Friday, August 31, 2007

Rehearsal Drinks

Wednesday night my fiance James and I went down to Reverand Jen's Anti-Slam open mic to read our vows. We have begun to work on our vows because we want them perfect for our wedding in 8 years. Today I share with you our first draft of vows. This is what we read on Wednesday night.

Rachael: I vow to give your renovated barn project (where we have to live in a renovated barn in Upstate NY with the theatre students who are there to study for week long intensives) one year before I force us to move back to NYC.

James: I vow always and forever to read or to pretend to read your blog.

Rachael: I vow to sleep with as many people as you do during the coarse of our marriage.

James: I vow to listen attentively to your clinical stories of past, present, and future sexual interludes; and I furthermore vow never to pressure you into having an orgasm.

Rachael: I vow to flame the fires of our love

James: I vow to be conscientious of your feelings by staying far enough away from your bedroom when I'm sleeping with other people so that you don't hve to hear my indiscretions.l

Rachael: I vow never to tease your fear of the dark as long as you let me sleep with the lights on.

James: I vow to share equally chocolate chunks in the pints of premium ice cream we eat together while watching "Sex and the City."

Rachael: I vow that if I ever upload the top friends application on Facebook you will be in my top friends. Further, if you ever break down and get a myspace page I'll immediately add you to my top friends there as well.

James: I vow that if you ever move to San Fransisco , to never say any disparaging things about that city and it's intolerable lack of public transportation etc, unless you bring it up first.

Rachael: I vow to obsessively tract my blog traffic statistics so I know if you've read or have pretended to read my blog.

James: I vow to make-out with you to make other boys jealous.

Rachael: I vow to do the laundry

James: I vow to do the dishes

Rachael: I vow to weasel my way into as many wills of my barren, childless relatives as possible so we may retire one day.

James: To always help us remember to drink on glass of water for every glass of alcohol we imbibe--the Pac.

Rachael: I vow to make our mariage a non-profit organization.

James: I vow never to get back together with my ex-girlfriend Lindsey despite your relentless urgings for me to do so.

Rachael: I vow never to be your father

James: I vow to cook for you.

Rachael: I vow to not cook potatoes often to ensure we don't turn Irish.

James: I cow that when I switch my phone service to T-Mobile, to make you one of my 5-faves even though there might be someone I talk to more often and for longer durations. and therefore keeping you in my 5-faves will diminish my day-time minutes.

Rachael: I vow never to have anal sex--ever--with anyone.

James: I vow never to convert to Judaism: that is...I will never complain about having a bad back, never send for or wine back to the kitchen, and never to loudly and passive agressively wonder if there are pepper corns in the soup.

Rachael: I vow to drunkenly call you so you know I care.

James: I vow to encourage you "finishing" yourself off if I get too winded to do the job. I will encourage you without moving to the couch with a bruised ego.

Rachael: I vow to purchase a more practical weapon to keep by the side of the bed than a broom handle, so I may better be able to fight off serial killers, crack heads, and monsters in our closet.

James: I vow to share honestly and openly with you my girl problems and to listen sensetively to all your boy problems.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Let's Hope the Background Check Doesn't Find This Blog

Yesterday I interviewed for a part time administrative assistant position. I don't know that it went well. Here's a transcript of my first interview with the director of Human Resources.

HR: Why do you want to work here?
ME: I feel I have administrative skill that I can offer your organization.
HR: Yes, but why here, specifically? What is it about us that excites you?
ME: Well, what do you guys do?
HR: You didn't do any research on us before you came in?
ME: Well, I heard a rumor that you pay people inUS Currency to work here. A friend of mine works here and she said you were looking for an administrative assistant and that her pay checks have not bounced once.
HR: So you don't care what we do here?
ME: Do you guys care about America's homeless problem?
HR: Of course.
ME: If you hire me that will be one less homeless person on the street.
HR: Execuse me?
ME: I'm sorry do you not pay money for people to work here?
HR: Of course we do.
ME: So my research on your company was accurate. Yes, I want to work here because you pay money to your employees, my landlord requires money for me to live inside his building sheltered from the elements. Also the grocery store requires me to give them money when I want to take some of their food home with them.
HR: Yes, but we do very important things here.
ME: Of course you do. I'm wondering will I be providing administrative support to any coal miners?
HR: What? Of course not.
ME: That's good. I mean I would be willing to work in a coal mine, I was just going to need health insurance along with a pay check if that were the case.
HR: How well do you know excel?
ME: a C+.
HR: Thank you for coming in. We'll let you know in a few weeks.
ME: Thanks. Great meeting you.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

The Visit

My fiance and I having fun in bed.

Monday, August 27, 2007

The Big Rose

I grew up approximately 30 miles from New York City in a suburban town in New Jersey. Therefore, I was unable to live the American artist dream of packing it all up, risking everything, moving to the big bad city of New York to "make it.". It's hard to say you're risking anything when your parents live 30 miles away. If worse came to worse I could leave my apartment early in the morning, walk to their house and arrive for a late dinner. And why would I pack up everything I own when I can store a bunch of it for free a mere 30 miles away. It's less than an hour by commuter train.

The unfairness of it all!

I was not going to let a mere thing like an unlucky birth location hamper me from fullfilling my artistic destiny. I was going to move far away and take that big gamble on my talent. I was going to risk it all in order to "make it" in the entertainment industry. Like so many Americans before me I was going to go west. It was clear if I was going to move far away, risk it all, and live out my dream of becoming a rich and famous funny person there was only one other place I could move to...Portland, OR.

All I had was a hiking backpack, a carry-on suitcase with wheels, and a belief in myself. Not to mention the several boxes hanging out in my parents house ready for shipment once I found a place to live. I arrived in the City of Roses with a mere $100 in my pocket and ATM card connected to my savings account.

It was tough going. It took me five full days to find an apartment and a week and half to find employment. Within a year and half I was making money from telling jokes and on occassion from acting. Unfortunately, after three years of hussling I had no HBO special. Portland had chewed me up and spat me out. What with their $350/month rents and $3 alcoholic beverages. I had no choice but to move to New York City, tail between my legs. Here I am in New York City my west coast entertainment dreams crushed.

I tell myself there is nothing wrong with coming back home.

Friday, August 24, 2007

Mom Don't Read This: Graphic Story Where No One Got Laid

Please note that i've incorporated older material into this story so some of it may sound familiar to those who read regularly.

Our story begins in the red light of the Magnet Field bar on Atlantic Avenue in Brooklyn Heights. I was attending a comedian acquaintance’s birthday party. At some point in the evening I conversed with a young man, young being a relative word as he was younger than my parents but he was still 42 years old. We didn’t exchange phone numbers or email addresses and though the conversation was pleasant enough I thought that was the last I’d see of him.

A month passes and I receive a Friendster message from him. My heart swelled. I gushed, “aww” because I know how I feel when I stalk people on the Internet; I knew he must really care. In his Friendster message he asked me to dinner. I replied, “sure.” We went to dinner. I had the penne alla vodka with salmon it was very good. The restaurant didn’t overcook the salmon one bit. It was moist. We finished consuming our dinner and then he asked me if I wanted to go back to his apartment for some tea.

“Tea?” What the hell does “tea” mean? Does that mean sex? I mean it’s not like he asked me to come back and look at his glow in the dark stars?—that of course is college speak for “It’s on!” I’ve never before been invited back for tea. In the movies people are always being asked to come back for coffee. I would never ask someone back for coffee because I don’t drink coffee—I’m bitter enough. I’m scared if I asked a gentleman caller back for coffee they might actually want coffee and then I’d be the lying bitch that didn’t have coffee. Or what if you don’t want to go all the way and you just want oral? Then what do you say? “Hey do you want to comeback for some decaf?” Or what if you’re on your period and you want to give him a heads up. He might not be into seeing red in the bedroom? Then what do you say? “Do you want come up for some coffee with me and my aunt flow?”
“I thought you’re Grandmother’s name was Flo?”
“Yeah, it is. Uhh. Who knew you were listening during dinner. Uhh. I guess my aunt is also named Flo.”
“Oh yeah, sure that sounds great I’d love to meet your family and have some coffee.”
“That’s gross. You want to have coffee with me and my aunt. Ew. She’s my aunt you pervert and she’s like 55.”
“Wow, why are you getting so angry?”
“Oh I’m angry because I’m on my period you misogynist?”
“Why do you have to call me names? You’re crazy.””Who’s calling who names? Fuc—“ And then no one has sex.

I guess I should be thankful that the penne alla vodka dude isn’t asking me up for coffee. I didn’t know if I wanted to go back for “tea,” so I said I don’t know maybe.” And then we walked to his apartment and went in—I guess I was having tea. (We go in and he starts boiling water. I’m thought to myself, “sweet we’re having tea.” I leave the kitchen and walk into the living room” I’m looking around the place passing the time as the water boils. My escort enters the living room and begins kissing me. The next thing I know we’re on the couch. Next thing I know his pants are down and he’s masturbating. I was like, “I guess this what tea means.” So he’s masturbating and I’m thinking “Fine. Go for it better you than me.”

We’re making out and he’s masturbating. About five minutes go by and he says,” I totally want you to suck my cock.” And I’m like, “Oh I would but I just had the penne all vodka with the salmon and it was really good. Can I take a rain check on the cock sucking? Like maybe in few days after I’ve had some asparagus and need to wash the taste out of my mouth. He doesn’t know what to say so he just stammers and says, “Ahh alright.” We go back to making out and he’s still masturbating and I’m still completely clothed. Another five minutes go by and again he’s like, “I totally want you to suck my cock.”
“I would but it’s so big, I’m intimidated. I’m going to need some time to build up the courage to put the whole thing in my mouth
“Thank you.”
“No problem.”
(It was kind of funny to watch this guy go from super turned on to appreciative.)

At this moment I’d just like to break the narrative and assure you all that I do in fact suck dick I’m not that Jewish. I’m not your mother’s generation of Jew. Plus, I’m half Italian. What I’m saying is I do the deed. I’m not any good at it, but I give the old college try. I’ve had oral with like 20 dudes. I mean I’ve only slept with six people, but that’s another story. The point is I do the oral. I just didn’t want to with him

I know. I know. You’re thinking, “Rachael if you weren’t going to go down on him why didn’t you just leave?” There is a very good answer to that question. I had slept with my ex-boyfriend, Ben, [using the not-completely accurate term boyfriend shortens this already long story considerably] the week before. During our tryst Ben informs me, this doesn’t mean we’re getting back together.”

“Who asked you to get back together, you presumptuous dick! You’re a 30-year-old man who doesn’t own a pillow for his twin bed with no sheets on it! Please! The only reason I’m having sex with you is because I haven’t had sex in a year, we were drunk and I know you’re going to stab me.

The problem, though, is that despite me not wanting to get back together with my arrogant, self-loathing, ex-boyfriend my ego is bruised. Who is he to tell me that we’re not getting back together? I didn’t ask him to get back together. I’m not saying I would have asked him to get back together. I’m not saying I wouldn’t have—I’m not saying. However, I gave no clues to my position on the getting back together platform. In fact when the ex and I were in the cab on our way to some comedy party – which we never got to-- I acted like I was drunker than I actually was. I tilted my head back to rest the back of my head on the seat, stared at the cab ceiling, and let out “I’m so drunk” sigh. I was trying to convey, “I’m so drunk I have no idea what I’m doing. The alcohol has just taken control of my decision-making ability. Who knows if this is a mistake?”

Because of this drunken ex-sex and the multiple “we’re not getting back together” comments I need to have a second date with a forty-two year old man who is still using Friendster. I need this so when I run into the ex I can say, “I know we’re not getting back together because I have a date with Becky Yammoto’s boyfriend’s friend.” I know you don’t know who Becky Yamamoto is, but the ex does because I shat where I ate, people—which is always good advice, you should shit where you eat this way you don’t waste anything.

Now you understand why I’m still at this apartment making out with the Mr. Let’s Have Tea. Another five minutes go by he’s still masturbating and he again says, “I totally want you to suck my cock.”
“I thought we were having tea. (Sigh) I just don’t want to”
“OK. Can you lick it, then?”
(Sigh) Fine. So I’m licking his dick. I need the second date and I don’t want to make a scene. And he starts in with, “Oh that’s so good. That’s so good.”
Really? This fully clothed girl that you’ve badgered into licking your dick, that’s so good? Because it’s not like I’m porn star licking his dick. I’m not riding my tongue along his whole shaft. I’m just kind of tapping the tip of the head with the tip of my tongue. Kind of like a frog catching flies. And the whole time I’m sort of licking this guy’s dick I’m thinking, “Look how much I’m not getting back together with Ben. Look how much I’m not getting back together with Ben.”

At this point I’m just hoping that the “suck my cock” dude cums, so I can go home. I figure if he cums that’s a good point in the evening to make a graceful exit. If he cums, I can say, “Oh you’re done, great. I’ll see you for that second date.” But he’s not cumming which shouldn’t be surprising I’m barely stimulating his penis. I notice a clock which reads 11:30pm. So I say, “Oh man, it’s 11:30. I have to go my metro card is going to run out.”
He responds, “OK.”
[sarcasm]Obviously, I don’t have two dollars for the subway.

The Epilogue:

I never got my second date with my quasi date rapist. Ironically, it wasn’t because I didn’t suck his cock. Rather, it was because we got into a text-message fight. Yes, I got into a text message fight with a forty-two year old, father of two divorcee`. I was so disappointed because when I had sex again with Ben the following week, I had nothing to throw in his face.

Post Script:
Once telling this story on stage a comedian commented about how long the time was between cock sucking requests. I have to say I don’t know how much time actually passed. I didn’t notice the clock until the end of the evening and there was no music playing. I need music to judge time. I count the number of pop songs that have played. If a guy can last for 7-8 songs that’s pretty good. If he can last the entire length of both Beatle’s White Album that’s actually kind of chafing. I said five minutes because it felt like an open mic set.

Thursday, August 23, 2007

Blank Check

Last night after an evening of comedy I came home and relaxed to the soft sounds of a late night baseball game broadcast on CBS radio. For me baseball on the radio brings me back to the Sepia Era of America. I know that there wasn't radio for the whole span of time sepia toned pictures were taken, but that doesn't stop me from time traveling.

I was jarred back to the modern era with a call to the Angels bullpen brought to us by some bank. The bank was hocking Yankee decorated checks. You could order checks with the Yankee logo on them. Are there that many children with checking accounts that this marketing ploy is economically viable? Because there can't be grown-ups rushing to have the Yankees (or any sports team) emblazened on their checks. If you saw a 30 year old handed write a check covered in their favorite sports team you'd back away in fear that an awkward invite back to his/her place to see his/her room of sports kitch was moments away. or that a you'd be trapped in a conversation (more like a lecture) of baseball statistics and minutia. And really? Who even has checks anymore?

If any of you are ever thinking about having sex ever again in your life keep your checks sports team logo free.

Tuesday, August 21, 2007

I'm Not Out of Jack

I guess my boyfriend Jack is feeling a little threatened by my fiancé, James', impending visit. Last night out of the blue my boyfriend Jack did the sweetest thing ever.

You see, even though I love my boyfriend more than anything in the world sometimes I feel like I've missed out on a certain amount of life experience having been in a relationship with Jack for nearly 9 years. There has never been any cause for any man to dedicate an Air Supply song to me. I believe if I had been living the swinging, single life of my friends I too would have an Air Supply memory.

Last night while playing trivia at Professor Thom's Bar Jack picked a fight with me. John Quinn, trivia master, posed the question, "What country uses the Bot as currency." I told the team the answer was Thailand. Though, I haven't been to Thailand myself I have stayed in a number of youth hostels in my time and a majority of hostel goers travel to Thailand. Jack said that there's no way that the answer was Thailand. He suggested the Bot was a unit of currency for Lazaria. Which is just ridiculous. Several years ago Jack journeyd to Lazaria on a humanitarian mission. He was sent by some non-profit to help the Lazarians not use sexual prophylactics. While he lived there Jack wrote me about the country. Two of the many things he shared with me were that 1)Lazaria is populated by five people and therefore 2) they have no currency. They just share everything because there are only five of them—it’s an illustration of high school sex education gone awry.

Well, Jack denied ever having been to Lazaria. Further, he accused me of not caring enough about him to know where he's been in the world. He got so irrationally pissed he broke up with me and left the bar. I was devastated. Utterly crushed. I sat there with my friends in shock and just drank and drank and drank, but it didn't make the pain go away. Eventually, the bar closed and I had to go home.

I trudged through Manhattan in the rain to the Q train. Eventually the Q train came and the MTA captain announced that the Q train would be making all local stops. Ugh! Could my night get any worse? The rain poured down on me as walked the ten minutes from the 7th Ave subway stop to my apartment. When I got home I found Jack sopping wet waiting on the stoop for me. He turned his face up and looked into my eyes and then he begin to sing,

"I'm all out of love, I'm so lost without you/ I know you were right believing for so long/ I'm all out of love, what am I without you?/ I can't be too late to say that I was so wrong/

I want you to come back and carry me home/ Away from this long lonely nights/ I'm reaching for you, are you feeling it too/ Does the feeling seem oh so right?/ And what would you say if I called on you now? And said that I can't hold on/ There's no easy way, it gets harder each day/ Please love me or I'll be gone/I'll be gone."

I began to weep tears of joy. The whole thing had been a ruse. Jack said, "I know how much you wanted to experience someone you loved pining over you. Happy Middle of August!" It's so nice to be with someone who knows me so well and cares enough to break-up with me, even if it were just for a few hours.

Monday, August 20, 2007

Here Comes the Groom

In less than a week my fiance James will be landing in NYC for a visit. And in less than 8 years we will be married. However, I'll be keeping my last name, but I'm changing my first name. Most people call me Parenta anyway. So my married name will be Parenta Engberg.

Friday, August 17, 2007

The Future Looks Bright

This week my sentence at the hedge fund was lifted. Yes, I'm no longer temping at a Hedge Fund. Upon my departure the hedgefunders were weepy. I thought that was sweet. I didn't know they cared about me and valued the time we spent 8 hours a day barely talking to one another. Turns out they don't care. They were sad because they're all going to jail.

My last day was a special one. Everyone at the office decided to talk to me. Most people asked "What are you going to do now?" I didn't know how to answer this question. Can you say, "Uhh, nothing?" Instead I answered, "I guess now I'll write my blog at my apartmen in the evening instead of in the morning at your office." And then they started crying again. I didn't know they were such fans of my blog.

Not The Cheeriest Friday

While running errands in Union Square I walked by some actvivists who asked me, "Do you have a minute for the Earth, Ma'am?" (Maybe they said Global warming) First off, Ma'am?! Sure, my hair is begining to grey, but I am not tall enough to ever be a ma'am. Secondly, no.

"No, I do not have a minute for you girls with your plastic clipboards, made from oil, to write my name with your plastic pen, made from oil, on your sheet of paper that you had to kill a tree for (or burn a bunch of electricity to recycle). No, I do not have a minute to listen to your save the Earth spiel while you don clothes made of cotton grown in nitrogen that runs off into the world's water supply and contributes to global warming. I'm sorry girls, but I don't know if you heard, the world is polluted, heating up, and becoming more paved over every day. Soon it won't be uninhabitable for humans so I need all the minutes I can grab before the chemicals give me cancer or I contract some crazy disease, or before there are so few resources for survival I die in a class war that looks kind of like a race war.

Trust me, if I thought I could produce an environmentally friendly formula that would rid the world of 87% of the human population in a minute I'd totally stop and talk to you, but I can't. Instead, I'm going to buy a book that is made from a tree that once housed bacteria, birds, mold, and other orgamisms. But, thanks for asking, I appreciate not being excluded."

Thursday, August 16, 2007

Europe: Not Just a Place for Vacationing College Grads

Last weekend I attended a bar-b-q hosted by an off the boat Swede. In attendance were other European expatriots as well as native born Americans. The Europeans informed us dating is very American and that "dating" isn't a thing that really happens in Europe. Basically Europeans get drunk have find someone to have sex with and then the person they have sex with twice is the person they marry.


Speaking of Europeans do you think that Napolean failed to conquer all of Europe and the world because The Secret hadn't been published yet. If Napolean only thought more positively we could have all been speaking French right now. I think that's Achilles heel of the maniacal dictator/emperor--they just don't believe in themselves, in their goals, and their vision enough.

Wednesday, August 15, 2007

The High Designer of High Heels

I was wondering who was the person who said, "You know what? I think it would be really fabulous if women walked on really tiny stilts. But the stilts have to just be for her heel. The ball of her foot should remain close to the Earth. I'd love to see women a half an inch taller and tetering-HOT!!!" I don't get the point of high heels. Do women really need to work on their balance all day? I find riding a bike around town helps me with my balancing skills and makes my calves look sexy.

Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Oh The Times They Are an Inspiration

I read in an article in the NY Times yesterday that discussed how the generally held belief that men are promiscuous and women are chaste is mathematically impossible. The number of sex partners heterosexual women and men have over a life time should roughly be the same since they are having sex with one another. The New York Times is accusing America of lying to pollsters. How dare they! Did it ever occur to the NY Time or its so called mathematicians that only 25% of men are having sex with a 100% of the women? Meaning 75% of men have never had sex. Of course those chaste men weren't by their phone ready to take sex survey. Those men were out redirecting their sexual energy onto logging, running, and basket weaving. Meanwhile the 25% of men doing all the sexing were exhausted and recuperating at home near their phone ready to answer the question of how many partners they've had. Further, most women are home because that is where they belong--birthing babies and doing the dishes.

I mean come on. Are we really to believe that males and females might have a similar sex drive and a similar number of sex partners? That is ludicrous. The New York Times is no better than The Inquirer.

Monday, August 13, 2007

If Your Best Friend Is Crazy You Feel Saner

My best friend Anna sent me an email filling me in on her latest love tribulation. I post it here for you for your comedic enjoyment

Rachael, I feel like I’m growing as a person. Sunday evening while gardening in the Tompkins Square Park with fellow, rebel, nocturnal, public property, gardeners I ran into a dude I had gone on a couple of dates with. He was there looking to score some pot or something. We chatted. There was a part of me that had the impulse to invite him down to this cafĂ© for a stitch and bitch. I knew it was completely possible that my ex-boyfriend might be down there knitting. I had a desire to trot down there with this dude I ran into and show the ex how I’ve moved on. But then I realized I’m not interested in the dude I ran into and I don’t want to lead him on, nor do I want to waste my time going down to the stitch and bitch at 11:00pm on a Sunday. Sure I liked knitting a few years ago, but I’ve kind of lost interest in the whole endeavor. So after my chat with the dude in the park I left him to the other rebel gardeners. I think he and some other girl might have had a little spark, which is nice. This way he can just be with her and no one’s feelings will get hurt.

I mean he’s a nice guy. But I’m just not into him. He seems sweet enough and smart enough, he has a sense of humor, but he’s got this club foot. I’m not dating another dude with a club foot. Granted his foot isn’t as clubbed as my ex’s clubbed foot. Though the ex got rid of most of his clubbed foot for awhile—I guess with exercise, diet, and beating his foot into submission--but then slowly the foot started reclubbing itself somehow, I guess he lost his discipline. Now it’s grotesque. Granted, the new dude’s foot is more like half clubbed. But still I know how emotionally retarded people with clubbed feet can be, and I’m not going down that road again—it’ll take forever going along the road with some with that kind of limp.—Actually, when I ran into the new dude in Tompkins Square Park I was a little embarrassed because some of the rebel gardeners know the ex and his club foot condition. I just felt like they thought I was a club-foot chaser. And I’m not! Rachael, you know all the other guys I’ve dated have completely normal feet and walk perfectly well. OK there was that one guy in college who was slightly club-footed, but that was years ago, everyone else could run a mile no problem. Don’t think I’m some bigot against the club-footed. I’m not. I just know how they can be. Whatever, the point is I don’t want to date this new dude, if I did his club footedness would not bother me. Whatever.

I have to go. I’ll see you later.


Thursday, August 09, 2007

Comedy that Won't Kill You

You're thinking to yourselves, "After Lee Sander's MTA stranded me for hours in heat stroke causing caves yesterday I'm fearful of ever riding the subway again. But, I desperately want to enjoy all the art, culture, and booze this city has to offer. I'm conflicted, scared, frustrated, and lost what should I do? Someone please show me the way."

Well, you've come the right place. Tonight there is a free comedy show in a bar (that is an art installation unto itself) in an art gallery. That's culture, art, cheap booze and laughs all for free. The best part is its location, 540 W. 21st street. There isn't one subway train that services this area near 11th and 10th avenues. How brilliant is that? You can't be stranded by a subway if you're not riding on one. Take that NYC Subway!

Now, there are other comedy shows happening tonight on the westside of Manhattan, but they are not free and they are near a subway line that could kill you or strand you for seven hours. The Co-op comedy show will not kill you with a subway car nor will any of the comics be nice to your face and then stab you in the back later.

Co-op Bar (Located in EyeBeam Art Space)
540 W. 21st street

Adam Wade(Ton of TV Credits and super sweet guy)
Moody McCarthy (Jimmy Kimmel Live and will talk to you even if you can't help his career)
Mike Dobbins (Darling of NYC Downtown Scene and will lavish encouragement on up and
coming comedians)
Becky Donahue (Comedy Central if you tell her "everytime I see you I try not to laugh, but then I do anyway." She won't punch you in the face.)
Charles Star (Onion Network News and he'll invite you to a poker night at his place and then
drive you back home when it's done.)
Rachael Parenta (Too many credits to mention. Further, she seems hateful but she has given many rides to a motley crew of drunks and non-drunks.

So come out to see extremely funny comedians who aren't fucking assholes.

Wednesday, August 08, 2007

Solving the Energy Crisis

America uses more energy per person than any other country in world, which is kind of rude and greedy. No wonder the rest of the world hates us. We're like the fat kid who eats almost all the ice cream at the ice cream themed sweet sixteen party. If we want to get in with the popular kids we're going to need to start cutting back on our energy consumption. I have thought of some ways to cut down our usage.

1. Get rid of surveillance cameras. There are millions of these cameras all over this country sapping energy. Most of the footage they create is completely unwatchable. Give me Ed Wood or the dude who made "Man in the Iron Mask" any day over these super-neo-realists. Further, these cameras don't ever turn off. They are just a constant drain on the grid. No wonder France hates us, only the US would waste resources to make such crappy blue and white movies.

2. It's time to turn off the satellites that listen in on our phone convesations. First, off the jet fuel it takes to send these things into space is very pollutive and very expensive. Do you know how many Chinese coal mine workers have to die to gather enough coal to send a Chinese Satellite into space? I don't know either, but I'm sure it's quite a bit. I bet you didn't know that Chinese rocketships run on coal.

2a. Turn off localized bugging devices and phone taps. The amount of fuel the CIA, FBI, State Police, Office of Home Land Security use shuttling it's employees about inorder for them to place these devices in our homes is staggering. Then they have to power recording devices to record the conversations the bugs pick up. Next they have to play back the hours upon hours of recorded audio. Not mention the chemicals used to make those polyester suits these people where.

3. Close down Norad. Those main frame computers just suck the life out of Colorado's energy supply or where ever NORAD is locatetd. Plus, that place has the big screens with the radars and what not. Just rent "War Games" and you'll start to get a picture of the energy abuses at that place.

There we have it three places to cut energy use.

Well, I'm off to do some green gambling. I'm going to the horse track to bet on horse power. All you going to Atlantic City to gamble via slot machines should be ashamed of yourselves.

Monday, August 06, 2007

Old People Don't Like Short People

This morning on the NPR I listened to some political analysis by a Ms. Roberts. Ms. Roberts thought that both the Democrat and Republican front runners were switching there message to appeal to the more extreme factions of thier respective parties. Ms. Roberts thought that though, Clinton and Guilani might win their party's nomination their new stances might hurt them in the general election in November because Americans in general are more moderate.

Which goes to prove the point I was trying to make to my mother Sunday morning, that comedians shouldn't try to change their material because of who is in the audience. Why? Because comedians aren't unethical politicians desperately looking for validation from anyone who is able to vote. I don't care if you can vote. I'm not going to change myself and my art just to try to please certain people who if I actually got to know wouldn't respect anyway.

I performed at a show Saturday in a catering hall. The designated joke telling space was on the dance floor. There were no risers nor any type of stage located on the dance floor or anywhere else on the premises. My five foot one inch frame could not be seen by the cane carriers sitting beyond the front row of tables. Now, did I grow 3 feet taller so that people in the back could see me? No. Did I quickly learn how to walk on stilts,then cut down a tree, and wittle myself a pair? No. Why? Because I'm short. I'm not going to vacillate on that issue. I'm not going to try to pretend to be someone I'm not. I'm not going to be 5ft 1inch one show where there is a raised stage or a raked audience and then be 8ft tall the next show where I'm playing in a black hole. Nor will I try to trick the audience into thinking I am tall by making a bunch of basketball jokes or "Did you ever notice when you visit ancient ruins you always bump your head on the door frame?"

Like Poppey the Sailor-Man "I am who I am," my art is my art, my jokes are my jokes. If you don't like it may I suggest booking Hillary Clinton or Rudy Guilliani for next show.

It's An Honor Just To Be Nominated

Today I discovered that I have been nomiated for a blogger award. I don't know who nominated me but I'm pretty sure it wasn't one of the septuagenarians in attendence at my show near Philadelphia this past Saturday. So far I have only one vote. If you'd like to vote for this blog in this contest feel free to click here. And thank you to whoever took the time to nominate smallhands_ick.

Thursday, August 02, 2007

Stop the Carnage

I think I shall run for political office on an anti-confessing your love via text-message platform. The emotional carnage taking such action causes is devastating. The sleepless nights wondering, “Did he/she get the text? I could have sworn he/she has text messaging. Maybe it’s raining in Brooklyn even though it’s not raining here in The Bronx and reception is all screwed up?” These kinds of sleepless nights cut into worker productivity the following day and sometimes even lead to people calling into work sick. Though, frequently the love confessors come into work to get the opinions of their co-workers on what the receiver of the amorous text is thinking and feeling. This also interrupts office productivity. Sometimes the problem isn’t that the receiver hasn’t responded, sometimes the text-message receiver does respond. The problem here is he/she will probably respond via text because that is how the message came in. Now, the two parties will have a lengthy discussion about their feelings--typing their words with a tiny, inefficient keyboard this is time consuming. Further thoughts and feeling won’t be fully expressed because it’s a pain in the ass to type on your phone, “I’m flattered that you have these feelings for me, you’re such an incredible person. Unfortunately, I am married. If only I weren’t maybe we could be together. Not that I want you to kill my spouse. No definitely don’t kill my spouse. I love my spouse and I think you’re terrific but I’m crazy busy and I only have time for one lover right now. I’ll see you next life time. Not that I want you to kill me and then yourself. No. No. I mean, you can kill yourself. I don’t believe in interfering with people’s personal choices, but I beg you not me or my spouse.” Who is going to type all that with their phone? Instead that sentiment will come out “If only I weren’t married.” How many innocent lives have to be lost before something is done about confessional text messaging? Not to mention medical costs in this country will sky rocket. The number of arthritis, carpal tunnel syndrome, and myopia (near-sightedness) cases will increase.

Let it be noted this prohibition on “I love you” text messages is very specific. It will only affect people who choose to make such statements to people with whom they are not in a secure romantic relationship. People in secure romantic relationships may text “I love you” ad infinitum. As that is a nice thing to do. People in secure relationships have probably already told one another that they love each other in person or in a Valentine’s Day card. So the “I love you” text is more of a pleasant reminder than an awkward (mostly likely drunk) confession.

“But Rachael, how do I know if I’m in a secure romantic relationship?’ Simple. You know it’s secure and romantic if your partner puts suntan lotion on your back and you reciprocate without getting nauseas or queasy. If you don’t go to the beach or pool together you are not in a secure romantic relationship.

In conclusion: it is just cowardly to text message someone you love them when you’re putting suntan lotion on each other. And cowardly is un-American. If an American displays yellow-belly behavior he/she should be fined, jailed, and then deported. Yes, deported, even if they were born here we should deport them to the cowardly nation of Quebec.

Now I just have to decide which office I should run for in order to save the United States of America

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

The Grueling Schedule at a Hedge Fund

Yesterday I arrived at the office at 9:16am sharp. I was proud of myself for showing up nearly 14 minutes earlier than I usually show up. I turned the computer on and immediately got to work. First, I posted to this blog. Then I checked my email, finally I began applying for a writing job with Public Radio International. I worked all day on my application stopping only briefly to check my site tracker to see if I had any hits to the blog and my horoscope. As I was putting the last touches on my performance/writing resume the clock read 5:25pm. I hit send at around 5:37pm. In the three months that I've been temping here yesterday was the first day I stayed late.