents from my mom. I tear open the wrapping to find clothes I never want to wear that my mom thinks I should wear. Then she forces me to try it on and show her how they look. I begrudgingly acquiesce to her wish. I wind up hating almost everything. My mom gets mad and she and I have fight. Mom says, "Fine, I'll return it all. Good I can get my money back." Then my Dad makes eggs and we eat breakfast.
When I realized what Mrs. Kundera was doing. I jumped to my feet and excitedly tried on the clothes. I've never been so happy to put a pair of knickers on. Mrs. Kundera and I didn't actually fight but she did pretend to get huffy. She agressively threw out tissue-paper. When she thought I wasn't looking she took the tissue-paper out of the garbage and placed it in the recycle bin.
No, it wasn't the same as spending Christmas with my own parents, but I did feel loved. I felt almost as loved as if I had actually fought with my own mother Christmas morning.
God bless us everyone.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
1A. If I don't find new friends make sure to buy Giants and Yankees jersies to wear at games I attend. Even though they are hideous. I don't appreciate the the other stadium people associating me with a team I do not like just because I seem to be in a couple. Women can vote now and pick their own sports teams.
1aI. Have sex before purchasing above jersies. Once worn I'm sure to never be touched again.
1B. Stop going to sporting events with only one other person who is male.
1B exception. If said male is hot and wants to have sex with me. Especially if said male wants to have sex with me despite my wearing a vile sports jersey.
1B exception 2. If the said male is my boyfriend Jack-- who better still have sex with me if I buy and wear a sports jersey.
Monday, December 25, 2006
I went to the Giants vs Saints game at Giants Stadium Christmas Eve. By the fourth quarter the Giants were loosing by 23 points. I thought now is the time for a Christmas Miracle--the Giants coming back to win the game in the fourth quarter.
Later I realized. One person's miracle is another person's devastation.
If the Giants had come back to beat the Sains I would have rejoiced, celebrated, cheered, but the Saints fans would have been weeping.
Saturday, December 23, 2006
Feel free though to read the new extended version of "cleaning up my act" posted below.
Dear readers, I have recently given up performing inappropriate material or what we stand-up comedians call “blue” humor. Blue humor usually consists of what industry professionals call “dick jokes.” We use the label “dick” because these jokes commonly involve the human male genitalia. A joke is also considered blue if it consists of foul language. Frequently, these words only consist of four letters. You know like, F*@k or Sh%t. The part of my life where I use these words and tell jokes like, “I’m sick of men fucking with my head because I hate penis in the ear” are over. No more swearing and no more “dick” jokes. I can still use the word “dick” because I have it in quotes here on my paper. Also it’s a word that can be a person’s name. You know like, you’re such a Dick, Richard Peterson. You’re saying to yourself, “But, Rachael that penis in the ear joke is brilliant why the change of heart?” I agree that joke is brilliant. However, I can never tell it again. A life-changing event happened to me on December 1, 2006. I read an article by Jeffrey Zaslow. I don’t know who he is either but his work gets published so he must be important. According to this Zaslow character there's a whole movement brewing for squeaky clean, Christian, and family oriented comedy. It seems parents want to spend quality time with their children at the local comedy club. That makes sense. What better place to spend quality time with the kids than at a bar. And, you know how the young ones love to sit still and listen while adults talk non-stop for an hour and half to two hours. However, when these parents take their offspring to the alcohol establishment they don’t want to expose their kids to off-color humor (“off color” humor is another term for blue.) Parents aren’t alone with their desire to hear good old-fashioned comedy, the comedy of yesteryear. The wholesome comedy Americans enjoyed before Lenny Bruce came along and messed it up for everyone. People long for the non-offensive comedy of the past, like minstrel shows. According to Zaslow’s article the Evangelical Christians also want in on the comedy boom happening right now. (That's where Evangelicals and I relate.) These Jesus lovers want to experience comedy that represents their values; that they can relate to; comedy with a soul. I applaud this movement because Evangelical Christians have gobs and gobs money. And I would like a gob of money. Just one gob. I mean I’m not greedy. I don’t need all the gobs just one. And so, In light of this I'm jumping on the clean comedy bandwagon. I want a career and if I have to keep it clean I will. I don't think I'm selling out. I think these people are right. I agree comedy has become a gross out. How many times must I listen to male comics talk about the joys of masturbating into a sock? Answer: many many times. I can complain about it or I can change the world. That's why from this point forward I will only work clean. You'll never see me get up on stage and talk about how great anal sex is. I don't believe anal sex to be great and so I won't purport that it is just to be "edgy,” I’m a clean comic I don’t need to be edgy. I now have the Christ on my side as well as thousands of children. I’m no phony either; I walk the walk—a pain free walk. I live the life of a clean comic. I don't have anal sex. Why? Because I don't have a prostate. Perhaps, if I did have G Spot in my buttocks I’d be singing a different tune, probably a show tune. If you come out to one of my stand-up shows you won’t hear me talking about how I just couldn't stop orgasming with some guy's penis in my anus. Clean comedians don't have orgasms from anal sex. And, anal sex is dirty. And, when I write dirty I don't mean naughty like wearing leather, using a whip and having you call me Aunt Susie. I mean unclean, unhygienic, filthy. It's sex that deals in feces. No thank you, sir. I’m not a chimp at the zoo. That’s a one way road to UTIville. (Men, that stands for Urinary Tract Infection.) Further, I don't see how a man would enjoy giving the anal sex. Once the head of his penis passes through the sphincter of my anus that head might as well be floating in space. There's nothing there to stimulate it. And all of us adults know the head of the penis is the most sensitive part. That’s how I get away with not having to put the whole thing in my mouth and down my throat. And now the children have learned an important human biology lesson. How is anal sex fun for anyone? The problems go beyond the above-mentioned lack of stimulation. I don’t know about you all but my rectum doesn’t self lubricate unlike my vagina. Further, my anus has a rectum, which is a sphincter, and not an expanding vaginal muscle. This means whoever my partner is that night, or that morning, has to do a whole bunch of work to get that thing loosened up. Also, anal sex requires its participants to fork over money for lubrication that isn’t alcohol. I’ll tell you this, Jesus loved wine and I don’t think he’d appreciate you taking your hard earned money and throwing it away on Astro Glide-even if it was invented by NASA, when those funds could be better used to buy more booze. Once the rectum is finally prepared for the anal sex you have to have sex real slow and careful like. That doesn’t sound fun to me having sex like you’re a 90-year-old in a grocery store. I mean, when I have sex I want you to throw me up against a wall and give it to me, but my rectum can’t take what you want to give it. I could be wrong. People say that there are women out there who enjoy such sex acts. Fine, they can talk about how awesome anal sex is in their sets. They can work blue. But in my act I will always work clean and tell the world the negative aspects of anal sex. I'm sure people who aren't pure of heart, who lack values, who don't have the desire to play clubs filled with 7-year-old children would ask me, "How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it?" I answer those skeptics with, "I know that if I took a gun and shot my knee I wouldn't enjoy that. I don't have to try it. My knee is not bullet proof, nor is my anus." Rest assured America my show is one hundred percent family oriented. Your kids will leave my show not wanting to have anal sex. And you Christians will bond with me over the fact that I too would have fled Sodom and Gomorra with Lots’ family. So please contact me for bookings. I’d love to play your child’s birthday party, first communion, and kindergarten graduation. I can be hired as a special guest speaker for your teenager’s health class. And for those of you God has not yet blessed with children feel free to book me at your next church hootenanny.
Thursday, December 21, 2006
In the above video Jackie Wilson sings his classic "Lonley Teardrops." We can see a man exceedingly happy to be depressed. Despite drenching his pillow in salene Jackie smiles, dances, and keeps the beat. I find it inspirational. God bless America in the late 50s. They really were the greatest generation. I have no idea what our forefathers were on, but we should dig it up and start taking it. I've never seen a person on prozac with moves like that.
Here's my advice to you all. If you're feeling blue this holiday season; if you feel alone and unloved--perhaps you're family has abandoned you this Christmas in order to attend some Jew wedding in Florida. Maybe you're eye-patch wearing grandfather has yet again ruined another family function, except this time with his health. Or, maybe your dad's cousin never called you back after you inquired about his Giants' tickets for this Sunday's Christmas Eve game. A game you thought about attending to distract yourself from the fact that Christmas has been cancelled this year, meaning no artichokes, no feast of the seven fishes, no butter cookies, no almost making your 8 year old cousin cry, no sparkling wine and peach schnapps (dont' knock it until you try it).-- So if your christmas has completely gone to shit this year try to get sympathy on the internet. Make sure you think only of yourself and what you're missing out on. Keep it all about you, and most importantly do what Jackie Wilson does-- DANCE!!!! Dance your sorrows away. You might be burning and crying but you'll still have a smile on your face. And that's what baby Jesus would have wanted for his birthday.
Also I'm doing a reading in Queens this Friday. It's at The Vault 90-21 Springfield Blvd, Queens Village, NY 8pm.
The topic for the evening is inappropriate. I know, it's crazy that I got booked for this show.
Tuesday, December 19, 2006
A few months ago I had the opportunity to spend an entire afternoon with a budhist. Did you know that not all budhists are small asians wearing orange robes? Well, they're not. Some of them are big, burly, white and living right here in America. Some even live in Queens. I know, who knew?
I had run into this 30 year old Budhist at a comedy show. One thing led to another and the next thing you know I agreed to be the liscenced driver in the car so he could practice driving with his permit.
We took his parents' car for a spin upstate. I remember it was a Sunday because that was the day of the week the "I Love Jack" show ran in Williamsburg at 8pm. (Starting January 25, 2007 8pm it will run at bar/theatre in the East Village on Thursday--now there are no execuses for you not to go.) We arrived in New Paltz, ingested some calories saturated in trans-fats, drove around looking at some foilage, and then we headed back to New York City. On the way back we almost died when the Budhist drifted into the center lane at a spot another car occupied at the time. Thank God for horns. I used to think car horns were obnoxious. I see things differently now, maybe it's a little bit of enlightenment. We almost died again when a tractor trailer pulled out in front of us-- a mere 1/2 mile in front of us. Despite my calm but stearn warnings regarding the tractor trailer the Budhist didn't take notice until he had driven 3/8ths of that half mile. As the cliche-ists say, "No harm, No foul." Until of course there was harm. Traffic.
We hit traffic--figuratively. I looked at my watch and realized there was no way I was going to arrive at the "I Love Jack" show on time. We still had to bring the car back to Bayside, Queens. I then had to bike to the G train, wait for the G train, continue to wait for the G train, ride the G train, and then pedal to the locale. (Turned out the G train wasn't running that night. I didn't know that then.) I needed to be there ontime beause I'm the host and the producer. The comics are like sheep and they need a shepard. I am that shepard. I asked the Budhist if he'd drive me down to the show. To reciprocate I offered the Budhist a spot on the show. Now, I know the "I Love Jack" show was not well attended by audience but it's all I had to offer in return for the favor I was asking. I mean sure I had given up my entire Sunday to sit in a car and risk my life, but when I agreed to do that I had placed no strings on my favor. The Budhist hemmed and hawed offering up possible logistical problems like available parking. I assured him there was always parking available -- like I said it was a lightly attended show. In the end it seemed helping me out was too inconvenient for him so we just drove straight to Bayside. I wound up being two hours late to my show.
This is not the end of the story. I ran into him Saturday night and asked if he passed his driving test. Answer: No. He failed the road test. I laughed. I didn't laugh out of meanness. I just didn't know you could fail a NYC driving test. I've driven in NYC quite a bit over the years and I never knew that the NYC DMV driving test adminstrators have the option to fail those taking the test. Apparently, they do. Another lesson learned. I feel like that third eye is just ready burst from my forehead.
But here's the point. After not helping me when I asked for help. After not caring one bit about another human being's dilema. He wound up failing his driving test. That, my friends, is Karma!
I'd like to thank the Budhist for teaching me all about it.
Monday, December 18, 2006
I realized that I do get my fruits and vegetables in love. I have parents and some family and a handful of friends that are nurturing like a banana or brocoli. It's these people that afford me the luxury of having dessert. However, we must remember that even bananas have sugar and are full of carbs, and most vegetables are laced with pesticides, or of course a leafy one could betray you with a dose of ecoli. In the end no relationship is perfect but you have to eat.
Friday, December 15, 2006
Since I began reading these books the subway has never been more scary. I fear the other communters might notice what I'm reading and throw me off the train. Last night a homeless man who had no shoes saw what I was reading and he got up and moved to the end of the subway car.
Greg is very condescending. He keeps calling the reader a superfox. Greg has never met me. I live with me and have lived with me for over 29 years every single day. I'm here to tell you I'm not a superfox and unless you mean super angry like a fox being chased by British fox hunters. I am not a superfox, nor am I superdeformed nor do I have a super birthmark on my face. I am just a lady living in Brooklyn who prefers baggy jeans but doesn't own a pair anymore.
The self help book should be called, "He's Broken that's Why You Just so Into Him." I love myself a broken man. One who is so awkward, shy and self loathing he can't possibly judge me for my faults. Sure I think I deserve better, but I don't want to be better. Unfortunately, broken men are just as judgemental as hot men who have their shit together.
I have to go bed. My point is I'm reading crappy pop psychology written by some stand-up comic and his wife all so that in 2007 I can rip the whole ridiculous philosophy a new asshole. Yeah, where's the self help book for that pathology?
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The plot thickens in regard to my mother's un-auntly relationship with my first cousins (her brother's children.) My second cousin, Warren ( a second cousin is the child of your parent's cousin.), is getting married in Florida the weekend directly proceeding Christmas. I find this offensive and am not attending. My mother, however, is. Her reasoning for validating these highly inconvenient neptuals is that Elanor, Warren's mom (my mom's cousin) has attended everyone else in the family's weddings. I told my mom, "I haven't had a wedding."
My mom responded, "Oh yeah, I know I meant your cousins."
"But they're not your kids. I'm your kid."
"Well, uhh, umm." She continued to stammer. I can't believe she's seeing my cousins behind my back like this. My mom is probably going down to Florida not for Warren's wedding but to rendevous with my first cousins. I bet my mom has taken my cousins out shopping for winter sweaters and knee high socks. Well the joke is on you mom, global warming means we don't need winter sweaters any more. Ha!
Where's the self help book for when your mom leaves you for other people's children?
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
My first act: I will not show up to move computers tomorrow. If I don't show up they won't pay me. If the don't pay me I've just made that much less money from non-comedy activities.
Monday, December 11, 2006
Or people say, "Oh dear imitator that is awesome that you've taken my work and tried to pass it off as your own. You've given a rebirth to my career." The imitator again smiles, but on the inside "Ahh man! I'm going to have pay royalties aren't I."
I think the purest form of flattery is sincerely telling another person that they are beautiful, stunning, incredibley smart (though a bad speller), engaging, intentionally humogously hilarious, great company, and then you buy them things you can't afford. Going into hock for another person is definitely a pure form of flattery. Especially if you are not trying to buy their affection you just want them to be happy.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Thursday, December 07, 2006
I think we should have a holocoust again but let's move it from Europe to Africa. And we'll replace the one group of white people annillating another group of white people with one group of black people annillating another group of black people. However, we'll keep the part where the world stands-by and does nothing. You kind of have to otherwise it's hard to have holocoust. And we can call it the Holocoust II: Genociding All Over Again.
Oh wait they already thought of that in Darfur. Shit! I knew I should have copyrighted the idea. Alright I guess I have to work on an idea for Holocoust III: Over Population Not a Problem Anymore, Suckers.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
I want a career and if I have to keep it clean I will. And I don't think I'm selling out. I think these people are right. I agree comedy has become a gross out. That's why you'll never see me get up on stage and talk about how great anal sex is. I don't believe anal sex to be great and so I won't proport that it is just to be "edgy," because I'm a clean comic. I walk the walk I live the life of a clean comic. I don't have anal sex. Why? Because I don't have a prostate. If I did I might see the point, but I don't, so I don't. You won't here me talking about how I just couldn't stop cumming with some guy's penis in my anus. Clean comedians don't have orgasms from anal sex. And, anal sex is dirty. And, when I write dirty I don't mean naughty, I mean unclean-unhygenic-filthy it's sex that deals in feces. No thank you, sir. Further, I don't see how a man would enjoy giving the anal sex. Once the head of his penis passes through the sphincter of my anus that head might as well be floating in space. There's nothing there to stimulate it. How is that fun for everyone? People will say that there are women out there who enjoy such sex acts. Fine, they can talk about how awesome anal sex is in their sets. They can work blue. But in my act I will always work clean and tell the world the negative aspects of anal sex.
I'm sure people who aren't pure of heart, who lack values, who don't have the desire to play clubs filled 7-year-old children would ask me, "How do you know you don't like it if you don't try it?" I answer those skeptics with, "I know that if I took a gun and shot my knee I wouldn't enjoy that. I don't have to try it. My knee is not bullet proof, nor does my anus expand like a vaginal muscle."
Rest assured America my show is one hundred percent family oriented. Your kids will leave my show not wanting to have anal sex. And you Christians will bond with me over the fact that I too would not have anally raped Mr. Lott and his family.
Contact my mailing list above to book me for your next church function, cruise ship, or child's birthday party.
Qwanza and Hanukka are OK they merely burn wax which only ommitts carbon and other toxins into the air. Hey, A Cancer riddled terrorist is an ineffective terrorist.
Monday, December 04, 2006
"What?" I asked with no comprehension. There she sat with two legs dangling from a bar stool. I saw her walk into the bar. "Uhh. Anna, you have legs I can see them. I mean my night vision is bad but it's not that bad"
"No. Rachael, I have legs. Literarly I have legs. But metaphorically I don't."
"Anna, you haven't even started drinking yet."
"Rachael, as I walked over here I realized that some people in this world are born without legs. Or they once had legs and for whatever reason they don't. I have legs, but I don't have romantic love. It occurred to me that we can't have it all. Some of us have legs and some don't. I don't. I thought there are some people who've died who never had sex. I have at least had sex, I might never have it again, but at least I did it a handful of times, I liked it for the most part, I guess i'm now confined to this figurative wheel chair. It kind of sucks, but can I be greedy. I see people in NYC and other places who never married who aren't dating and they're fifty-something. I guess those people are using the big-stall in the public bathroom of life as well."
"So you're just giving up?"
"What's to give up. I've gone on dates, I've gone on things that turned out not to be dates, I've tried having one night stands they're a disaster. I've sent hams. It's all so exhausting. It's time I accept that if I'm going to play basketball it's gonna be in a wheel chair."
"Right, a metaphor."
"Should I now describe you as my cripple friend Anna?"
"Nah, more like your legless friend Anna."
There you have it people, my friend Anna has no legs.
Friday, December 01, 2006
It's just like a comic to make it all about them. You can tell by the title of the first book,He's Just Not that Into You. The emphasis is on his feelings. His feelings are irrelevant. Most men aren't into you. I'm not saying your ugly or undesirable, it's mere statitistics. Most men don't know you or of you, so how could they be into you? Does this fact bother you? Of course not. There's a Johann Schmidt out there in the world who doesn't give a rats ass about you. He cares nothing for your feelings he never calls, nor does he ever remember your birthday--hell he never knew it. Are you pining afte Johann? Of course not. There are even men you know who not only aren't into you they can't stand you. (They may or may not have good reason.) Does it matter? No. Why? Because you aren't into them. And that's where this comedian has it all wrong. It doesn't matter if the guy isn't into you. You are into the guy or guys. You have romantic or sexual feelings for someone. There they are your feelings and you have them whether or not the dude reciprocates those feelings. If he reciprocates you feel good if he doesn't you feel shitty. But constantly acknowledging the fact that he doesn't like you back doesn't rid you of feelings. Nothing does but time and someone else who you dig. You could fuck your way from here to China and you'd still be thinking about the guy you like. You can drink gallons of tequilla and it won't go away. Did you ever notice when you're drinking you forget all about your money problems. You're job doesn't seem so bad anymore, but you never forget about the romance and/or the sex. It's why your friends keep hiding your phone on you when you all go out drinking.
My point. Fuck this comic who wants to strip you of your right to crush, and your instinctual need to love. You are not a fool for caring about someone even if it's a fool you care about. You'll get over it when you get over it. You might never get over it. You might marry him. You might kill him. Either way make sure you have a good attorney.
True I have yet to read either of these books. But I checked them out of the library yesterday and I plan to read them in preparation to wage an all out war on what prejudge to be crap.
i'm probably going to have rewrite this over the weekend.