Monday, April 30, 2007

Fozzie Bear Under Appreciated Comedian

I performed at an open mic in Brooklyn Sunday night at a family-friendly cafe. I sat in a comfortable little chair before the mic commenced and watched children walk in and out of the performance space. I decided to write a joke that would allow me to vibe with kids if any happened to be present during my set. Here is the joke I wrote. "Who here hates baths? God, I hate baths, especially after a chicken dinner. You have to worry about contracting salmenella from the kitchen sink. Yeah, you know how kids get bathed in sink when they're small. God, it"s lame it's so cramped in the kitchen sink. My neck gets a crook in it, good thing our bones aren't fully hardened yet."

I told thetabove joke despite the fact that there weren't any children present when I began my set. The adults in the room loved it. Which just goes to show my comedy is universal. My set remained child free until I began relaying a sex story. Just as I was quoting a gentleman who said, "Suck my cock." A 5 year old boy and his mom walked in the room. Comedy: It's all about timing.

Thursday, April 26, 2007

Media a Dangerous Influence

I witnessed a forensic psychiatrist blame horrific violent crime on violent media. This news made me very happy. I don’t ingest a great deal of violent media (unless you count the 45 times I watched the Karate Kid) that stuff scares me. So I probably won’t be committing much violent crime. Oh well. However, I do watch an enormous amount of romantic comedies. I've been watching romantic comedies since I'm a small child. Which means my life should start to imitate a romantic comedy any day now. How exciting. I know I'm only moments away from being able to manipulate men into falling in love with me. I know any minute now some young man is going to run miles and miles to stop me from getting on that plane. I can't wait because I don’t want take that shitty job in Dayton Ohio. Of course I’m going to have to get myself a job offer in Dayton Ohio.

Or maybe I’ll choose to stop obsessing over some stupid jerk, instead I’ll realized that I should date that sincere mail clerk who has befriended me. Or better yet, I’ll become a prostitute in hopes of meeting a rich businessman to pull me out of this economic hellhole I've been living in. Hell, I don't even have to be a prostitute I can be token taker for the L train in Chicago, or a hotel maid in NYC. God, my love options are endless, I can get married get divorced. The divorce could leave me embittered and scared to commit and I know that somehow my guarded tendencies will be so attractive that gentleman caller he will not take “no” for answer. Instead he'll pursue me with tenacity and a vigor only found in starving lions. The best part will be when Tom Hanks, Hugh Grant, and John Cusak declare their undying love for me. It’s going to be hot.

Now that I think about it my life is going to change in even more amazing ways. I spent my entire adolescence watching soap operas. I thought I'd never be married, but now I realize from watching all those soaps I'll probably be married 4 or 5 times minimum. And each wedding is going to just be beautiful. At some point in my life learn I have an evil twin sister who grew up in Venezuela. However, it'll turn out that she doesn't exist and I have multiple personality disorder. Multiple personality disorder means time in an institution which means I don't have to go to work for awhile. Hooray! I'll probably kill my third husband's second wife. Then there will be this big huge trial and I'll be vindicated. The town will throw me a party celebrating the not-guilty verdict and then they'll be a week long black out in the hotel bar where the party was thrown. And a week-long blackout means I don't have to go to work for a week.

(Writing of week-long blackouts. Do you think ConEdison watched a lot of soap operas growing up too?)

Man, who knew TV would change my life this way?

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

Gross Out? Maybe.

I blow my nose on my sleeve because I love the Earth. I'm an environmentalist. I'm not going to cut down trees to make tissues, then throw those tissues into the trash filling land fills with my all natural snot. God and Mother Earth have given me clothing and I should use it for as many purposes as possible. By wiping my nose on my sleeve I don't need to starch my shirts.

Tuesday, April 24, 2007

If This Post Were a Movie It would Be Rated R

I don't have a lot to write today so you can check out this thing I wrote for Gawker last week by clicking on the sentence you are now reading.
Last week I had a debate with a fellow on what counts as sex for the purposes of tallying the number of sexual partners a person has had in his or her life time. I say oral sex does not count. He argued that oral sex did count. I asked around and I found most women in there 20s and 30s agreed with me. However, when I asked my mother she agreed with the fellow. To which I proudly responded, "Oh well, then my numbers go way up." My mother slightly disgusted said, "Ugh. Why? What do you get out of it?" I told her, "Trust me. They're not getting much out of it either."

The joke should end there, but I have to ruin it with my opinion. What a woman gets out of giving a oral sex is receiving oral sex. Also there are women who enjoy the deed. And of course if you actually like a dude, you might want to do something nice for him, you know like cook him dinner, buy him the complete works of Shakespeare, give him head-- whatever.
The benefits to having sex where no one comes, you don't have to wash your sheets.

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

I Doth Protest Too Much

My friend Mike Jenkins suggested I was gay. I told him, "Just because I turn the ladies on doesn't mean I am gay."

I thought about it and I was like, I think if I were gay I'd be the type of person who would be gay. I wouldn't be closeted or anything. I mean, I've admitted to sleeping with a forty year old alcoholic dude with blackened teeth that's way more embarassing and horrifying than liking women.

Dating Tip #Piping Hot off The Presses

I overheard some recite the following cliche to a friend, "If a person doesn’t love himself or herself they can't love anyone else." It sounds true enough.

From this proverb I have come up with dating advice for all the single ladies out there. I am a love guru because I have been in a relationship with my boyfriend Jack for nearly nine years. I recommend the single ladies get out a pen and paper and take notes.

Ladies, when looking for a man to be your boyfriend-or just a man to bed- find one that loves himself. Obviously, avoid the ones who don't love themselves because they'll never love you. They are incapable of love. The trick is finding a dude who loves himself. Spotting a man who loves himself is easy. All you have to do is think about how people in love act and then find a guy who is acting in that manner toward himself. I've compiled a short list of love signs.

1. I have found that people in love constantly talk about the object of their affection. For example, look at this blog. I'm constantly writing about my boyfriend Jack. Hell, I named my comedy-variety show after him. Why? Because I love him. Talking about him makes him more near somehow. It's the same with a man who loves himself. He will constantly talk about himself.

2. People in love, also, do things for their loved ones, like, planning vacations and surprise birthday parties. You're going to want to find a man who goes on vacation a lot and throws himself surprise birthday parties annually, or even monthly. That is quite surprising to be thrown a birthday party every month. Who would suspect the month after your birthday party to get another birthday party? Granted, you’d age more quickly, but parties are fun so it’s worth it. And, your man in love knows this.

3. People in love, like my friends Julie and Patrick, are very physically affectionate even in public where it's very inappropriate. I find it kind of annoying when I’m hanging out with them. I'm always thinking, "Um. I'm trying to have a conversation with you guys and your all over each other. Holding hands, stroking arms, lightly touching knees and thighs. (sigh) Jesus, get a room." A man in love with himself will be touching himself all the time as well, maybe even in public. Though, you might consider the public stroking inappropriate, it does make a man in love with himself easier to spot. Otherwise you'd have to spy on people to find out if they are constantly affectionate with themselves. Let's face it we're career girls we don't have that kind of time.

4. People in love also take bullets for one another. If you see a guy walk into a bullet to protect himself from the impending wound, you know he is a keeper.

There you have it four easy signs to tell if a man is in love with himself. The only catch to "catching" a gentleman in love with himself is that he probably won't cheat on himself with anyone. People in love commit to each other. So he might not actually go on a date with you. Honestly, you have to admire that quality in someone. On the other hand a man who doesn't love himself, he'll sleep around on himself. He'll make time for you over himself. He'll call himself to say he won't be home for dinner because he’s “working late” and then he'll sneak off to a movie with you. Or, he might not even bother to call himself at all and just go to that movie with you. Though, you’ll get to spend time with him he’ll never love you, unfortunately.

Monday, April 16, 2007

My Future Looks Bright by the Blue Light

I came home from my trip to Oregon with the best news. I had to share it with my boyfriend Jack immediately.
"Jack, great news. Not only is my fiance, James a great cook, not only does he own property, but he has TiVo...For life! It's going to be awesome, we'll be able to TiVo our favorite programing."

Jack responded, "That's one of the reasons I love you. You're great at picking fiances."

Friday, April 13, 2007

Sometimes I Amaze Myself

I had an adventure while in Portland. My last day in the city of roses I decided to walked through a trendy neighborhood. I passed by a little boutique displaying an array of sundresses. I said to myself, "Yeah, I should go in. A sundress will do me good. I could use a little femming up." I walked in and noticed that the prices on these dresses were reasonable. I picked a few I thought were cute and headed into the dressing room to try them on. I tried on one dress after the other. None of them looked quite right on me. I came to the last dress, it had a brown and white checkered pattern and short little sleeves. That one didn't look good on me either so I took it off. Well, not exactly. I got stuck in the dress people. I couldn't get it off of me. I knew I shouldn't have gone shopping without my mom.

I wriggled. I wrangled. I twisted about. A good ten minutes passed. I had to get this dress off, it didn't look good enough on me to buy. I took a deep breath and stepped out of the dressing room. I exhaled looked at the female sales clerk and said, "Umm. Hee Hee. Uhh. I'm a the dress...ha ha ha."

The sales clerk was very sweet about it. As she came into the dressing room with me she told me, "This dress is a little tricky. We have trouble getting it on and off the mannequins." She was a pro. She removed enough of the dress without actually revealing me so that I could get the dress off myself.

I got stuck in a dress, people. I'll never be a real, live girl.

Thursday, April 12, 2007

Marky Mark Ain't Got Nothing on Me.

Writing as a very small fish in quite a large pond I realized on my trip to Oregon that there are definite advantages to being a small-medium sized fish in a large-small pond. To the left is a picture of the limo that drove me to my guest set out in the west hills of Portland. As a small-medium fish this limo was free of charge. It even came with a driver donning a cap.

The limo came with an entourage. That's my entourage (right) she goes by the moniker "T-kitty." Why? Because that's what I said she'd go by. She's a small fish and I'm a small-medium fish in that large-small pond called Portland, so she's going to do what I say.

You're wondering why I needed a limo and the entourage of T-Kitty? Well, when you lived some place and left that someplace to go to a bigger someplace, when you return to the original someplace you best be all Hollywood about it, even if the new someoplace was Brooklyn and not Hollywood at all. If you don't walk up to the West Side Comedy Club (located in a bar that is part of stripmall very near the suburbs) all Hollywood like for your 5 minute spot---which is a very short spot, but what are you going to do? The crippled-booker/comedian never returned your email asking for an MC or Feature spot--You've got to be Hollywood or else you look like like a chump.

And that's why I live in New York City. Sure I don't get free limos or get to eat a a burger, a salad, bread-pudding and a drink for the grand total of $8 (including tip) but I can be a chump all I want because no one is going to notice.

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

I'm Back

I have lots of musings from the road, however, I have no time today to sit and flesh them all out. Instead I bring a warning.

It has been proposed by many that people should, "Listen to their instincts." The theory is that a person's instincts can't be wrong. I am living proof that this philosophy is untrue. Almost everynight I go to bed believing that someone will break into my room (no matter where the room I'm sleeping in is located) and kill me while I sleep. Everyday I wake-up. The fact that I wake-up means I haven't been killed. Therefore my instincts aren't for shit. Which, I'll admit, is kind of nice. I'd rather not be dead.

So dear readers, don't listen to your instincts just because they are instincts. I mean, why do you think your instincts were paying any more attention in school then the rest of you?

Saturday, April 07, 2007

I Wrote this in a Hotel Lobby.

A few days ago I wrote about FAA regulations that restrict our ability to bring bottles of root beer home on airplanes. That same day a couple of people from Halliburton read my blog.

How do I know that? Because I have my eye on the people who have their eyes on people. They are reading my blog now, looking for encoded messages, much like Robert Redford in the movie "3 Days of the Condor." Except instead of reading literature like he did, these people are reading my blog.

I'm very nervous about this because there are encoded messages in this blog. Not messages that would encourage people to start a violent revolution; I can barely find the focus and energy to eat two meals a day, never mind organize the populace to free themselves. (And let's face it: I don't even like most of the populace.) No, I have encoded messages about boys.

Government officials like to ruin people's lives for no reason. We've all seen "Enemy of the State" starring Will Smith and the love of my life Gabriel Byrne. I have no doubt some dickwad in the CIA who needs a promotion is going to start in with me just because I wrote about root beer on an airplane and he thought I was a terrorist. Now, instead of admitting his error to his superiors, he's going to ruin my life instead. For example, he'll figure out that in my joke about a gentleman named Anthony Michael Giovani, the name Anthony Michael Giovani is just code for a man named Michael Anthony G. They are highly educated, those CIA agents, and they can crack tough codes like this. Michael Anthony will probably sue me once the CIA makes it public and I'll lose everything: my bed on cinderblocks, my pint of Ben and Jerry's cookie dough that's in my freezer. Everything!

Why can't we be free?

Tuesday, April 03, 2007

FAA Saving Lives Beyond the Airplane

In 1999 me and a posse of ten Emerson students headed north from Los Angeles to Santa Barbra for a day trip. When you're living in LA you try to get out of LA as much as possible. Santa Barbra was lovely, quaint, and cutesy. We walked the town from beach to Mission. We stopped at an eatery for a late afternoon snack and a beverage to slake our thirst from a rigourous day of sight seeing. It was here that we made the most wonderful discovery--Henry Weinhardt rootbeer. It is one of the finest rootbeers to have passed these lips. If I could remember the name of the waitress who recommended this marvelous soft drink I would have constructed a golden idol in her image. Alas, I don't know her name nor remember her face I was blinded by the rootbeer.

The rest of our Los Angeles living consisted of purchasing six packs of Henry's rootbeer. In a town of awfulness Henry Weinhardt rootbeer was 120z of liquid wonderfulness. Eventually, our semester in Los Angeles concluded and we hurried back to the Northeast unknowingly leaving behind our dear Henry Weinhardt. Sadly, the Weinhardts don't distribute their rootbeer past the Colorado River. Much like the Chipwich doesn't get distributed west of the Ohio River. Eastern and Western America will never know one another's sugary goodness.

This week I am playing shows in Oregon. Oregon: home of the Weinhardt's brewing operations. Their rootbeer flows like Portland's Willamette River here. Some bars even have it on tap. I thought of my friend Jesse who was with me on that fateful Santa Barbra trip over 8 years ago. I decided I wanted to bring him back at least one bottle of rootbeer he could enjoy in his Brooklyn apartment. But it can not be.

None of us are allowed to bring liquids onto an airplane these days. You can pack liquids in your checked baggage that is stored in the non-heated belly of the plane. Do you know what happens to soda when frozen? It explodes. Ironic. If I bring the soda on the plane no explosion. However, if I put it in my checked bag, Kaboom! Well, more like "Ahh shit! What's all this sticky crap on my clothes? Oh! It's the god damn rootbeer!" I can't open the rootbeer and pour into 12 travel-size shampoo bottles. The soda will go flat and it will taste like shampoo.

That's when I realized how awesome the FAA is. Not only is it saving us from terrorists, but it is also saving Jesse from calories and sugar he doesn't need to ingest. Excess, sugary calories have been known to lead to high blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes, cancer, headaches, and thirst. All of which leads to death. Thank you FAA for disallowing me from accidently killing my good friend Jesse Post.

See, U.S. citizens the government really does know best. Just because it doesn't seem to make any sense at the time, eventually you will see the light. Like taking off your shoes at the metal detector. If you slip and fall while in stocking feet that might be a sign you have an inner ear problem. An inner ear problem detected early because of the FAA.

God Bless America!

Monday, April 02, 2007


Today I was book shopping at Powell's Books. I found myself in the literature section by the authors with last names that begin with "O." That's when it hit me. Irish people put "O'" in the begining of their last names so they could easily find Irish literature. We all know how lazy the Irish are. They didn't want to have to search through all the shelves looking for works by their compatriots.

It was at this moment my fiance, James, and I decided to make shirts that read. "N.I.N.A." We decided it would be way hip to be retro-bigots, and also to be ethnist in a way that required others to be a little educated to get it. See racism can be fun, you just have to think outside the box.

***N.I.N.A signs were placed in business windows during the 1800s in the United States. The acronym stands for No Irish Need Apply.