Saturday, December 06, 2003
Another Bright Idea, From a Not-So-Bright Blogger
I think we need a new word.
Sure, there are already a lot of words in the English language. Take 'umbilical', for instance. Or 'pepperpot'; that's a good one, too. I'm also a big fan of 'comely', 'lichen', and 'onomatopoetic'.
(Even though it's not. You'd think, of all the stupid words in the dictionary to be onomatopoetic, that 'onomatopoetic' would be one of them. Really, doesn't it just make sense?
Actually, I'd like to bitch about this some more, but I'm really tired of typing onomatopoetic over and over. Try it sometime. I'm beat.)
So, the thing is this -- all those words I've mentioned, plus all the others that I didn't (since there's only so much space available here), don't really do the thing that I want this new word to do. And that's why we need the new word. There's a 'word gap' here. A semantic void. A lexical lacuna, a phraseological pockmark, a communicative chasm. A vocabularial vacuity, even.
(Yeah, I decided to tiptoe through the thesaurus while I was searching for the word that turned out not to be there. This is what qualifies as entertainment for me on a snowy Saturday night. Weep for me, dear readers. Weep for me.)
Anyway, here's why we need a new word -- it's come to my attention that there's no 'independent' word that means 'not funny'. Sure, there's 'unfunny', and you can always say 'not funny', but these are just derivatives of 'funny', itself. Doesn't a concept so important and honorable as 'funny' (or, if you prefer: humorous, witty, clever, comical, entertaining, riotous, whimsical, or... oh, fer chrissakes, just shoot me now!) deserve its own antonym? Can't we spare just one more word for a good cause?
Think about it -- all the other common, useful adjectives have their own opposites. If you're not 'well', then you don't have to be 'unwell' -- though you can be, if you want. But you can also be 'sick', or 'ill', or 'insane in the membrane'. And if you're not 'hot'? Well, there's always 'cold', or 'ugly', or, if you frequent a certain web site, simply 'not'.
(And in some cases, 'NOT!' Or, 'Yikes!' Or even, 'Hey, isn't that Boy George?')
But all 'funny' gets is versions of itself. Until now, that is. I, for one, am ready to stand up for my good friend 'funny' and lobby for a new word to mean... well, not it, basically. And I've given this a lot of thought. I've come up with a strategy, and some theory, and I've even got a word to suggest. That's right, I'm bringing up a problem, and then I'm fixing it. I'm not some Monday-morning quarterback, or backseat driver, or grimy politician, here. No, sir. I'm here to help. So help me help you, and hop on board the bandwagon. I've got a new word, and I'm determined to get it into the dictionary.
And that word... is 'boobered'.
Yes, boobered. Now, hear me out, here. See, I figure that the word that's gonna mean 'not funny' should, itself, sound a bit funny. That way, the unfunniness of whatever you're describing (soon to be known as its 'booberhood') becomes obvious. If the thing's not even as funny as saying 'boobered', then it really is boobered.
(See, see? A word that tests its own meaning. How fucking hard was that? I've only come up with one word, and it does double-duty.
Screw 'onomatopoetic' -- lazy stupid word, anyway. It's just not trying, man. Half-assed bastard.)
Anyway, get on board the boobered train, people. Go forth and spread the boobered word -- it's not hard or anything. All you have to do is sprinkle it into everyday conversation, and soon enough, it'll stick. And you'll have plenty of chances to whip it out and use it.
(But not around here, dude. Be snarky if you must, but don't use my own word on me, man. Have a damned heart.)
Look, I'll get things started, just to give you an example of how it works. Saturday Night Live just came on. And if I know SNL, then before long, some crap-ass skit will come on -- a train wreck of a bad idea, where the lame host plays a prominent role and sleepwalks through the lines.
(I swear, sometimes you can even see the cast members rolling their eyes onstage. It's just a matter of time before Tina Fey or someone just walks off the set, right into the parking lot, and never comes back. But I digress.)
Anyway, when the inevitable happens, and SNL sucks ass, I'm just gonna turn to my wife and say:
'Damn, I could do better than this. This shit is so boobered!'
To which, she'll no doubt reply (as usual):
'What the hell are you talking about?'
And then I'll explain it to her, and we'll be off and running. 'Boobered' will be born, and will start its slow seeeep into the collective consciousness. And you can say you were in on the ground floor, that you 'knew boobered way back when'. So get out there now, and call boobered like you see it. Go tell boobered from the mountain. Be the boobered police, start a boobered neighborhood watch, or start the League to Stamp Out Boobriety. Whatever. Just do your part, in your own unique way. Now that we have a name for it, we can start reducing the booberhood all around us. And one day -- one magical day -- we'll have gotten rid of it completely, and the world will be free of booberedness for good.
And really, isn't that worth it? Won't you join the boobered crusade with me? Who's with me?
*** UPDATE: Hey, you! Jeff's on board with this -- are you? Get crackin' out there!
*** UPDATE AGAIN: Look! Jon is in the act, too! What are you waiting for, people?
I Always Was a 'Standup' Kind of Guy
Well, folks, like it or not, it's time for another installment of 'Watch Charlie Make an Ass of Himself Onstage!'
This is part two in a series, and one that I hope enjoys a long run. For those of you new to the game, what I'm talking about is my burgeoning standup comedy 'career'. (Or 'pathetic hobby', or 'unhealthy obsession', take your pick.)
Anyway, since this blog is all about the comedy, and since most of my onstage material is in here in some form or another, I thought that my dear trio of readers might appreciate seeing the standup routines, as well. Plus, it lets them replace that strikingly handsome face and deep, husky voice that I'm sure they imagined for me with... well, with my ugly mug and squeaky whine. Why the hell am I doing this, again, precisely?
Anyway, I finally figured out how to get my second show, from this past Wednesday, online. (If you missed the first show, then go check it out. And for anyone waiting these three long days for the second show, I apologize for the delay. My wife had a great idea on the night of the show; namely, to shoot the film in 'portrait', rather than 'landscape', format, the better to pick up anything wacky or outrageous that I might do with my hands.
(Hey, we're married -- she's well aware that I often do wacky and outrageous things with my hands, if you know what I'm slingin', here. Mostly, they happen in the privacy of our house -- even our bedroom, sometimes -- but who knows when something's gonna spontaneously break out while I'm at the mike? And wouldn't it be a shame to miss it?)
Unfortunately, my video capture software wasn't on board with the whole 'camera-turny' thing, and so I ended up sideways, listing rather completely to the right. So, it took me a while to download a bunch of software, and video editors, and format converter doohickeys, until finally, mercifully, I ended up with what I wanted. (Well, maybe not what I wanted, but the best I could have hoped for. It's not like all that digital manipulation made the thing any funnier.)
Anyway, go check it out. And if you missed the link above, there's a permalink on the sidebar to the left. Which is my right, of course, as I peek out at you through your monitor screen.
(Speaking of which, don't you think you should clean off that desk? What, are you growing potatoes in there? And do you really wear that shirt in public, in front of people? Tsk.)
So, there you have it. Another chance to laugh with me, or at me, or about me -- whatever. Just so long as you laugh. I'll be back later today with a real post, to try and keep the yuks coming. See you then!
Friday, December 05, 2003
I'll Toot Your Horn If You'll... Um, Yeah, Never Mind
Hey, kiddies -- three quick blog-related notes for ya:
First and foremost, it's once again Blog It Forward day, as decreed by Buzz. For those of you unfamiliar with this little game of 'Spin the URL', it's a chance for each of us bloggy type of folks to give mad props and a shoutout to someone else's blog for a change. Hey, if you've got a blog of your own, you can play, too. It's like Marco Polo, or Jell-o wrestling -- the more, the
messier merrier. The more, the merrier. Sorry about that.
Anyway, my choice this time around doesn't really need my help, but I'm gonna give it, anyway. I'm giving love to Shampoo Solo, if for no other reason than I'm just so damned pickle-thrilled to have her back, after a several-month hiatus.
(And no, I'm not exactly sure what 'pickle-thrilled' means. But I'm pretty sure it requires lubrication of some kind... maybe even with pickle juice! Look, let's just let this one go, all right? I was saying something important, here.)
Back to the 'poo. Go check her out -- she's as witty, funny, snarky, and outrageous as I said she was when I feared she had left us for good, and wrote this post, lamenting the loss. So you can imagine my joy when the cardboard finally came off her windows a few days ago, and she dusted off the walk and re-opened for business. I'm still all tingly over it. No, really. Just look. Goosebumps.
And it's not just because Shampoo was nice enough to interview me, either, when I asked her to. Nor is is simply because she's taught me and others so much. It's not even because she's got (reportedly, anyway) the best boobs in the world.
(Well, okay, really it is mainly that last thing. I mean, c'mon -- in the world? The whole frickin' world? That's pretty impressive, people.)
So go check out Shampoo Solo, and tell her I said 'hi'. (Or tell her she should show me her boobs. What are the chances she's gonna kill the messenger, right?) But especially tell her that it's good to have her back. It hasn't been the same without her.
Secondly, and also with much props and thanks (again) to Buzz, who nominated me, I'm a contestant in the 'Best Humor Blog' category in the 2003 Weblog Awards over at WizBang!. Go check it out, and vote for your faves in all the categories. And vote for me in the yuk-yuk group. Or vote for someone else; I can't tell you people what to do. But you should really vote for somebody -- if you just sit there on your ass and don't vote, then the terrorists have won. Or...um, something. I may be getting my 'cautionary warnings' mixed up.
Look, just go vote, okay? I'll consult my notes and eventually figure out what the hell I meant just now. Don't wait for me -- go vote now. Me Tarzan; you vote. Shoo.
Finally, it's come to my attention that I'm nearing -- big kazoo-roll, please -- my 10,000th hit here at the old blog site! Yay! And, given the momentousness (oh, it might be a word -- shaddup!) of the occasion, I want to put down, right here in writing, the following offer:
If you happen to be the lucky 10,000th customer here at the blogge shoppe, and if you further have a blog of your own, and still further, if you have a wishlist on that blog... well, I'm going on record as offering to buy you something scrumptious off that list for you, just for stopping by and being the right person in the right place at the right time. Easy, eh?
Now, of course, that's a lot of 'furthers' up there, and it strikes me that it's fairly likely that the person chiming in with the big one-oh!-oh!-oh!-oh! (c'mon -- it's funny if you've ever seen Office Space; gimme some love here) might not meet all the requirements, as listed. So, I'm willing to bend a little. (I'm even willing to bend a lot, for the right incentive, but that's probably not something you need to know about. Let's stick to one 'prize' at a time, shall we?) So, if I can successfully identify the ten-thousandth caller, then I'll get in touch with him or her, and try to work something out. It'll be fun -- it's like Christmas in... um, well, in December, actually.
(Of all the rotten fucking luck -- the one time I decide to use that stupid saying, and it's fricking December. What are the odds?
And, so help me, if you chime in with 'About one in twelve', I'll pimp-slap your ass right back across the Internet. If you're gonna be a smartass around here, you're gonna have to be more creative than that, people.)
So, that's the scoopage. Go see 'poo, vote at WizBang!, and keep coming back for a shot at fabulous prizes. How's that for a 'Friday Three'?
(What? It's 'Friday Five'? Well, dammit, that's it -- I'm never using any of those cute little sayings again. Who makes this shit up, anyway?)
Yeah, It's Bathroom Humor... But It's Not That Kind of Bathroom Humor
So, I've been having some toothbrush-related problems lately.
And no, ya dildos, it's not because I miss my mouth with it, and end up with pasty bristles up my nose. (Well, okay, I might have 'pasty bristles' up my nose, but they're not from the toothbrush. So that's not it.) Nor have I forgotten which end of the thing is which, and been scraping my gums with the ass-end of the thing. And speaking of 'ass-end' and 'toothbrush', I also -- emphatically -- didn't have the problem that most of you are probably thinking about right now. Pervs.
(And if you're not thinking about it...well, read this, and then you'll be all caught up. Welcome to my twisted little world, folks. Grab a chair; stay a while.)
Anyway, none of those things are the problem. They're problems, to be sure. Anytime the business end of a toothbrush is glommed up your nostril, or jammed into your palm, or rammed up your... um, well, 'business end', then that's pretty clearly a problem. But they're not my problems. At least, not today. Tomorrow, who knows? There's a weekend coming up; stranger things have happened.
But my problem -- my right-now problem -- goes something like this:
I use an electric toothbrush. My wife bought a his 'n' hers set a year or two ago, and we've used them ever since. And, despite my initial reservations, I have to admit that they seem to work pretty well. Certainly, no teeth have fallen out, or disintegrated, or turned green and skanky in the time that we've been using the new equipment. So that's a good sign. I'm still a bit wary of any procedure that involves the words 'electric' and 'my mouth', but the mishaps in that area have been few and far between. I just have to remember not to lick the recharger.
(And I've written myself several reminder notes on the subject, let me tell you. Apparently, I'm not what the ADA would call a 'quick study' when it comes to oral electrocutions. In my defense, I can only say that the excruciatingly high voltage that sizzles through my teeth and gums when I forget is probably frying the neurons involved in long-term memory. So it's sort of a vicious cycle, you see. A vicious, painful, pubic-hair-straightening cycle.)
Anyway, here's the thing -- in the past week or so, the toothbrush has died completely. I don't know whether the recharger is shot, or the, um, 'rechargee' is blown, or the outlet is dead, or what. Seriously, I've licked all the appliances that I thought might be involved (plus a few that clearly weren't.... mmmmm, curling iron...), and I've gotten nothing but a sandpapery tongue and the taste of week-old toothpaste crust in my mouth. Somewhere, the system's failing -- there's simply no juice getting through to the thing. It's cooked.
Now, for those of you who don't use electric toothbrushes yourself, this may not seem like such a horrible thing. After all, it's still a toothbrush, right? Well... yes and no. But mostly no, with a side order of 'yeah, not so much'. And I'll tell you why.
First off, the little circular cluster of bristles on an electric toothbrush are approximately the size of... oh, I don't know. What's a really small circular thingy? A nail head? A thumb tack? An oversized booger? Dunno. Anyway, let's just say it's small. S. M. All. Which is fine, when the things are zinging around all over your mouth, swooshing to and fro, and delivering toothpaste all around your piehole. But when they just sit there, doing nothing and being useless -- like Tom Arnold in a buddy movie -- it's really not the same. They're just not big enough to get the job done. It's like drying off after a shower with a square of toilet paper, or trying to use a Barbie like a blow-up doll. There's just not enough material to work with.
And if that's not bad enough, then consider the bristles themselves. (That's in the Bible, right? 'Consider the bristles...' Jesus or somebody said that, I think. Really, look it up.) See, the bristles on the thing are extra-ultra-uber-soft. Which, again, makes sense when the motor's doing it's job. With all that rotatoration going on (that's a technical term, by the way; no time to stop and explain it now) when things are working right, you wouldn't want firm bristles on the thing. They're flying around in all directions, spinning at high speed -- you don't want to feel like you're brushing with a Brillo pad, so the soft bristles are the way to go. It's the motion that gets the pearly whites all squeaky clean.
But -- but -- when there's no motion, you're pretty much cooked. That little tuft of soft-ass bristles isn't gonna do anyone any good. Seriously, they're just too wimpy -- it's like brushing your teeth with pubic hairs. Short, white, straight pubic hairs, of course -- but pubic hairs, nonetheless. Or at least it's what I'd imagine brushing with pubes would be like. And trust me, I've given this a lot of thought. It's... yeah, it's probably best that you don't ask. Better that way.
So, the toofers haven't been getting the proper treatment for the past few days, I'm sorry to say. Sure, I try to use the stupid thing, but I can tell it's not really happening. Why, right now, I'm tasting leftover pasta from Wednesday, and crumbs from last night's dessert. (Which, incidentally, gives me a hell of an idea -- pineapple upside-down lasagna. I think it's an idea who's time has come. Back me up, here, Hawaiian-Italians. You know you're with me on this one.)
Anyway, it looks like I'll have to get out there this weekend and buy a whole new contraption to foam my mouth with. (Um, that's probably a sentence you shouldn't take out of context, 'kay? I say enough other embarrassing shit as it is, all right? Just leave that one alone.) This time, I think I'll buy a good, old-fashioned, non-electric backup, just in case the newfangled machine craps out on me again. Maybe I'll even go 'old school', and only buy the 'traditional' brush. I mean, that's what I've got the most experience and practice with. And if I ever did miss, and stick my toothbrush up my nose, I think I'd greatly prefer for it to not be gyrating at a thousand miles an hour at the time. Plus, there are nearly no 'licking hazards' associated with the old brushes. You can tongue the thing to your heart's content, with little fear of injury.
(Um, yeah... the thing I said before about taking things out of context -- ditto that for the last sentence. I think I'll just quit while I'm behind. Man, I never knew talking about toothbrushes was so damned hard!)
Thursday, December 04, 2003
Why, Oh Why Couldn't They Have Given Me '6969'?
I had a rather embarrassing moment today. (I know, what are the odds, right? Smartass.)
Anyway, it happened at around noon today. I got hungry, as many people do around that time, and so I went off in search of some lunch. On the way, I discovered that my total cash in hand was exactly two American dollars. (Wrinkly ones, too, not even the nice, crisp, newly minted sort. Or even the titillating, lip-smacking creased-down-the-middle ones. You can imagine my disappointment.)
So, given that I was planning on eating way more than two dolla' worth of food, I decided to make a run to the cash machine. As luck would have it, there's an ATM for my back right in the food court where I was already headed. Nice! And, as luck would further have it, there was no line for the ATM when I got there. Sweet! And then, because luck likes to fuck with my head every chance it gets, I couldn't remember the PIN for my check card. Damn! Finally, because luck is one persistent little whore, I also couldn't remember the PIN for my Visa card. Bitches! Shut out, like a lactose intolerant dog. Damn, damn, damn!
Now, before you go snickering at me for brain-farting on my PIN codes, let me say something in my defense. Something weak and feeble and shaky, perhaps -- picture grandma with a vibrator, if that helps -- but something, nonetheless. When you don't have strong arguments, you're forced to go with the crap you've got. Ain't my rules, folks.
Anyway, I think I can pretty much blame the whole mess on my bank. See, a couple of months ago, they issued us new bank cards. And yes, when I say 'a couple of months', that could be anywhere from two real months to... oh, I don't know, the Carter administration. But that's not important -- the crucial thing here is that they sent us new cards. Something about a 'possible breach' of their computer systems, and 'not to worry', that our 'money is safe', but that we should probably expect more spam from 'Perked-Up Penises, Inc.' for a few months. Or something -- I didn't really read the letter very closely.
The point is, they sent us new cards, and with them, new PINs. And PINs not of our choosing -- these were random PIN codes. So I had no attachment to the thing at all -- there was simply nothing in there for me to hold onto. It didn't include my date of birth, or the jersey number of my favorite baseball star, or even the year when I lost my virginity. Hell, '69' wasn't even in there, for chrissakes -- what the hell kind of number is that? So, I promptly forgot it. I didn't ask for a new PIN; I was more than happy with the old one, which I picked out all by my lonesome. I never forgot my old PIN. Sure, sometimes I mis-typed it, or got distracted and punched the button for Spanish-language instructions, so I didn't know when the hell to enter it. But I never forgot it, not once. The new one was gone by the time I put down the letter. Those digits never stood a damned chance.
And the Visa PIN? What's my excuse for it, you ask? Well... shit, I don't know -- age? Stupidity? Unexpected midday sobriety? Take your pick. Hell, I'm not even sure I have a PIN for the damned thing. I never had to use it, because I always had my handy-dandy check card, and I could get cash with it. Until now, that is. Now, my card is neither 'handy', nor 'dandy'. It's not even 'randy', baby. (Though if I could use it to get me some of those creased-up dollar bills... then maybe. Just maybe.)
So. I got bupkis from the machine. And people started lining up to use the thing, and eyeballing me, so I gave up. (Or maybe people lined up to eyeball me, and then decided to use the machine. Damn, I should have asked. I never think to ask.) And at that point, my options were not good. On the one hand, I could go without lunch altogether, which is made tougher by the fact that I didn't eat any breakfast this morning, so we're talking about the prospect of starving myself for nearly twenty-four hours here, from dinner to dinner. And that sounds downright assy, if you ask me. Like a big, fat assy ass. Uncool.
The other option was to schlep my ass -- sans coat on a freezy-weezy, wintry-breezy Boston day -- six blocks back to my car to hit the stash of dollar bills that I keep in the little drawer on the dashboard.
(Um... excuse me a sec -- 'freezy-weezy, wintry-breezy'?! What am I, Winnie the fuckin' Poo all of a sudden? Where the hell did that come from? Man, I have got to stop snorting Windex on the weekends.)
Anyway, long story... um, slightly less long, I schlepped. I schlepped to get money, and then I schlepped my frozen ass back to the food court for a Subway sandwich. I'm not sure I can say it was worth the trip -- a lukewarm half-assed sammich and flat Pepsi against twenty minutes of my life, four frostbitten cheeks, and nearly eight bucks of my hard-earned coin doesn't really seem to stack up, frankly. But I got to eat, so I think it was the right thing to do, under the circumstances.
Of course, the right thing to do would be to learn my damned PIN, and then this shit wouldn't happen. But I don't see that happening anytime soon. For one thing, who knows where that letter telling me what the damned number is has gotten to? I'm sure by now I've lost it, or eaten it, or made the dog piss on it, so I wouldn't have to take her outside. It could be anywhere. And stained with anything. I'm not really sure I want to find it. It might be scary. Hold me. Please?
(Um, sorry. Moving right along, then.)
So, I'll soldier on, with my PIN forgotten and mooching off my wife for cash. It's demoralizing, really. I mean, I never really want to be the one who gets money, trekking to the ATM to pull out cash for the family. But still, it would be nice to think that I could come up with some green in an emergency. (You know, like if I were going to miss lunch, or have to trudge to my car for cash. Those sorts of emergencies.)
Clearly, though, it's not to be. Somewhere out there, there's a four-digit code that'll let me get cash with my little piece of plastic. But I don't know what it is, I'm afraid, and so I'll never have money to call my own. Which is all right, I suppose -- my wife hits the ATM often enough (usually), and doles out the cash on a regular basis. It's actually pretty rare that I'm in need of mid-week dough.
Oh. Oh, shit. Mid-week, that's right. This is only Thursday. I'm gonna have the same damned problem tomorrow, and now I'm running low on emergency dollar bills. Damn. Well, I guess that's it. I'm not goin' hungry tomorrow, so I guess I just have to find that piece of paper tonight, and figure out what my PIN is. And either staple the letter to my forehead, or tattoo the number across my knuckles, because I am not gonna remember it. Ugh. I just hope that letter doesn't have dog drool all over it, or pee stains, or... well, worse. Yick!
All right, folks -- I'm goin' in. If I'm not back tomorrow, you'll know that something happened, and that I'm sitting somewhere, trying to convince a bank teller that I was kicking his damned ATM out of love and respect, and no, I do not want to speak to the security guard on duty, nor do I want to see the surveillance tapes, and hey, get those damned cuffs off me, and whoa! -- where the hell are you talking me, and what's that thing, and look, buddy, I want no part of that, and... and... those aren't pillows!!
Damn, all that trouble over four little numbers. You'd think it was the frickin' Powerball or something. *sigh*
A Comedy Update... But Not Necessarily a Comedic Update
Hey, folks. Before we get started tonight, I want to update you on the standup comedy front. I've got a leetle bit more work to do to get last night's tape ready, but it'll happen in the next day or two.
(For any of you who might be digicam wizards or sorceresses, maybe you can help me -- the tape was shot in 'portrait' format, rather than 'landscape' format. So, actually, technically, I could put the clip up now. But if I did, you'd be staring at my crotch where my head should be.
So what I want to do -- much preferably with some free tool or other -- is flip myself, ninety degrees to the left. Or right, I forget at the moment. I'll make sure I get it right, though -- really, I wouldn't want you to have to stare up my nose for five-and-a-half minutes, either. Nobody needs to see that. Really, ask my wife -- she's been there. I'll figure the thing out.
But in the meantime, any advice would speed things along. Unless you don't know what the hell you're doing, either. That doesn't help. I've got plenty of people who don't know their heads from their asses that are eagerly willing to tell me what to do. If you want to give me useless, cockeyed advice, you're gonna have to take a number.)
Speaking of standup, though, I've got a bit of news that simply won't wait. Or at least, it's not going to wait -- it's gonna get plooped out onto the page right now. And this is what it is:
I've got another show lined up!
Now, this is significant, kids. Well, to me, anyway. Certainly, there are hundreds of millions of people out there who wouldn't give a fuzzy llama's left teste -- which is also fuzzy, coincidentally -- to hear about my show. Frankly, there may be no one else who's interested in this little bit of news. But it just so happens, conveniently enough, that none of those heartless bastards and bitches are writing this blog, either. So, big fat stinky raspberries to them. Nyah!
Anyway, back to the show. For one thing, it's my third show. And three's a charm, right? So I might actually be funny this time. (But I wouldn't hold my breath if I were you. Even if I am gonna be funny, the show's not for another two weeks, and you'd look awfully ridiculous walking around all blue and puffy for that long. Just play it cool, okay?)
But more importantly, this is the first real show. See, the first two were 'guaranteed gigs', so to speak -- anyone in the 'Standup 101' class that I took got to go onstage and make an ass of themselves. But this show -- this one -- is different. This time, I'll be just another comic, not a newbie to be treated with kid gloves. (Which is too bad, actually -- I rather like kid gloves. Especially if they're accompanied by garter belts and fishnet stockings. But enough about my twisted fantasies. We're talking about standup here.)
Even cooler, the emcee last night asked if I wanted to come back in two weeks. Yeah. No, really. Okay, fine, it was the guy who taught the class, and he does run the Wednesday night shows there every week. Still, he didn't have to offer me a slot, but he did. So back I'll go, the hump day after next, to unleash my bits about assbags and crotches and blowing smoke up people's asses. And then... well, then we'll see. Maybe a 'real crowd' will shoo me right off the stage.
Hey, it might happen. Right after he invited me back, teach told me that the audiences on 'regular nights' would be 'small and jaded'. Which, of course, immediately made me think, 'Oh? Grandma's gonna be here?'
(Oh, get over it -- I kid, I kid. Granny's actually quite tall for her age.)
Anyway, it made me a little nervous. I mean, I can still seed the crowd with some friends... assuming I haven't cashed in all my favors by schlepping them out to the first two shows. But I'm starting to envision the rest of the attendees as large, growling ogres, just as likely to bite off my toes or pelt me with chicken poop. Or worse, heckle me. The bastards.
So, anyway, that's the update. I'll be right back with... uh, something. I'm so squinchy about this next show that I haven't really planned much out yet. It's like an early Christmas. Or a late Thanksgiving. Or... I don't know -- a completely misplaced Flag Day, maybe. Only better. Yeah, I don't know what the hell I'm talking about. You should be used to that by now.
Now, I've just got to find a way not to suck in a couple of weeks. Seriously, the people who're gonna be there are small. And jaded. How the hell do you deal with that? Damn.
Wednesday, December 03, 2003
Behold, the Magical Boxers of Much Hilarity!
My wardrobe has been the center of attention over the past twenty-four hours or so.
Now, if you know me, then you'll know how shocking out of character that is. I might as well have just said, 'Ooh, yeah, I think I'd like a nice juicy tomato right about now', or 'Hey, Microsoft isn't all bad'. Or even, 'No, really, all I want for Christmas is a few McDonalds gift certificates for their scrumptious fish sandwiches. Oh, goody goody gumdrops!'
Well, I'm not gonna say any of those things any time soon, let me assure you. (Gun-toting terrorist coercion or massive head trauma notwithstanding, of course.) Now, to be fair, I'd have said the same thing about the 'wardrobe' statement just a day or so ago, but alas, now I cannot. Decisions about clothes have occupied more of my time in the past day than they have in the past month or more.
You see, I normally care little about what I'm wearing. I see the old 'clothes make the man' adage as poppycock bullshit dreamed up by some tailor to drum up business. Clothes don't make the man -- the man makes the man. And the woman makes the woman, and the man and woman together make sweet, sweet, sweaty snugglebunnies all night long. But that's a story for another time -- I'm talking about clothes here.
So, normally, I'd get up in the morning, take a shower, throw on some undies, a pair of socks (of the 'tube' variety, white and plain), a T-shirt, jeans, and a rugby. Period. That's the routine. In summer, I forgo the socks, unless I'm wearing sneakers. But that's the only deviation. It's very Einsteinian, really. Or lazy. (Yo, why it can't be both? Don't be buggin', G.)
(By the way, I see from that last paragraph that I've been assimilated into the New England culture. Until I came here, I didn't wear 'sneakers'. I wore 'tennis shoes'. Even for a few months here, that's how it went. Until one day, I had this conversation with a coworker:
Me: Man, I really need to buy some more tennis shoes. These are getting pretty ratty.
Her: What? What did you just call them?
Me: Um, tennis shoes?
Her: 'Tennis shoes'? Why do you call them that? Are you going to play tennis in them?
Me: Well, no. I guess not. What do you call them?
Her: Uh, sneakers. Duh.
Me: Sneakers, eh?
Her: Yah. Sneakers.
Me: I see. So I suppose I'm supposed to go sneaking in them, is that it?
Her: Um... shut up. It's not the same at all.
Me: What? Of course it's the same. How is it different?
Her: Nobody likes you, ya know. Go hump a stapler or something, would you?
So, certainly, the chat ended badly. And I thought I held my own rather well. Still, some seed of that idea must have wormed it's way into my brain, because I haven't found myself talking about 'tennis shoes' ever since. And I have this weird perverted urge to dry-hump office gadgets. Weird -- who was that woman, anyway?
Oh, and word to the wise, if you ever have the same affliction... um, avoid the hole-puncher. Trust me on this one, especially if you consider yourself a 'bleeder'. Ouchie.)
Anyhoo -- I don't put a lot of thought into the old wardrobe. Sure, I have shirts that I like better than others, and pants that fit better than others, and socks that are longer or less long (known in some areas of the world as 'shorter'), but such things barely raise a blip on the old Charliedar on a typical day. And that's why today (and the tail end of yesterday) has not been a 'typical day'. I've had no less than three clothes-related decisions to make. Three! And I thought you might like to read about them, so dammit -- here they are:
1. Those Don't Look Like Pajamas!
So, without sharing too much information -- I hope; I wouldn't want a big wall thrown up in my face here -- I'll tell you a little something about me in bed. Here's what I usually wear to go nighty-night:
Boxers, pair of
That's pretty much it. On a particularly chilly night, I might accessorize with a T-shirt. On rare occasions, I've even been known to leave on my socks, or to put on a pair of shorts, for some extra insulation around the nether region. (Nobody likes cold nethers, now, do they? Except maybe Kim Basinger in 9 1/2 Weeks -- she seemed to be enjoying herself. But she wasn't sleeping; so that's different. Sexily, steamily, nipple-pokingly different. Moving on.) Anyway, that's it. I don't like to be too fettered while I'm getting in my forty winks, you see. Plus, I don't mind being just a tad chilly; I'm more comfortable when I'm not too hot.
Now, that's all well and good. That system has worked well for me for the first thirty-three and a half years of my life. But none of those years included a winter spent in a hundred-year-old drafty house in the middle of fricking New England, either. And it's finally turned cold around here, as I've mentioned several times lately. So, without beating that horse carcass too soundly again, I'll simply list what I wore to bed last night, the first really chilly evening of this winter:
Boxers, pair of
Socks, pulled way up
For chrissakes, people, if I could have found mittens and a scarf, I'd have worn those, too. It was frickin' cold, dammit! And while all the layers seemed to have done their job -- I awoke this morning with all the bits I had when I went to bed; none had shriveled up or broken off during the night -- I don't look forward to having to do this ridiculous bundling dance every stupid night for the next six months. It's just not me. Don't wanna. Wah.
B. Which Underwear Would Be the Funniest?
So, my second standup show is tonight. (In about an hour and a half, as a matter of fact. I'll probably wrap this post up after the fact. Which you really don't need to know -- sorry, I'll get back to it. My mistake. Please don't beat me.)
Now, I not only want to sound good for this show, I want to feel good, too. And, like I said earlier, I do have an item or two in the wardrobe that I like more than others. So, I spent ten minutes this morning -- as opposed to my usual six seconds -- picking out what to wear today, finding the apparel that would make me feel most comfortable and relaxed.
I started at the very beginning, as I'd expect anyone on such a solemn mission to do. And so, right out of the shower, I spent some time picking out just the right pair of underwear. Not the funniest, necessarily. Rather, the best -- the pair that fits well, isn't too short, has the right amount of 'breathing' room, and maybe sports a nice pattern, to boot. Ooh, and no stains -- yeah, it probably shouldn't have any stains. Or... you know, not many. Hey, I strive for perfection in my underwear, but I'm not gonna demand it. You gotta play the cards you're dealt, right?
So, picture me, if you can, naked and dripping and shivering cold, standing at my dresser, with the top drawer open to reveal a dozen or more pairs of boxers. (And if you can picture that -- and are willing to do so -- well, you've got more problems than I can help you with. Seek professional help immediately, dude. Like, a frickin' priest or something. I don't know what's in you, but get it out. Now.)
Anyway, I finally picked out a pair that I thought gave me the best chance to be funny tonight, and I slapped 'em on. And then the socks, and a favorite T-shirt. Next came the jeans -- not the tight ones, or the ones that are still too dark and new-looking, and not the pair of my wife's that I pulled from her dirty laundry basket. (Those are just for sniffing... oh, right, like you don't do that, too. Uh-huh.) No, I picked out the bestest pair, and put those on, and then found a nice rugby to complete the outfit. It's even Syracuse colors -- orange and navy. Woo hoo!
Ten minutes it took me to go through this nonsense. That's ten minutes that I could have spent sleeping, or reading, or... I don't know, trying (again) to figure out how the hell the dog manages to lick herself. Seriously, do dogs just have no frickin' spines or what? Damn!
What was I saying? Crotch-licking always makes me lose my place. (Hey, if you don't believe me, give it a try sometime. You'll see.)
Anyway. I finally put my ensemble together, and got ready to leave the house. I don't know whether it was any good fashion-wise, but it made me happy. Soon, you can see for yourself -- I'll have the tape of tonight's standup show online, and you can critique my wardrobe to your heart's content. And now that I'm in between shows again... I really don't give a damn! Woo! Things are back to normal, and that's ten more minutes of sleep I'll get tomorrow. Score!
III. The Bother, Or the 'Frostbitten Ass Cheeks' Thing? Ooh, Decisions, Decisions...
So, I'm not a fan of wearing coats. As I've mentioned before, I just don't like having to deal with the damned thing all day, in return for a few seconds of having it actually do its job and keep me warm. At least, that's how I used to feel.
Now, of course, I'm parking in a different frigging time zone than my office, and so I've got a bit of a stroll on my hands in the mornings, and again in the evenings. And, in case you missed it, it's winter now, so it's a tad uncomfortable to be making the trek sans jacket.
And so, today, for the first time in many moons, I tracked down my winter coat, and wore it to work. This is a major milestone for me, folks. Really, I don't like lugging the thing around. It seems to puff up somehow when I'm driving, so I look -- and feel -- like the damned Michelin man in my car. I'm always forgetting the damned thing -- leaving it at work, or dropping it on a bus, or draping it around some streaker and then absent-mindedly walking off without it. (Yeah, okay, on second thought, that's the one time when I don't want it back. Ew.)
But today, the coat would not be denied. I very nearly froze my nipples off walking to the car without it last night, so I knew that I had to take it with me today, no matter how inconvenient. Hey, look, people -- my nipples were at stake. You don't screw around when it's your nipples on the line. That ain't right.
So, I took the coat. And what's more, I wore the coat. (But not in the car. I got enough problems.) And, to its credit, it did keep me -- and my tender nipples -- moderately warmer as I trekked to the office, and later, back to my car. So I suppose it was all worth it. Until I leave the thing lying around somewhere and lose it, that is. Then I'll have to buy another one, and the whole stupid cycle will begin anew. Ugh. I don't know if I have the patience.
But for now, I'm gonna wear the thing, and save my nipples out there in the harsh elements. But right now, I've just returned from my show. I've got a clip ready to be watched, and even some big news from the aftermath! But I'm too pooped to go through all that now, so you'll just have to wait until tomorrow, I'm afraid. Don't worry -- I'll get to you. I just need a few hours of shuteye first.
So, I'm gonna strip off my 'lucky outfit', right down to my comedic skivvies, and dress back up in the sweats-and-sweats outfit I wore to bed last night. And then, I'm gonna crawl under the covers and pray to every deity I've ever heard of to keep me warm and toasty through the night. I really never thought it would come to this, and yet here I am -- dressing up for bed like I was going out tobogganning or something. How the hell did this happen? I want my life back, dammit! Somebody get me warm!
Tuesday, December 02, 2003
Anybody Wanna Help Me Staple a Pillow to a Wall?
Holy chocolate crapsicles, is it cold! Damn!
I had no idea it was gonna be fricking freezing today. And it's not just cold outside -- nuh-uh. My house is cold, my office is cold, and -- make no mistake, people -- my crotch is cold.
Look, I hate to be indelicate, but the only time I could feel my testicles on the outside today was in the car, on the way home from work. (Because, as you may remember, my car doubles as an industrial flamethrower. You know, as opposed to the recreational 'throwers we all grew up with, and kept under our pillows. Ah, good times. Singed eyebrows... but good times.)
Anyway, the little fellas finally came out to say 'hello' a few blocks from home. It took me off guard, to tell the truth. There was kind of a rumble, and then a double bump-bump, and out they came, with an audible *ploop*. I didn't know what the hell it was. I thought I'd run over a couple of squirrels or something. It was freaky.
And, I'm sorry to say, my reunion with the 'boys down under' didn't last long. One step into the cold wintry air, and up they went again, nestling themselves somewhere in my ribcage. I'm afraid to cough too hard, frankly. I might accidentally shoot 'Lefty' across the room. And he's the smart one -- I can't afford to lose him. He's basically running the circus down there.
All of which is to say -- rather longly and lewdly -- that it's freaking damned cold around here. Seriously. Cold. Really.
So, let's see -- that's probably enough talk about my genitals. (For now, at least. You folks need a breather now and then.)
So what other trouble can I get into? Let's see...
Well, for one thing, I've been contemplating my eventual accidental death at the hands of my staircase. It's a straight set of steps -- that means it doesn't curve, by the way, or take a turn along the way; it doesn't mean that it's not a 'gay' set of steps. (And maybe it is -- how the hell would you tell? A rainbow-colored runner down the middle? Frilly lace on the bannisters? No idea.)
Anyway, about halfway down the flight, the wall drops down to meet the ceiling of the lower floor. It's tough to estimate exactly how far away that hunk of wall is from the ground there, with the steps at different levels and all, but it's pretty obvious that the minimum clearance is somewhere around six feet. And I'm six-foot-three, if that tells you anything about the anxiety this staircase is causing me.
So far, I've managed to remember to duck just a bit, or to put out my hands to catch myself on the upcoming wall, and slide my head underneath. But one day -- one tragic, yet inevitable, day -- it'll happen. I'll bound down the stairs in a rush, or I'll be carrying a bunch of laundry, or distracted by some shiny object or naked ass (real or imagined), and I'll solidly bonk my head on that damned wall, quite possibly knocking my brain out of my head in the process.
Now, you may be saying to yourself:
'Hey. Look, Charlie -- you seem like a smart enough guy. Don't you think you can manage to do this one thing reliably? Seriously, how hard could it be?'
To which I would say, 'Smart? Smart?! You really haven't been reading this dogflop, have you?' But, leaving your poor judgement of mental capabilities aside, I'd also concede that it seems easy to simply not hit your head on the stupid wall. And, in any given instance, it is pretty simple. But those eensy-weensy chances of perma-denting the old forehead tend to add up, and it's just a matter of time until I bonk myself silly. Which is way worse than boinking myself silly. Seriously, who couldn't use a good boinking now and then, hmmm?
But there's one other thing that positively convinces me that I'm destined to head-butt that wall one day -- it's happened before.
Yes, that's right, folks -- there's precedence for this sort of brainless braining. I haven't danced with this particular stairway, but I've been down that road before. Oh, yes, and I've got the poor memory and dysfunctional social skills to prove that something happened to my brain along the way. I choose to blame a run-in with a similar staircase in my youth. (Hey, mom said she was off the sauce and the smokes by the third trimester. That's probably fine, right? Um, right? What was I talking about again?)
Anyway, I'm pretty sure speed-bumping my head against a doorway when I was ten or so didn't exactly help anything. I mean, I'm no fancy head doctor or anything, but I've been told that teeth-jarring blunt head trauma isn't exactly the best way to keep your marbles in place. I forget who told me that, though -- it may well have been a giant invisible rabbit. Or Tinkerbell. Anything's possible, when you live in my world.
As for the actual cranium crushing itself, there's really not much to tell. Like I said, I was ten or so years old, and I was bounding down the narrow stairwell that led from the attic to the second floor of our house. I can't remember now why I was in such a hurry -- maybe the phone was ringing, or a good cartoon was about to come on. Maybe I'd just discovered the neat tricks my penis could do, and I was running to tell my folks. Who knows -- I can't remember anything that happened before the accident, so it could be anything. Ask Harvey, or Tink. They probably know.
Anyway, there I came, hoop-te-dooing down the stairs. 'Dum de dum de dum.' Or something like that -- I always was a hummer. (Yes, there's a joke in there somewhere about a hummer. But it's probably at my expense, so I'm moving on. Catch up when you're ready, folks.)
So, *hop hop hop* down the stairs, easy as she goes. I hit the next-to-last step and pushed off, reaching for the floor, and -- bam! I slammed into the top of the doorway, right at eyebrow level. That was bad enough, of course. But to add just a pinch of pissy to the experience, the blow dropped me on my ass on the third stair, and I slid the rest of the way down on my backside. The whole thing probably sounded something like this:
*plop* *boogity boogity boogity thud*
'Ow. That's gonna hu -- Oh holy fuck! OUCH!'
Anyway, once I could see straight again -- the next winter, I think it was -- I shook off the cobwebs, dusted myself off, and was right as rain. Of course, I forgot what the hell I was running for in the first place. (But it obviously wasn't for a bathroom emergency, or I'd have left a trail of some kind on the way down the stairs. And I didn't -- really, I checked. Lots of pain, but no stain. Miracles do happen, it turns out.
In any case, that's how I know I'm gonna eat it some day on the stairs here in the house. If it happened back then, it's almost surely gonna happen again. Seriously, I haven't gotten any smarter since then -- it's even reasonable to assume that I lost a few IQ points that afternoon. They might still be lying there in the upstairs hallway, for all I know. Maybe the people living there now will send them to me. That might come in handy, next time I need to win an argument, or talk my way out of a traffic ticket. Maybe I'll look into that.
Now, if I could just remember the address of the house where I lived for eighteen years. Um... uh... guh. Shit. I guess that was part of what got knocked out. Dammit!
Oooh, Look -- Me Some More! But Brent, Too, So That's Okay
Hey, all. One more quick note about yesterday's post.
Brent from the Weblog Review stopped by, and commented that he's fixed the search problem I described below. (Yes, normally, I'd have just deleted my text, but I kinda liked the mollusc thing. So sorry if you read an irrelevant paragraph or two.
Or, you know, irreleventer, I guess. It's not like any of this crap is getting you any closer to nirvana, or a cure for cancer, or even a hot date. So nothing here is really 'relevant', I suppose. But now, thanks to Brent's hard work, those paragraphs aren't even true, either.
Yeah, yeah... neither is most of the 'normal' shit around here. Look, just let it go, all right? Enjoy the congressmen-and-molluscs dig, and just move on. I don't know what else to tell you.
Except... I will say this -- Brent stopped by because he's got a nice surprise for me! I can't tell you any more yet -- I've been sworn to secrecy, and promised to draw and quarter myself if I spill the beans prematurely.
(Though frankly, I don't see how I could get any further than drawing and halving myself. But that's just logistics -- if I end up deserving the punishment, then I suppose I'll just have to find a way. But I don't plan on it -- I rather like all my quarters all attached in the middle, like they are now. I imagine it would get a bit drafty to have them otherwise. To say the least.)
Anyway, I can't tell you what's up, but suffice it to say that it's pretty damned cool. So again I say, go check out the Weblog Review, and pick out a tasty blog or three to read. And thank Brent for all the hard work he's put into the site, and the hundreds -- yes, literally hundreds -- of reviews he's written. It's all very cool. Trust me on this one.
As for me, I'll be back later this evening with a real post. You know, about something. Or other. Or nothing, maybe -- but at least it won't be about me. Well, okay, that's just a blatant lie. It's almost certainly going to be about me. But at least it won't be quite so blatantly self-serving as the last couple of posts. So look forward to that, if you're into that sort of thing.
(Hey, come to think of it, this post really isn't all that self-serving. I've talked about the Weblog Review more than anything else. Hell, if anything, this is a Brent-serving post.
But...um, I'm not gonna call it that. He seems nice and all, but thinking of myself 'Brent-serving' is just sorta creepy. And kinky, and shivery, in a not-so-good way.
Hey, if you're reading, Brent, don't take it personally, dude. Frankly, I'd feel the same about 'Joe-serving', or 'Mark-serving', or even 'Emilio-serving'. Um, yeah -- especially Emilio-serving. There's something just wrong about that, dude. I'm getting all icky just thinking about it. Wuh.)
Monday, December 01, 2003
Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me, Me. Oh, I Forgot -- Me!
We interrupt your regularly scheduled blog for a series of self-serving, self-promoting, self-aggrandizing, and quite possibly self-pollinating items. We will return you to your blog as soon as our horn has been sufficiently self-tooted.
See, we're even referring to ourselves as the 'royal we'. Is that more annoying and pompous than the third person singular? (As in, 'Charlie certainly is a comely fellow, isn't he? Quite the stud muffin, even.') We don't know. But we've made our choice. Deal.
(Hey, by the way, when did the muffin become the foodstuff of choice to describe hot yummy people? Is there something particularly sexy about muffins that we're missing, and that other baked goods don't share?
Sure, 'cupcake' gets some play, but it's usually done ironically. But where are the props for the other baked goods? How come you don't hear people saying:
'Man, I'd like to get my mitts on that hot little biscuit!'
'Oh, girl, check out the pecs on the stud bagel over there!'
Really, we don't get it. Muffins are nice and all, but are they really that much more enticing than doughnuts, or hush puppies, or a hot... steamy... cornbread? Where's the 'stud cornbread', we ask you? Where's the love?
On the other hand, muffins are the only bakery product where you can peeeeel off the top, and eat it as 'foreplay'. And maybe that's good enough right there -- certainly, when we think of doing that to the 'cupcakes' out there frolicking around in, say, the Victoria's Secret catalog, or on the Man Show... well, we do get a bit peckish, we have to admit.
And if you think 'peckish' is nasty, go look it up. It's actually not dirty. You're probably confusing it with 'peckerish'. Which we should have used instead, but we just thought of it. Damn.)
So, anyway, here's what's on tap. Please forgive our brazen shamelessness. We'll spank ourselves later for being bad. We promise.
1. Upcoming Comedy Show
Our... oh, fuck it, that is annoying -- My second foray into the seamy underbelly of standup comedy is coming up this week. For any of you in close reach of the metro Boston area, you can come watch me, and several other people, make asses of ourselves at:
The Emerald Isle
1501 Dorchester Ave., Dorchester, MA
Wednesday, December 3rd @ 8:30pm
I'll be the one telling jokes about penises, bitching about stupid people, and making fun of myself. Oh, wait, no... you can't really tell us apart that way. Tell you what -- I'll be the one who looks like the guy on this page, where you can even watch the clip of my first show, a couple of weeks ago. It's like taking a hilarious trip back in time. (You'll have to supply your own time-travelly wavy lines. I'm fresh out.)
(And for you short attention-span types, I'll further entice you with these two little factlets -- first, I'll be doing completely different material than the first show. So even if you watch the clip (or, if you're Amber, you were cool enough to be there), you won't get bored with the same old crap about crotches and assbags. It'll be entirely different crap... about, well, um, crotches and assbags, mainly. But different! Really.)
Anyway, come out if you'd like your funny bone tickled. (No, really, I'll tickle it myself. We'll go out back, in the alley. It'll be fun. And it only might be a euphemism. There's one way to know for sure.) Seriously, it's a good time -- and there's no cover at the door! (Not that I'm suggesting you're cheap, of course. Tawdry, maybe, but never 'cheap'. Just 'thrifty'. Yep, thrifty and tawdry -- you're my kinda people.)
B. Upcoming Weblog Review
I'm currently number 10 in the queue at the Weblog Review. It's taken weeks -- many long, grueling weeks -- to get this close, but the critiques are coming at a rate of about one a day, so my review should be coming soon. And almost certainly by Christmas, which I was hoping for. In the meantime -- and most certainly afterwards -- go check out 'da Review' -- the reviewers there do a great job, and it's a fantastic place to find a new read or two. There's a little something for everybody there.
(And a couple of blogs for nobody, as far as I can tell -- who writes some of these train wrecks, anyway? And who then asks to have them reviewed? Damn, people -- hide that shit in the closet and walk away. Just walk away.
Of course, I say that snarky shit now. Watch them bust out negative numbers for me in a couple of weeks. That'll be fun. It'll be like my SATs all over again. Bitches.)
Also, a quick note on the Weblog Review, while I'm at it. They changed the directory structure of their pages a while back, so most of the results from their search will break, if you get deep enough in the site to try a query. The good news is, all you need to do is add a slash in the URL, right after the word 'review', to make it work. So if you were to find J's Notes on the site, with a non-working review URL of: http://www.theweblogreview.com/review286, you could simply change it to: http://www.theweblogreview.com/review/286, and you're all set! Easy, yes? I know molluscs that could manage it. McDonald's cashiers, no. Congressmen, sorry. Molluscs, and most people with two neurons to rub together, yes. I think it's doable.
III. A Wizbang Idea, If I've Ever Seen One!
It has come to my attention that Kevin, over at Wizbang!, has put together his own suite of weblog awards, and is prepared to give them out soon. It's just getting it's newborn feet under it, but the idea is garnering a lot of early support, and there have been many suggestions for candidates in most of the categories.
There have been so many suggestions, in fact, that the humble little ditty you're currently soaking in has itself been mentioned! Many, many thanks and much love go out to Buzz, who's suggested me for the category of 'Best Humor Blog'. I'm honored and amazed -- Buzz has an awful lot of links, and even more friends -- to have him single me out for an honor is truly special. (No, really. I'm not kidding. Really, just this once -- I'm serious. Really. What? Stop looking at me like that. I mean it!)
Anyway, go check out the Wizbang awards yourself. Mention me, if you like. (*nudge* *nudge*) Or nominate other blogs, if that's what you're into. Hell, list your own, if you're one of those kinds of people.
(And I can say that, because... well, I am one of 'those people'. I'd have probably swooped in there and listed myself, if Buzz weren't so damned cool to have beaten me to it. I mean, look around -- obviously, I have no shame.)
Okay, I think that's about enough horn-tooting for one day. (Which is what John Holmes used to say as he wrapped up each day of... um, shooting. So to speak. Yeah, let's move on now. Ick.)
Anyway, thanks for hanging in there so long. You're one of the good ones, you are. One of the real, thrifty, tawdry good ones. Hell, if you show up on Wednesday, I might even buy you a beer. Or, um, do that other thing we talked about, back in the alley. You know, the tickly thing. Come on -- you know you want to. Nobody likes a tease.
This concludes the emergency self-promotion extravaganza. We now return you to your regularly scheduled hilarity, already in progress.
(*sigh* Again with the 'we'... apparently, 'annoyingly pompous' comes natural to us. Er, um, me. Natural to me. Damn.)
Sunday, November 30, 2003
I Feel So Young Again! Young, and... Um, Stupid, Actually
Is there anything more depressing than the last night of a long weekend?
(Okay, fine -- maybe having your in-laws visit for a week, or having to sit through six eye-bleeding hours of Olympic figure skating, or a Ken Burns documentary. But under normal circumstances, I can't think of anything worse than the weekend thingy.)
I, for one, and extraordinarily unprepared to go back to work tomorrow. I'm thinking of calling in sick, or out of town, or amputated. Or, um, something. I'm not sure you can actually call in 'amputated'.
(And if you could, I don't know how you'd back that up when you finally did show up at the office a day or two later. A simple *cough cough* and a sniffle aren't going to fool anyone. I guess you could shave one of your arms or legs, and call it a prosthetic... but someone's bound to find out eventually -- you'll smash your thumb in a car door, or stub your toe, and when you yell out, 'Bitches!', everyone else will scream 'Aha!'
Yeah, I'm thinking the amputation angle is probably not the way to go. You're way ahead of me here, aren't you? Eh. I'm a slow learner. Sorry.)
So, what was I saying? Oh, work tomorrow. Right. Poop.
Of course, I might not be quite as reluctant to return to the rat race if I were actually prepared to get back to the grind. (Now, the 'bump and grind', I'm ready for. No question. But 'the grind', all by itself -- no. Sadly, unbumpingly, no.)
You see, I told people in the office that I'd have the beginnings of a system ready tomorrow. A system that I've worked on, off and on (but mostly 'off', I'm afraid), all weekend long.
(Well, except for Thursday. Or Friday, like I mentioned at the time.
Look, 'all weekend long' is a relative term, all right? It's like 'all natural' or 'world famous'. Or 'most valuable'. These are just sayings, see? So when I say I worked 'all weekend long', that really means... well, uh, it means a couple of the days. And after noon, obviously. And... well, in between blogging, of course. And football watching. And dinner out last night. And lunches, and laundry, and playing with the dog, and pretty much anything else I could do to put the shit off. Now, doesn't that sound like 'all weekend long'?)
Anyway, I'm still working on it. I've made progress, certainly, but I can't really say that I have a 'system' yet. I've got a couple of 'pages', and I'm partway through some 'functions', and I've even got a 'database', but they haven't all come together in the way that lets me keep my job yet.
And so, I continue working. (Or blogging about working. Eight of one, half-dozen the other. Yeah, I know, I know.) This is starting to remind me of my college days, actually. Back in school, I had the same issue -- I'd spend the whole weekend putting off some paper, or studying for some test, until finally, on Sunday night, I could procrastinate no longer. It usually hit me around 8:20pm. That's when the Simpsons started wrapping up loose ends in their weekly episode, and I knew that it was only a matter of time until the show ended, and the crap would come on -- that was my cue to get off my ass and hit the books.
Things are different these days, of course. For one thing, I started working in earnest before the Simpsons came on tonight. Yes, well before. Seven-thirty, I think it was; quarter of eight at the latest. Of course, what's also different is the list of things to do instead of work. For one thing, ESPN is showing a real, live NFL football game, which won't go off until at least eleven. Shit, if they'd had those in college, I'd still be there, retaking sophomore physics because all the goddamned tests were on Mondays. Bastards.
Plus, when the game goes off, there's always TiVo. Back in the day, there was nothing on worth watching after the Simpsons. (Except for the brief period of time when Herman's Head was on -- damn, I loved that show.) And that hasn't changed -- the big three networks are playing news shows or made-for-TV movie crapfests, and Fox counters with The Bernie Mac Shit. Er, 'Show'. The Bernie Mac Show. Sorry. (But I think I was right the first time, really.)
But with TiVo, it doesn't matter -- I could put off work for hours. I've got every Simpsons episode aired in the last week, plus a healthy dose of Family Guy, Comic Remix, West Wing, and more. I could blow off work tonight, take a day off, and still do nothing but watch recorded crap. And, by extension, be in this same poopy position this time tomorrow night. So I'd probably better not do that. Technology's the bomb and all, but it's really not helping me here. Damned technology -- who came up with this shit, anyway?
So, I suppose I'd better suck it up and get something -- 'cause it looks like it won't be everything -- accomplished for tomorrow. Man, it's times like these when I can't wait to get discovered as a comedy writer / standup comic, and I won't have to put up with this shit any more. When I finally get there, I'll be staying up late because I want to, drinking and cheering and telling jokes, instead of because I have to, coding and typing and grumbling under my breath.
So somebody get out there and find someone to take me to the big time, all right? I promise I'll write more, and the shit will be funnier, too, instead of anxious, whiny, bitchy posts like this one. On the other hand, it is kind of fun to feel like I'm back in college again, if only for a couple of hours. Maybe I'll order a pizza, and guzzle Pepsi and work until I simply can't keep my eyes open any longer. Yeah, that sounds pretty cool. And with that kind of fuel, I should be able to get everything done, in just a couple of hours. So I'm probably fine, after all. What the hell was I worrying about, anyway? I've got plenty of time. Matter of fact, maybe I'll take a 'study break' and check out one of those Simpsons episodes I've got taped. That should be fine, right? One little episode's not gonna hurt anybody, right? Right?
(Oh, I am so screwed. Maybe calling in amputated tomorrow isn't such a bad idea. *sigh*)