Ran some errands over lunch earlier this week. Picked up some antifreeze and motor oil for my car, then stopped by the Verizon store to buy a hands-free headset on my way back the office. This is the conversation I was lucky enough to be caught up in while I waited.
“So, I see you went to Strosnider’s.”
“…”
“That’s a good hardware store.”
“Yep”
“Whenever I need hardware I always go to Strosnider’s”
“It’s nice.”
“And they’re so helpful. Take you right to the aisle you need.”
“Good stuff.”
“I should go by there. Need to get a few supplies for Thanksgiving and the weekend.”
“Sounds like a plan, make it happen.”
“That’s a good hardware store, they’re so helpful.”
“…”
At this point I put on my iPod headphones and started facing the other direction. But even after leaving the Verizon store, I was still left with a nagging question, a nagging series of questions. Why? Why did this man have to persist in talking to me, persist in talking to me to the point where I had to be unnaturally rude to extricate myself from our unnaturally stilted excuse for repartee? What kind of person interprets a semi-queasy facial expression and soulless one-to-two word responses as a go-ahead to charge forward with more unsolicited musings about customer service in a hardware store? If this man had been able to wait in line silently without the benefit of someone to talk to before I walked in the store, why couldn’t he keep to himself after I arrived? Was the whole “don’t talk to strangers” concept I was raised on just an 80’s thing? What is the best outcome that could possibly come from our banal dialogue about supplies? Are we going to bond? Am I going to conclude our discourse with a spirited-but-manly, slightly-center-of-right-wing embrace and proclaim that he is the father I should’ve had? Seriously sir, what do you want from me? We have nothing in common except that we both use Verizon and are vaguely aware that hardware stores exist.
I don’t even know anything about hardware. I don’t know anything about software. In the interest of efficiency and being as little as I can be, I’ve made it a point not to know much of anything outside of comedy, movies, music that was made before my time, and architecture. The only reason I went to Strosnider’s was because that needy check engine light came on again, and I’m hoping against hope that if I feed the car enough fluids maybe the instrument panel will quiet down and chill out before I panic and take the car to the mechanic again, which is sure to cut into my Christmas-shopping-for-myself money.
As an aside to further prove my point on how little I know, I’m, pretty certain I put in the wrong antifreeze. Can you use RV & Marine-grade coolant on an SUV? My gut tells me that question will answer itself soon enough, when the temperature drops and my car starts spitting out pieces of radiator and hosiery along I-95.
Back to my original point, talking to strangers has been causing progressively more discomfort the older I get. If we don’t meet through work, comedy, or some properly sanctioned social setting, odds are I will use any and all countermeasures available to me to avoid ending up entangled in any extraneous exchange; up to and including pretending I just got a phone call on vibrate, feigning a minor medical emergency that may or may not involve the bathroom, and/or setting the both of us on fire.
At work, it takes me an average of three aborted trips to the bathroom before I hit a lucky schedule pocket on our floor and get the facilities to myself. Don’t have any black ops planned, something just feels strange about talking to another man while I’m holding myself. Think that should be a general rule among men; if pants are unzipped, are about to be unzipped, or have been unzipped in the last 60-90 seconds, then that’s quiet time fellas, shut your face. No whistling, no humming, certainly no groaning, no 80’s a cappella bathroom jams, and under NO circumstances are you to make a leading comment about the weather, how it’s almost Friday, or the status of the Redskins.
I go to extraordinary, Crusade-level lengths to avoid talking to people on planes; that might be my misanthropic masterpiece. I take my window-seat, armed with a thick but non-interesting looking book, a fully charged iPod, a well-honed penchant for socially-induced narcolepsy, and the most unpredictable, spiritually troubling facial expression my young-ish skull can muster. The trick is to look super eager at everybody coming down the aisle, so that YOU look like the deviant who can’t keep his mouth shut. This will trick whoever into retreating into THEIR shell; they’ll be so afraid you’re going to be the crazy who won’t shut up they’ll likely leave you alone the whole flight. Don’t try that trick with old people though. Most of them lived through World War II, the aftermaths of the Kennedy and Dr. King assassinations, the turmoil of Vietnam, and all five seasons of “Blossom”, so nothing you can do is likely to scare them. When in doubt, no matter who sits next to me, I’m not above staring out the window like a five year-old for seven hours straight, talking about Jesus, attempting a mid-flight Jake-the-Snake style DDT, and/or setting the both of us on fire.
“…Golly, I sure hope that wasn’t the air marshal…”
Happy Holidays, it was nice not talking to you.
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
The Mousse is Loose
Happiness comes in extremely small but potently lasting doses. Getting to make a memory with a loved one. A small bit of professional validation that reminds you the last several years of your life haven’t been a total waste and maybe it’s not time to go shopping for handguns and hemlock just yet. Just barely catching a train. Watching some self-preening-alpha-male-who-clearly-chose-his-major-for-the-money just miss the train. Finding out the person next to you on the plane takes as much joy in not talking to strangers as you do, so now you can read your Fred Astaire biography in peace without having to make hours of small talk about peanut butter crackers and tarmacs. That last one hasn’t happened for me yet, but hope springs eternal.
Guilty pleasures seem to be the ones that bring the most happiness. Supposed to steer clear of because of our gender, race, religious background, ethics, pre-existing health condition, state of perpetual brokenness, or maybe we just have a level of passion concerning this particular thing that others might (or at least should) find alarming. Try oh-so-hard to behave, but sometimes nature just has to take its course. I find guilty pleasures particularly intriguing because the stuff you enjoy with shameless enthusiasm tells a lot about who you really are, good & bad, & really really bad (translation: awesome).
Sometime I think about the kind of stuff I like on that level, makes me proud and ashamed at the same time. Deep down, I enjoy rooting for whatever team is winning in a football game, seeing that look on pitcher’s faces as they whip around to watch the ball sail out of the park, repeatedly sitting through highlights of sporting events I watched the day before, avoiding documentaries that have anything to do with poor people, important conflicts in foreign countries, education or why I need to vote, skipping the interview portion of “The Daily Show” & “The Colbert Report”, making needless biblical references in everyday conversation, art that doesn’t challenge me, jaywalking in front of children who are still being taught to obey the crosswalk light, stockpiling whatever materials I can find about Batman, Motown and standup comedy to an obsessive & financially imprudent degree, movies about felonies and criminal enterprises, watching Fred & Ginger dance numbers an insane number of times in a row, youtube clips of old presidential speeches and debates, Mystikal’s “Let’s Get Ready” album, wasting Saturday mornings with back-to-back-to-back-to-back episodes of “Law & Order”, NOT jogging ever, overpriced books about architecture, overpriced t-shirts from American Apparel, using big words in front of people I know didn’t finish high school, video footage of Kanye West acting a fool at awards shows, and the music of Antonio Carlos Jobim.
Chief and most diabolical of all my guilty pleasures is my intense, Captain Ahab-esque passion for chocolate mousse. Had it once on a date during DC’s Restaurant Week a few years back and have been on the alert for it ever since. Interesting to reflect on that particular date, on that particular girl now, with the space of a few years between us. Still easily ranks as the most tumultuous relationship I’ve ever been in; we could barely bless our dinner together without getting in a heated “discussion” about “my tone”. Once got in a shouting match in the middle of a Northern Virginia Macy’s while Christmas shopping for EACH OTHER. No surprise that since then I’ve become a strong, strong believer in the importance of a “good fit”. The bad times outweighed the good there, but a part of me will always be grateful for the way she had my back when I first started comedy (yours truly was bombing with wild abandon people. If I scored one good laugh in five minutes I thought I had a career, how the hell did that woman or any of my friends sit through so many of those sets?…). On top of that, she introduced me to the granddaddy of all desserts, mousse. Would be a hater not to acknowledge.
Mousse amazes me because it has all the flavor and verve of solid chocolate, but goes down so light you feel like you couldn’t possibly be doing anything wrong. I don’t know who came across that magical density & texture, lighter and drier than pudding, heavier and more substantial than whipped cream; it might’ve been a second gift from Prometheus, perhaps it was dreamt up by a French George Washington Carver or one of the critters from “Ratatouille”. Whoever’s idea it was, I lose my cool like a Justin Bieber groupie whenever I see it on the menu.
The problem is that I don’t see it on the menu. Ever. And I eat out a lot, so I notice a lot. It’s not on my mind when I first walk in, it’s not on my mind while I’m waiting to get seated, eating dinner, or trying to assess whether the waitress is into me or just wants a good tip (why oh why do I always get suckered into that mental debate? Stop looking at me like that lady, I came here for buffalo wings and a Yuengling, not for your short-shorts or your mean-spirited head games!). I get through the whole meal experience, am mentally readying myself to see the check, then the server comes to the table with that blasted question, the one that makes cardiologists so wealthy…
“Can I interest you in some dessert?”
“Why yes. Yes. You. Can.”
But it’s never that simple for yours truly. Asking for specific desserts in public can be complicated for a man. It can be kinda weird asking for mousse when you’re hanging out with a guy, because all of a sudden you two look like a couple (that’s how I know who my friends are, if I feel comfortable enough asking for mousse around them). It can be weird asking for mousse in front of a date, because guys are supposed to be “protectors” right? And how many protectors get particular about dessert? You think Randy Couture or Kimbo Slice give a f*ck about mousse? I bet when Brock Lesnar orders a bear claw he’s surprised to find it’s not an actual bear’s claw. And it can be weird asking for mousse dining by yourself, because then it looks like you’ve just given up on finding happiness with any other human beings, or maybe other human beings have given up on you, and now this little bit of whipped chocolate is the only thing keeping you from taking a blindfolded stroll down a railroad track. But having these misgiving does little to fortify any sense of restraint for me, because once that word “dessert” hits the ear, a voice starts going off in my head at the most annoying volume imaginable
“MOUSSE! MOUSSE DUDE. SEE IF THEY’VE GOT MOUSSE. I’M GOING TO CARVE YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER ON THE BACKS OF ALL YOUR DVDS WITH A SCREWDRIVER IF YOU DON’T ASK ABOUT MOUSSE. DID YOU HEAR ME, WHORE? ASK. ABOUT. THE MOUSSE!!!”
“…dessert sounds nice… hmm, I don’t see it listed here, but I don’t suppose you guys… have any… mousse?”
“No I’m afraid not. We do have a delightful mudslide you might like though. I can put an extra cherry in it for you, perhaps a candy cane…”
Great. Now ‘short-shorts’ is patronizing me even more than when I came in. Not like I had a lot of stud points to lose anyway, not sitting here with my Ghostbusters t-shirt on, you know ladies love that Egon Spengler mojo. Whatever. ‘Short-shorts’ can’t judge me. At least I get to wear pants to work.
“A mudslide sounds nice, thank you so much…”
For four years, this has been my most secret and recurring heartbreak. Searching for a dessert that never seems to be on any menu. Staking my fragile dignity on a request I know to be in vain. Cursing the cruelty of Fate for allowing me to enjoy this sweet delight once, only to deny me bitterly two hundred times and more, with no sign of relief or remorse. Better to not have a tongue than to see it so maliciously teased, taunted and deprived. If happiness comes in a teaspoon, surely misery comes in a dump truck.
Then came hope, and the renewed promise of tomorrow. Hanging out in Eastern Market, I wandered into one of those high-minded, might-as-well-be-vegan sandwich shops (where you order roast beef because it’s the only thing you recognize) to find the sweetest of sweets listed on the menu. Took all of my willpower to keep from squealing with glee as I muttered “I’ll have the mousse” in my best faux-casual voice, trying not to let the waitress see in my eyes just how bad I wanted it, how bad I needed it. Have never wanted a mirror to see my own smile before but I have to imagine I looked ridiculous eating that thing. The last time an inanimate object to made me that happy it was a Darth Vader action figure and the Redskins hadn’t won their third Super Bowl yet (twenty plus years is a good run, kudos to you Hasbro). I don’t know what kind of joy parents feel the first time they see their child, but the smart money says this is likely the closest I’ll probably get to it for a minute.
Better still, just when I thought I had reached the peak of contentment, wandered into Silver Diner to find the sweetest of sweets listed on their menu too, in pie form. That makes two mousse sightings in one week, after four years of relentless can’t-believe-it-really-bothers-you-this-much-Michael/well-it-does-so-shut-your-face-please nothingness. Not even sure how to act right now, it’s a little unsettling when things you’ve always wanted suddenly start falling in your lap. The only time I see things working out for people like that are at the beginnings of horror movies, just before people start getting cut up and/or dragged down to basements, or in war movies, where the guy always seems to get a sweet letter from his girl right before his plane gets shot down and he gets dragged to an enemy detention center for a few years of quality gruel and Geneva convention-violating tender loving care. Since I don’t seem to have a plane, military commission or any business in Hanoi, and don’t hang out with anyone who owns a secluded enough basement to execute a proper live dismemberment, appears I’ll have to give Fate the benefit of the doubt for the time being and just enjoy my dessert.
With the sweetest of sweets so readily available now, find myself simultaneously at peace with the world but also at a loss for words realizing I’ll eventually have to dredge up some new unattainable thing to obsess about. Why? Because I’m a comic and comics don’t have the slightest clue what to do with more than a few moments of happiness at a time. Besides, should probably always have a white whale in front of you, what else is there to do down here but go after stuff and sit around with your friends trading stories about how much you got manhandled while going after stuff? A man is only as good as that which he chases. I just spent the last four years on dessert; think I’m going to spend the next little while holding out for a lactose-free clam chowder.
Stay hungry my friends.
Guilty pleasures seem to be the ones that bring the most happiness. Supposed to steer clear of because of our gender, race, religious background, ethics, pre-existing health condition, state of perpetual brokenness, or maybe we just have a level of passion concerning this particular thing that others might (or at least should) find alarming. Try oh-so-hard to behave, but sometimes nature just has to take its course. I find guilty pleasures particularly intriguing because the stuff you enjoy with shameless enthusiasm tells a lot about who you really are, good & bad, & really really bad (translation: awesome).
Sometime I think about the kind of stuff I like on that level, makes me proud and ashamed at the same time. Deep down, I enjoy rooting for whatever team is winning in a football game, seeing that look on pitcher’s faces as they whip around to watch the ball sail out of the park, repeatedly sitting through highlights of sporting events I watched the day before, avoiding documentaries that have anything to do with poor people, important conflicts in foreign countries, education or why I need to vote, skipping the interview portion of “The Daily Show” & “The Colbert Report”, making needless biblical references in everyday conversation, art that doesn’t challenge me, jaywalking in front of children who are still being taught to obey the crosswalk light, stockpiling whatever materials I can find about Batman, Motown and standup comedy to an obsessive & financially imprudent degree, movies about felonies and criminal enterprises, watching Fred & Ginger dance numbers an insane number of times in a row, youtube clips of old presidential speeches and debates, Mystikal’s “Let’s Get Ready” album, wasting Saturday mornings with back-to-back-to-back-to-back episodes of “Law & Order”, NOT jogging ever, overpriced books about architecture, overpriced t-shirts from American Apparel, using big words in front of people I know didn’t finish high school, video footage of Kanye West acting a fool at awards shows, and the music of Antonio Carlos Jobim.
Chief and most diabolical of all my guilty pleasures is my intense, Captain Ahab-esque passion for chocolate mousse. Had it once on a date during DC’s Restaurant Week a few years back and have been on the alert for it ever since. Interesting to reflect on that particular date, on that particular girl now, with the space of a few years between us. Still easily ranks as the most tumultuous relationship I’ve ever been in; we could barely bless our dinner together without getting in a heated “discussion” about “my tone”. Once got in a shouting match in the middle of a Northern Virginia Macy’s while Christmas shopping for EACH OTHER. No surprise that since then I’ve become a strong, strong believer in the importance of a “good fit”. The bad times outweighed the good there, but a part of me will always be grateful for the way she had my back when I first started comedy (yours truly was bombing with wild abandon people. If I scored one good laugh in five minutes I thought I had a career, how the hell did that woman or any of my friends sit through so many of those sets?…). On top of that, she introduced me to the granddaddy of all desserts, mousse. Would be a hater not to acknowledge.
Mousse amazes me because it has all the flavor and verve of solid chocolate, but goes down so light you feel like you couldn’t possibly be doing anything wrong. I don’t know who came across that magical density & texture, lighter and drier than pudding, heavier and more substantial than whipped cream; it might’ve been a second gift from Prometheus, perhaps it was dreamt up by a French George Washington Carver or one of the critters from “Ratatouille”. Whoever’s idea it was, I lose my cool like a Justin Bieber groupie whenever I see it on the menu.
The problem is that I don’t see it on the menu. Ever. And I eat out a lot, so I notice a lot. It’s not on my mind when I first walk in, it’s not on my mind while I’m waiting to get seated, eating dinner, or trying to assess whether the waitress is into me or just wants a good tip (why oh why do I always get suckered into that mental debate? Stop looking at me like that lady, I came here for buffalo wings and a Yuengling, not for your short-shorts or your mean-spirited head games!). I get through the whole meal experience, am mentally readying myself to see the check, then the server comes to the table with that blasted question, the one that makes cardiologists so wealthy…
“Can I interest you in some dessert?”
“Why yes. Yes. You. Can.”
But it’s never that simple for yours truly. Asking for specific desserts in public can be complicated for a man. It can be kinda weird asking for mousse when you’re hanging out with a guy, because all of a sudden you two look like a couple (that’s how I know who my friends are, if I feel comfortable enough asking for mousse around them). It can be weird asking for mousse in front of a date, because guys are supposed to be “protectors” right? And how many protectors get particular about dessert? You think Randy Couture or Kimbo Slice give a f*ck about mousse? I bet when Brock Lesnar orders a bear claw he’s surprised to find it’s not an actual bear’s claw. And it can be weird asking for mousse dining by yourself, because then it looks like you’ve just given up on finding happiness with any other human beings, or maybe other human beings have given up on you, and now this little bit of whipped chocolate is the only thing keeping you from taking a blindfolded stroll down a railroad track. But having these misgiving does little to fortify any sense of restraint for me, because once that word “dessert” hits the ear, a voice starts going off in my head at the most annoying volume imaginable
“MOUSSE! MOUSSE DUDE. SEE IF THEY’VE GOT MOUSSE. I’M GOING TO CARVE YOUR SOCIAL SECURITY NUMBER ON THE BACKS OF ALL YOUR DVDS WITH A SCREWDRIVER IF YOU DON’T ASK ABOUT MOUSSE. DID YOU HEAR ME, WHORE? ASK. ABOUT. THE MOUSSE!!!”
“…dessert sounds nice… hmm, I don’t see it listed here, but I don’t suppose you guys… have any… mousse?”
“No I’m afraid not. We do have a delightful mudslide you might like though. I can put an extra cherry in it for you, perhaps a candy cane…”
Great. Now ‘short-shorts’ is patronizing me even more than when I came in. Not like I had a lot of stud points to lose anyway, not sitting here with my Ghostbusters t-shirt on, you know ladies love that Egon Spengler mojo. Whatever. ‘Short-shorts’ can’t judge me. At least I get to wear pants to work.
“A mudslide sounds nice, thank you so much…”
For four years, this has been my most secret and recurring heartbreak. Searching for a dessert that never seems to be on any menu. Staking my fragile dignity on a request I know to be in vain. Cursing the cruelty of Fate for allowing me to enjoy this sweet delight once, only to deny me bitterly two hundred times and more, with no sign of relief or remorse. Better to not have a tongue than to see it so maliciously teased, taunted and deprived. If happiness comes in a teaspoon, surely misery comes in a dump truck.
Then came hope, and the renewed promise of tomorrow. Hanging out in Eastern Market, I wandered into one of those high-minded, might-as-well-be-vegan sandwich shops (where you order roast beef because it’s the only thing you recognize) to find the sweetest of sweets listed on the menu. Took all of my willpower to keep from squealing with glee as I muttered “I’ll have the mousse” in my best faux-casual voice, trying not to let the waitress see in my eyes just how bad I wanted it, how bad I needed it. Have never wanted a mirror to see my own smile before but I have to imagine I looked ridiculous eating that thing. The last time an inanimate object to made me that happy it was a Darth Vader action figure and the Redskins hadn’t won their third Super Bowl yet (twenty plus years is a good run, kudos to you Hasbro). I don’t know what kind of joy parents feel the first time they see their child, but the smart money says this is likely the closest I’ll probably get to it for a minute.
Better still, just when I thought I had reached the peak of contentment, wandered into Silver Diner to find the sweetest of sweets listed on their menu too, in pie form. That makes two mousse sightings in one week, after four years of relentless can’t-believe-it-really-bothers-you-this-much-Michael/well-it-does-so-shut-your-face-please nothingness. Not even sure how to act right now, it’s a little unsettling when things you’ve always wanted suddenly start falling in your lap. The only time I see things working out for people like that are at the beginnings of horror movies, just before people start getting cut up and/or dragged down to basements, or in war movies, where the guy always seems to get a sweet letter from his girl right before his plane gets shot down and he gets dragged to an enemy detention center for a few years of quality gruel and Geneva convention-violating tender loving care. Since I don’t seem to have a plane, military commission or any business in Hanoi, and don’t hang out with anyone who owns a secluded enough basement to execute a proper live dismemberment, appears I’ll have to give Fate the benefit of the doubt for the time being and just enjoy my dessert.
With the sweetest of sweets so readily available now, find myself simultaneously at peace with the world but also at a loss for words realizing I’ll eventually have to dredge up some new unattainable thing to obsess about. Why? Because I’m a comic and comics don’t have the slightest clue what to do with more than a few moments of happiness at a time. Besides, should probably always have a white whale in front of you, what else is there to do down here but go after stuff and sit around with your friends trading stories about how much you got manhandled while going after stuff? A man is only as good as that which he chases. I just spent the last four years on dessert; think I’m going to spend the next little while holding out for a lactose-free clam chowder.
Stay hungry my friends.
Monday, October 4, 2010
MMA
As much as I work to live the life of a good pacifist a.k.a “pu$$y” a.k.a “environmentalist” (to quote "Thank You For Smoking"), there’s a part of me that will always nurture an irrational love of contact sports. Friends and family know better than to call me on Sundays in the fall, and I watch late-night ESPN classic reruns of old boxing matches with a glee normally reserved for the arrival of warm brownies and the conjuring of a clever facebook status.
Needless to say, mixed martial arts holds a special place in my heart. Something about watching a large, borderline psychotic beast of a man get kicked in the head by another large, borderline psychotic beast of a man… it’s rarely poetry in motion, but the world definitely does seem a little more right after every fight. Ever the hypocrite, I personally don’t subscribe to violence as a means or an end. Used to train for boxing back in college; the idea of wailing on the body of another mother’s child as hard as I can or giving somebody else a chance to wail on my mama’s baby makes me want to throw up. That being said, if two numbskulls voluntarily climb into a ring and agree to wail on each other as hard as they can for no other reason than pride, money and the chance to sleep with shallow indiscriminate women… well that’s the kind of entertainment that made America great.
I love me some UFC. I don’t even know who any of the fighters are, except maybe Kimbo Slice (little over-hyped), Randy Couture (little over-old), Ken Shamrock (also over-old, and pretty much always gets his ass beat but has the crowd on his side anyway because he used to be on WWF) and that big dude from A-Team (don’t tell me his name, I can’t spare the neurons). Still doesn’t stop me from enjoying the heck out of the fights. Fighting’s not like my other passion, classical music; you don’t need much background or time in the conservatory to enjoy a good arm bar or roundhouse kick.
My boy G. always orders the fights on pay-per-view and organizes has these awesome fight parties at his apartment. Girls show up and then promptly wonder why they showed up. Guys show up and don’t care what the girls are annoyed about because we’re all to busy acting like we’re not closing in on 30 and should be too grown for this stuff by now. Whatever maturity was left in us gets weeded out by the impromptu re-enactment that invariably takes place in G.’s garage immediately after the fight, followed by no less than twelve rounds of beer pong, followed by forty-minutes of wondering where all the girls went and why nobody got any phone numbers tonight.
Sad to say I grew out of UFC earlier this year. Still love seeing how many times somebody can bury his elbow in another guys face before the ref decides that’s enough, but I couldn’t stomach the sight of the loser’s facial expression anymore. That’s the most brutal part of the evening. Not when he’s getting knocked out. That paralyzed look of surprise is always funny. If some part of you doesn’t appreciate the sublime beauty, the bone-crushing irony of someone voluntarily agreeing to a down payment on future brain damage then having the nerve to look surprised when that down payment is due then you’re dead inside, and have been for a long time. The brutal part of mixed martial arts is after the fight is over. When old boy gets up, dazed, and sees Joe Rogan interviewing the OTHER guy. Forget what you’ve seen at the Superbowl, Presidential Elections or the World Cup. You haven’t truly seen devastated disappointment until you’ve seen the face of a man who just lost a televised fist fight.
It doesn’t get much more emotional than to see somebody who worked as hard as he knew how, who literally gave everything he had until he lost consciousness or a third party intervened, only to find out it wasn’t enough. Some nights it’s not even close, even the loser’s mama bet on the other guy. But the last six to ten weeks he’s been telling himself, he’s the best. That he’s coming to the ring to do business. That he’s going to be the victor, and this is but one stop on the road to the championship and his inevitable glory. Never mind the sacrifices, never mind the pain. It’ll all be worth it after tonight, when he raises his hands as the victor. Three weeks from now he’ll have his own flavor of Gatorade and be doing lines of coke off preacher’s wives’ asses. But tonight old boy is not the victor. Tonight he is the forgotten. Now he’s the one who has to be a sportsman, who has to tell Joe Rogan what went wrong and where things went out of control. He has to go back to the quiet, subdued locker room, where everyone tries to put on a happy face while making as little eye contact as possible. He has to find the strength not to let his swollen lip quiver, not to cry like the pu$$ he always feared he was in front of his trainer, all while the other joker with the fantastic elbow smash no one warned him about gets to enjoy being loud, gets to enjoy talking trash about not caring who the next opponent is while “giving glory to God”. He gets to enjoy the pride, he gets to enjoy the money, and he gets to enjoy the chance to sleep with those ever-coveted shallow, indiscriminate women, the ones who make America great.
How does one process losing with that much at stake? It started tearing me up inside to watch, so much so that I couldn’t enjoy the fights, knowing somebody would have to lose. Better to not watch than to watch a loser, better to not play than risking losing like that, right? At least that’s what I thought.
Went out to Vegas a week and a half ago for the World Series of Comedy. Didn’t get my clock cleaned, but I didn’t advance either. Which pretty much left me with the same thing as if I had gotten my clock cleaned: next to nothing. But it turns out next to nothing is still better than nothing. So what did my next to nothing come with? I know where I am in the food chain for starters. I’m “pretty good” with room to get better. “Great” is not as far off as I feared it would be when I first started. Even better, there are avenues for me to further hone my craft, people I can learn from, and people willing to give me opportunities. But more important than the knowledge of where I am in the food chain, more important than the opportunities, perhaps the most important bit of knowledge from my time in Vegas: the clock is ticking for me to make this happen.
Most comics who become headliners and really start to make waves seem to do so between about five and ten years into their career. You can live off doing this for a long time, maybe forever, but “most” of the famous comedians people have heard of appear to have started getting their breaks between five and ten years in. Same with non-famous headliners who can at least live off of comedy without a day job. After 5-10 years, looks like you have to really really bust your hump, create your own breaks to keep your trajectory on the upslope and avoid that tragic comic’s descent; the one that starts with you doing REALLY terrible gigs (comedy & karaoke anyone?) because they’re the only things you can get your hands on, to not getting any gigs at all, to selling drill bits at a Sears, to one day trying out a drill bit on your own forehead, but not before first driving a few countersunk wood screws into your floor manager’s temporal lobe (so much for that “non-violent” thing I was talking about earlier…).
Since high school I’ve been playing it pretty safe in life. Only applying to schools I knew I could get in. Picking a major that would ensure I would always be employable if and when my other pie-in-the-sky ideas didn’t work out. Not changing lanes in traffic jams until twelve other cars have passed me by. Could write a book on not taking chances, but being risk-averse I’d never have the courage to pitch it to any publishers.
I love comedy because it’s one of the only parts of my life where I feel comfortable taking chances. Not only feel comfortable, HAVE to take chances. If you aren’t taking chances and saying slightly messed-up stuff in comedy, chances are you aren’t that funny. Not to anyone but your grandma anyway, who let’s face it, doesn’t really have any idea what you’re talking about or who you are in the first place.
My roommate and I were discussing an old bit I’ve been tweaking earlier this evening. If I do it right there’s a good chance people might still remember my name by the time they get home. If I do it REALLY right, there’s a chance I could get beat up like Ken Shamrock as soon as I get offstage. You already know how I have to do the joke now, don’t you? If you see me in a full-body cast looking slightly sodomized, you’ll know there where Africans in the audience and they did NOT like the joke.
As an aside, heavens-to-betsy I hope I never meet Ken Shamrock. I really hope he doesn’t read or have friends who read. I’m 175 pounds of VERY casually toned muscle; with my luck I’ll be the one guy who CAN’T get him in a submission hold… did I mention I’m an “environmentalist”? I love trees, non-predatory woodland animals, and how lovely my jawbone and ribs look in x-rays from never having been broken before. And yes, I did start this paragraph with the expression “heavens-to-betsy”. Been waiting for two weeks to drop that one, hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
So back to my main point, if comedy thrives on taking chances, how long can an ambitious comic get by without taking risks? How long can a comic limit the risk-taking to the material and not apply that same adventurousness to his or her life? Isn’t it hypocritical not to? Probably. Of all the people I don’t want to have calling me an “environmentalist” every time they see me, “Me”, “Myself” and “I” are all at the top of the list. On top of being super-wordy and slightly obnoxious, they’re the only ones I can’t get to shut up or avoid.
What about losing? You might lose homie. Bad. Might get your emotional nose bloodied pretty good. Might get embarrassed in front of your friends and loved ones. Parents might stop making eye contact with you at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They might not invite you, because no one likes to see poor people on the holidays, especially at their dinner table. Might regret ever leaving your comfort zone homie. Might end up on the street, cooking up drugs under a bridge somewhere, working as a mule for some irascible Panamanians, who are still sore about what went down with Noriega. Might get beat up by some Africans who found the quality of your drugs AND your jokes to be irreconcilably inferior. You don’t want to end up like one of those UFC losers, do you? DO you? …do you??? You stupid stupid bastard… you do, don’t you? Maybe. Maybe the noses with the most character are the ones that have been bloodied a bit. Maybe seeing what I saw in Vegas put the taste of blood in my mouth and I’m hungry for more. Maybe I’ll lose every event I participate in and come to great financial and emotional ruin with some of the moves I’m contemplating. But maybe I won’t.
Only have to hit once, and even if I don’t hit, time at the plate is still better than time in the dugout. Even those MMA losers can take solace in having taken their shot, so they’re not really losers at all. Especially compared to clowns like me, who've spent too many Saturday nights watching. Those guys who fight and lose might not be remembered as the best, they might not be remembered at all. But once upon a time they stepped in the ring and now know where they stand. A bruised body or a bruised ego is a small price to pay for the luxury of not wondering what could’ve been. I started doing stand-up comedy at Soho Tea & Coffee House on December 19, 2005. Will hit the five year mark this December and then the clock starts ticking for real, getting tired of not knowing. Stay tuned…
Needless to say, mixed martial arts holds a special place in my heart. Something about watching a large, borderline psychotic beast of a man get kicked in the head by another large, borderline psychotic beast of a man… it’s rarely poetry in motion, but the world definitely does seem a little more right after every fight. Ever the hypocrite, I personally don’t subscribe to violence as a means or an end. Used to train for boxing back in college; the idea of wailing on the body of another mother’s child as hard as I can or giving somebody else a chance to wail on my mama’s baby makes me want to throw up. That being said, if two numbskulls voluntarily climb into a ring and agree to wail on each other as hard as they can for no other reason than pride, money and the chance to sleep with shallow indiscriminate women… well that’s the kind of entertainment that made America great.
I love me some UFC. I don’t even know who any of the fighters are, except maybe Kimbo Slice (little over-hyped), Randy Couture (little over-old), Ken Shamrock (also over-old, and pretty much always gets his ass beat but has the crowd on his side anyway because he used to be on WWF) and that big dude from A-Team (don’t tell me his name, I can’t spare the neurons). Still doesn’t stop me from enjoying the heck out of the fights. Fighting’s not like my other passion, classical music; you don’t need much background or time in the conservatory to enjoy a good arm bar or roundhouse kick.
My boy G. always orders the fights on pay-per-view and organizes has these awesome fight parties at his apartment. Girls show up and then promptly wonder why they showed up. Guys show up and don’t care what the girls are annoyed about because we’re all to busy acting like we’re not closing in on 30 and should be too grown for this stuff by now. Whatever maturity was left in us gets weeded out by the impromptu re-enactment that invariably takes place in G.’s garage immediately after the fight, followed by no less than twelve rounds of beer pong, followed by forty-minutes of wondering where all the girls went and why nobody got any phone numbers tonight.
Sad to say I grew out of UFC earlier this year. Still love seeing how many times somebody can bury his elbow in another guys face before the ref decides that’s enough, but I couldn’t stomach the sight of the loser’s facial expression anymore. That’s the most brutal part of the evening. Not when he’s getting knocked out. That paralyzed look of surprise is always funny. If some part of you doesn’t appreciate the sublime beauty, the bone-crushing irony of someone voluntarily agreeing to a down payment on future brain damage then having the nerve to look surprised when that down payment is due then you’re dead inside, and have been for a long time. The brutal part of mixed martial arts is after the fight is over. When old boy gets up, dazed, and sees Joe Rogan interviewing the OTHER guy. Forget what you’ve seen at the Superbowl, Presidential Elections or the World Cup. You haven’t truly seen devastated disappointment until you’ve seen the face of a man who just lost a televised fist fight.
It doesn’t get much more emotional than to see somebody who worked as hard as he knew how, who literally gave everything he had until he lost consciousness or a third party intervened, only to find out it wasn’t enough. Some nights it’s not even close, even the loser’s mama bet on the other guy. But the last six to ten weeks he’s been telling himself, he’s the best. That he’s coming to the ring to do business. That he’s going to be the victor, and this is but one stop on the road to the championship and his inevitable glory. Never mind the sacrifices, never mind the pain. It’ll all be worth it after tonight, when he raises his hands as the victor. Three weeks from now he’ll have his own flavor of Gatorade and be doing lines of coke off preacher’s wives’ asses. But tonight old boy is not the victor. Tonight he is the forgotten. Now he’s the one who has to be a sportsman, who has to tell Joe Rogan what went wrong and where things went out of control. He has to go back to the quiet, subdued locker room, where everyone tries to put on a happy face while making as little eye contact as possible. He has to find the strength not to let his swollen lip quiver, not to cry like the pu$$ he always feared he was in front of his trainer, all while the other joker with the fantastic elbow smash no one warned him about gets to enjoy being loud, gets to enjoy talking trash about not caring who the next opponent is while “giving glory to God”. He gets to enjoy the pride, he gets to enjoy the money, and he gets to enjoy the chance to sleep with those ever-coveted shallow, indiscriminate women, the ones who make America great.
How does one process losing with that much at stake? It started tearing me up inside to watch, so much so that I couldn’t enjoy the fights, knowing somebody would have to lose. Better to not watch than to watch a loser, better to not play than risking losing like that, right? At least that’s what I thought.
Went out to Vegas a week and a half ago for the World Series of Comedy. Didn’t get my clock cleaned, but I didn’t advance either. Which pretty much left me with the same thing as if I had gotten my clock cleaned: next to nothing. But it turns out next to nothing is still better than nothing. So what did my next to nothing come with? I know where I am in the food chain for starters. I’m “pretty good” with room to get better. “Great” is not as far off as I feared it would be when I first started. Even better, there are avenues for me to further hone my craft, people I can learn from, and people willing to give me opportunities. But more important than the knowledge of where I am in the food chain, more important than the opportunities, perhaps the most important bit of knowledge from my time in Vegas: the clock is ticking for me to make this happen.
Most comics who become headliners and really start to make waves seem to do so between about five and ten years into their career. You can live off doing this for a long time, maybe forever, but “most” of the famous comedians people have heard of appear to have started getting their breaks between five and ten years in. Same with non-famous headliners who can at least live off of comedy without a day job. After 5-10 years, looks like you have to really really bust your hump, create your own breaks to keep your trajectory on the upslope and avoid that tragic comic’s descent; the one that starts with you doing REALLY terrible gigs (comedy & karaoke anyone?) because they’re the only things you can get your hands on, to not getting any gigs at all, to selling drill bits at a Sears, to one day trying out a drill bit on your own forehead, but not before first driving a few countersunk wood screws into your floor manager’s temporal lobe (so much for that “non-violent” thing I was talking about earlier…).
Since high school I’ve been playing it pretty safe in life. Only applying to schools I knew I could get in. Picking a major that would ensure I would always be employable if and when my other pie-in-the-sky ideas didn’t work out. Not changing lanes in traffic jams until twelve other cars have passed me by. Could write a book on not taking chances, but being risk-averse I’d never have the courage to pitch it to any publishers.
I love comedy because it’s one of the only parts of my life where I feel comfortable taking chances. Not only feel comfortable, HAVE to take chances. If you aren’t taking chances and saying slightly messed-up stuff in comedy, chances are you aren’t that funny. Not to anyone but your grandma anyway, who let’s face it, doesn’t really have any idea what you’re talking about or who you are in the first place.
My roommate and I were discussing an old bit I’ve been tweaking earlier this evening. If I do it right there’s a good chance people might still remember my name by the time they get home. If I do it REALLY right, there’s a chance I could get beat up like Ken Shamrock as soon as I get offstage. You already know how I have to do the joke now, don’t you? If you see me in a full-body cast looking slightly sodomized, you’ll know there where Africans in the audience and they did NOT like the joke.
As an aside, heavens-to-betsy I hope I never meet Ken Shamrock. I really hope he doesn’t read or have friends who read. I’m 175 pounds of VERY casually toned muscle; with my luck I’ll be the one guy who CAN’T get him in a submission hold… did I mention I’m an “environmentalist”? I love trees, non-predatory woodland animals, and how lovely my jawbone and ribs look in x-rays from never having been broken before. And yes, I did start this paragraph with the expression “heavens-to-betsy”. Been waiting for two weeks to drop that one, hope it was as good for you as it was for me.
So back to my main point, if comedy thrives on taking chances, how long can an ambitious comic get by without taking risks? How long can a comic limit the risk-taking to the material and not apply that same adventurousness to his or her life? Isn’t it hypocritical not to? Probably. Of all the people I don’t want to have calling me an “environmentalist” every time they see me, “Me”, “Myself” and “I” are all at the top of the list. On top of being super-wordy and slightly obnoxious, they’re the only ones I can’t get to shut up or avoid.
What about losing? You might lose homie. Bad. Might get your emotional nose bloodied pretty good. Might get embarrassed in front of your friends and loved ones. Parents might stop making eye contact with you at Thanksgiving and Christmas. They might not invite you, because no one likes to see poor people on the holidays, especially at their dinner table. Might regret ever leaving your comfort zone homie. Might end up on the street, cooking up drugs under a bridge somewhere, working as a mule for some irascible Panamanians, who are still sore about what went down with Noriega. Might get beat up by some Africans who found the quality of your drugs AND your jokes to be irreconcilably inferior. You don’t want to end up like one of those UFC losers, do you? DO you? …do you??? You stupid stupid bastard… you do, don’t you? Maybe. Maybe the noses with the most character are the ones that have been bloodied a bit. Maybe seeing what I saw in Vegas put the taste of blood in my mouth and I’m hungry for more. Maybe I’ll lose every event I participate in and come to great financial and emotional ruin with some of the moves I’m contemplating. But maybe I won’t.
Only have to hit once, and even if I don’t hit, time at the plate is still better than time in the dugout. Even those MMA losers can take solace in having taken their shot, so they’re not really losers at all. Especially compared to clowns like me, who've spent too many Saturday nights watching. Those guys who fight and lose might not be remembered as the best, they might not be remembered at all. But once upon a time they stepped in the ring and now know where they stand. A bruised body or a bruised ego is a small price to pay for the luxury of not wondering what could’ve been. I started doing stand-up comedy at Soho Tea & Coffee House on December 19, 2005. Will hit the five year mark this December and then the clock starts ticking for real, getting tired of not knowing. Stay tuned…
Sunday, August 29, 2010
Gridlock
It’s not that I want you to die
Your ride just can’t live any more
Maybe you’ll learn watching your wheels burn
That you drive like a contemptible whore
You chill when I’ve got places to be
Got places to be when I want to chill
Seem to take glee in inconveniencing me
Who does 15 going down a hill?
Why the left lane when you’re not going fast?
Since you’ve been there no cars have been passed
Not sure how much longer my patience will last
If only I had phasers, you’d be gone in a blast
Please say you’re kidding, that’s not how you merge
Tentative like a nerd on prom night
Wonder what the perks are of owning a smart car
When the driver is clearly not bright
Oh sweet, more roadwork, it’s my lucky day
Next five miles will be a ball
To build a thoroughfare that needs so much care
Defeats the point of building one at all
Don’t tease me bro, quit touching those brakes
There’s nothing in front of you, this light we can make
If you just keep on moving, just what will it take?
Have mercy, do the speed limit and ease this heartache
In the end this is probably my fault
A smart one would leave the Beltway alone
When the traffic report makes the world news sound short
That should be the cue to stay home
That’s about all the rhyming this drained brain can store
In the words of the Raven I ‘quoth’, “Nevermore!”
Just one quick reminder, sure I said it before
If you do one thing in life, don’t drive like a whore.
Your ride just can’t live any more
Maybe you’ll learn watching your wheels burn
That you drive like a contemptible whore
You chill when I’ve got places to be
Got places to be when I want to chill
Seem to take glee in inconveniencing me
Who does 15 going down a hill?
Why the left lane when you’re not going fast?
Since you’ve been there no cars have been passed
Not sure how much longer my patience will last
If only I had phasers, you’d be gone in a blast
Please say you’re kidding, that’s not how you merge
Tentative like a nerd on prom night
Wonder what the perks are of owning a smart car
When the driver is clearly not bright
Oh sweet, more roadwork, it’s my lucky day
Next five miles will be a ball
To build a thoroughfare that needs so much care
Defeats the point of building one at all
Don’t tease me bro, quit touching those brakes
There’s nothing in front of you, this light we can make
If you just keep on moving, just what will it take?
Have mercy, do the speed limit and ease this heartache
In the end this is probably my fault
A smart one would leave the Beltway alone
When the traffic report makes the world news sound short
That should be the cue to stay home
That’s about all the rhyming this drained brain can store
In the words of the Raven I ‘quoth’, “Nevermore!”
Just one quick reminder, sure I said it before
If you do one thing in life, don’t drive like a whore.
Friday, August 6, 2010
Wagoneer
Never seemed to take much to make you genuinely happy as a child. When I was little, for exercise my mom would pull me around the block in a red wagon. Would get unbelievably hype for these occasions, bubbling with anticipation each time like it hadn’t just happened twenty-four hours ago. Grab all my favorite stuffed animals, make sure the straps were straight on my OshKosh B’Goshes. Wave to all the neighbors like I’d just been inaugurated, blow kisses and make faces at everyone who didn’t have access to a Radio Flyer and a mom. That wagon was a one float parade, and my stuffed animals and I were mighty proud to be represented. Didn’t even mind if we ran long and missed the first few minutes of He-Man. If we actually got home early enough for me to get settled with some peanut butter & jelly and M&Ms before He-Man and Inspector Gadget started… well that was a textbook example of a perfect day at the office.
I long for the days when all it took was a ten minute wagon ride to make me happy for a whole afternoon. Adults rarely seem truly “happy”. We just get little pockets of “not miserable” for a few minutes at a time, peppered just frequently enough to keep us from spending our lunch breaks shopping online for anti-depressants and assault rifles.
Running through the Christmas list of contradictory things the average modern adult needs to feel “not miserable”, it’s a wonder we don’t give up altogether and start cooking drugs under a bridge somewhere. A crackhead’s path to happiness is so much more clear and efficient than ours. Wake up from previous night’s beating, fellate a stranger, get money, buy crack, smoke it, feel happy, disregard the fact that you’ve soiled your sweatpants again or are in a room with twenty other people who’ve soiled their sweatpants, ignore the guy in the Detroit Lions hoodie claiming to be the Son of God, get randomly beat up by one of your “colleagues” who thinks you still have rocks on you, fall asleep, rinse and repeat. That’s not a glamorous or sustainable path to happiness but it is straightforward and relatively achievable.
“Normal” people’s checklists for bliss reads like a dossier from Mission:Impossible, maybe an absurd scavenger hunt for fraternity pledges who don’t know any better. The stuff we dream about seems reasonable until we start sounding out some of it out. Flavorful food that is somehow good for you AND the environment, yet costs about the same as the regular food that is slowly killing everybody else. An important job that challenges us without being too stressful or keeping us away from our families. Getting to work with people who know how to get the job done yet are still always enjoyable to be around. A career that offers the possibility of Michael Jackson fame with Tito Jackson privacy. Affordable housing our friends and people who annoy us will covet, that is somehow magically located two blocks from public transportation, a quiet highway that never has traffic jams or needs roadwork, an environmentally friendly yet reasonably priced grocery store, and bully-less public schools with high test scores, a championship athletic program and a kick-ass wind ensemble. A masculine yet non-threatening dog that can play fetch with itself, use the toilet, remember to put the seat down, and knows better than to bark during SportsCenter’s “Sunday Conversation” or the last twenty-five minutes of movies. A car that gets us attention without telling the world how badly we need attention. The body of a Greek statue without having to spend nearly as much effort as everyone else who has the body of a Greek statue. We can somehow beat the odds and get all or most of or some of that stuff, still end up borderline suicidal if we don’t find a fulfilling three-dimensional companion for us to enjoy our hard-sought stuff with.
The things we want in a companion are so ludicrous they almost become endearing, like an old lady who doesn’t realize all that perfume doesn’t cover up the fact that she has a gas problem. Can’t even hate on us for what we’re looking for; it’s clear we must have some kind of disability and hating on the disabled feels mean. We want someone who looks like a movie star but is not a narcissist. Could have any man or woman she or he wants but is entirely devoted to us in a non-clingy way because they can see and appreciate the special-ness of “the real you”, all without being weird or needy about it. Interesting to talk to but has a pitch perfect sense of when to be quiet. A good sense of humor but doesn't try to be "on" all the time. Doesn’t snore, yet doesn’t mind that we snore. A fighter who will let us win. A fearless yet discrete sexual dynamo, ready to explore every deviant desire our depraved minds dare to dream up, who somehow hasn’t done or even wanted to explore any of that depravity with anyone else until we came along, because we’re that dammed special, no matter how often we have a tough day or an “off night”.
Anyone silly enough to try and hold out for such pipe dreams kind of deserves to end up spending their Friday nights in embroidery class, or going home at the end of the week to blog about their mom and red wagons. I used to get on my knees and pray every morning before work, would pray for the realization of my goals and the companion of my dreams. Eventually got tired of overhearing angels scream “B*tch, please!” in the background.
Even when we meet somebody interesting and have chemistry, it seems we too often don’t really know how to process feeling good for a sustained period of time. Brain simply can’t handle it.
“What the hell? Is someone else making us happy? Whoa whoa whoa, We can’t be afford to be that vulnerable. That will give another human being a chance to hurt us, and we don’t play that, under any circumstances. Need 50cc’s of freak-the-f*ck-out, STAT…”
Cue needless neurosis. Were we enjoying ourselves before? That’s nice, let’s change the channel for a bit, see how we like spending every available waking moment obsessing about how things are failing or going to fail, or why the heck this person is into us in the first place. Turns out our self-esteem is as low as our ambitions were high, time to act accordingly kiddies. Our conscience should be telling us to settle down, instead it’s just feeding us one bad idea after another.
“What is that, affection? Beats the heck outta me baby, haven’t seen too much of that around these parts. How to respond, how to respond? ...Um, I don’t know, best I can do for now is to hook you up with some suspicion, arbitrary aloofness, and a few transparent passive-aggressive control games. Maybe we could make a game of seeing exactly how many random and charming manifestations of our insecurity we can dream up before this person’s patience runs out. Yeah, that’ll work. That’ll be awesome. You know your conscience sure is talented baby; you should ask me about this stuff more often because clearly I am a genius.”
Can pack all that crazy and still have the nerve to be shocked and wounded when the other person tells us we aren’t much fun anymore, sit up whining to our friends.
“I don’t know why they left… I’m fun. What does fun have to do with companionship anyway?”
So cute. Never thought I’d envy crackheads.
It can’t all be as complicated as we make it. Need to relax, take everything back to the simplicity of that wagon. No telling what’s around the corner. Might be good, might be not so good. But it’s beautiful today and at least we’re out, out with a chance to experience something, so for now just shut up, wave to the people and enjoy the ride.
I long for the days when all it took was a ten minute wagon ride to make me happy for a whole afternoon. Adults rarely seem truly “happy”. We just get little pockets of “not miserable” for a few minutes at a time, peppered just frequently enough to keep us from spending our lunch breaks shopping online for anti-depressants and assault rifles.
Running through the Christmas list of contradictory things the average modern adult needs to feel “not miserable”, it’s a wonder we don’t give up altogether and start cooking drugs under a bridge somewhere. A crackhead’s path to happiness is so much more clear and efficient than ours. Wake up from previous night’s beating, fellate a stranger, get money, buy crack, smoke it, feel happy, disregard the fact that you’ve soiled your sweatpants again or are in a room with twenty other people who’ve soiled their sweatpants, ignore the guy in the Detroit Lions hoodie claiming to be the Son of God, get randomly beat up by one of your “colleagues” who thinks you still have rocks on you, fall asleep, rinse and repeat. That’s not a glamorous or sustainable path to happiness but it is straightforward and relatively achievable.
“Normal” people’s checklists for bliss reads like a dossier from Mission:Impossible, maybe an absurd scavenger hunt for fraternity pledges who don’t know any better. The stuff we dream about seems reasonable until we start sounding out some of it out. Flavorful food that is somehow good for you AND the environment, yet costs about the same as the regular food that is slowly killing everybody else. An important job that challenges us without being too stressful or keeping us away from our families. Getting to work with people who know how to get the job done yet are still always enjoyable to be around. A career that offers the possibility of Michael Jackson fame with Tito Jackson privacy. Affordable housing our friends and people who annoy us will covet, that is somehow magically located two blocks from public transportation, a quiet highway that never has traffic jams or needs roadwork, an environmentally friendly yet reasonably priced grocery store, and bully-less public schools with high test scores, a championship athletic program and a kick-ass wind ensemble. A masculine yet non-threatening dog that can play fetch with itself, use the toilet, remember to put the seat down, and knows better than to bark during SportsCenter’s “Sunday Conversation” or the last twenty-five minutes of movies. A car that gets us attention without telling the world how badly we need attention. The body of a Greek statue without having to spend nearly as much effort as everyone else who has the body of a Greek statue. We can somehow beat the odds and get all or most of or some of that stuff, still end up borderline suicidal if we don’t find a fulfilling three-dimensional companion for us to enjoy our hard-sought stuff with.
The things we want in a companion are so ludicrous they almost become endearing, like an old lady who doesn’t realize all that perfume doesn’t cover up the fact that she has a gas problem. Can’t even hate on us for what we’re looking for; it’s clear we must have some kind of disability and hating on the disabled feels mean. We want someone who looks like a movie star but is not a narcissist. Could have any man or woman she or he wants but is entirely devoted to us in a non-clingy way because they can see and appreciate the special-ness of “the real you”, all without being weird or needy about it. Interesting to talk to but has a pitch perfect sense of when to be quiet. A good sense of humor but doesn't try to be "on" all the time. Doesn’t snore, yet doesn’t mind that we snore. A fighter who will let us win. A fearless yet discrete sexual dynamo, ready to explore every deviant desire our depraved minds dare to dream up, who somehow hasn’t done or even wanted to explore any of that depravity with anyone else until we came along, because we’re that dammed special, no matter how often we have a tough day or an “off night”.
Anyone silly enough to try and hold out for such pipe dreams kind of deserves to end up spending their Friday nights in embroidery class, or going home at the end of the week to blog about their mom and red wagons. I used to get on my knees and pray every morning before work, would pray for the realization of my goals and the companion of my dreams. Eventually got tired of overhearing angels scream “B*tch, please!” in the background.
Even when we meet somebody interesting and have chemistry, it seems we too often don’t really know how to process feeling good for a sustained period of time. Brain simply can’t handle it.
“What the hell? Is someone else making us happy? Whoa whoa whoa, We can’t be afford to be that vulnerable. That will give another human being a chance to hurt us, and we don’t play that, under any circumstances. Need 50cc’s of freak-the-f*ck-out, STAT…”
Cue needless neurosis. Were we enjoying ourselves before? That’s nice, let’s change the channel for a bit, see how we like spending every available waking moment obsessing about how things are failing or going to fail, or why the heck this person is into us in the first place. Turns out our self-esteem is as low as our ambitions were high, time to act accordingly kiddies. Our conscience should be telling us to settle down, instead it’s just feeding us one bad idea after another.
“What is that, affection? Beats the heck outta me baby, haven’t seen too much of that around these parts. How to respond, how to respond? ...Um, I don’t know, best I can do for now is to hook you up with some suspicion, arbitrary aloofness, and a few transparent passive-aggressive control games. Maybe we could make a game of seeing exactly how many random and charming manifestations of our insecurity we can dream up before this person’s patience runs out. Yeah, that’ll work. That’ll be awesome. You know your conscience sure is talented baby; you should ask me about this stuff more often because clearly I am a genius.”
Can pack all that crazy and still have the nerve to be shocked and wounded when the other person tells us we aren’t much fun anymore, sit up whining to our friends.
“I don’t know why they left… I’m fun. What does fun have to do with companionship anyway?”
So cute. Never thought I’d envy crackheads.
It can’t all be as complicated as we make it. Need to relax, take everything back to the simplicity of that wagon. No telling what’s around the corner. Might be good, might be not so good. But it’s beautiful today and at least we’re out, out with a chance to experience something, so for now just shut up, wave to the people and enjoy the ride.
Friday, July 30, 2010
…And the Hearse You Rode in On
Bill was already reaching for another cigarette, hadn't even finished the one in his mouth yet. Could say it was one of those days, except every day was that kind of day, a tauntingly slow motion slog from smoke break to smoke break. Bill made a game of seeing how many he could polish off in fifteen minutes without looking like he had a problem. He preferred Parliaments, not really because he liked the taste but because asking for Parliaments at the convenience store made him feel fancy.
10:30 am. Service should be wrapping up soon, time to warm up the hearse. He almost felt pity for the Lincoln. Sentencing such a fine vehicle to a lifetime of trafficking in the dearly departed was like using a $200 saucepan to make grilled cheese. She drove relentlessly smooth and sure, had a kind of misplaced regality normally reserved for non-governing heads of state and past-their-prime beauty queens. This was by far the nicest car you could never meet women with. Well, maybe Goth women, but how much fun can you have with someone while wondering whether she’s going to tie you up in the night, offer you to her pagan gods, a.k.a. the Moon as human sacrifice?
Curious line of work driving one of these things. Part limousine driver, part mover, part speed confidant, all strange. No matter how good one is at this job, there’s no such a thing as a ‘good day’. He’d better not be caught enjoying himself, joy is wholly inappropriate here. Hard to imagine how horrified a widow would be to find her hearse driver whistling while he worked, listening to Opie and Anthony on the radio, or trying to gossip about “True Blood” and Lebron James. Definitely can’t post status updates about how much he loves his job or is ‘taking it to the hole’.
People can't imagine how hard it is socializing as a hearse driver. Tell someone what you do at a bar, get an introspective "oh", followed by excruciatingly banal chitchat until someone gets the nerve to pretend their phone is vibrating. Nothing makes a guy feel happy to be out like watching someone desperately claw their brain for an exit strategy.
Can’t fault people for their discomfort, not a lot of entertaining places the conversation can go from there. It’s not like he had charming anecdotes and workplace hi-jinks to report “…so one time I was leading this motorcade and needed to stop for gas, the family was NOT pleased. I was like ‘What’s the rush? The dirt’s still going to be there’ …needless to say there were some curiously specific ‘general remarks’ on ‘preparedness and tact’ at the next strategy meeting. Why we have strategy meetings at a funeral home is beyond me. Pretty much everyone on earth is going to need us eventually; the only way we could broaden our market is by selling toilet paper and condoms on the side...”
10:45. Showtime at the front door, time to focus. Bill tried to concentrate on looking slightly somber yet dignified. Always ended up debating exactly how much of a smile would be appropriate for each group. Too little of a smile seems rude, too much grin looks like you work for the Reaper or are happy the guy is dead. Nothing like the science of miming empathy in a professional setting, Roma Downey and Della Reese would be proud.
11:35 Of all the recurring lines of post funeral dialogue, “Thanks for everything" had to be his personal favorite. Knew people were just trying to be polite, but really, thanks for what? He wasn’t driving this Lincoln town car as a personal favor. He was driving it because he wasn't quite focused enough his last two years of high school and this was all his uncle could hook him up with. He was just lucky his uncle didn’t run a rickshaw service, with his luck it’d be in some cardiovascular hell like San Francisco or Aspen. Next time someone tells you to stay awake in world literature class, listen.
The deceased’s mother invited him to attend the repast. He knew he would have to do it, but he could never figure out why people persisted in inviting him. Small talk was hard enough for guys in his line of work, but small talk at the funeral reception of a complete stranger was cosmically brutal. What does one even say? “Yeah, seemed like a good guy, but then again I only knew him dead.” Try to clean it up, end up making things worse “…for what it’s worth, he had a really nice body.” He had one hope; to stoke his face with crackers, bread, saltwater taffy, anything he could get his hands on that might take a while to chew. He couldn’t be expected to banter if his mouth stayed full of wheat thins.
He took one look around the reception hall and knew he’d have to quit this job, and soon. Formaldehyde and cracker binges do not a career make. There was no virtue in “going the distance” when the path was uninspired to begin with. That beautiful hearse couldn't choose its fate, he could. One of these days it would be someone else's job to drive him to the cemetery, and he’d damned if all the preacher could say is "he drove a mean Lincoln."
10:30 am. Service should be wrapping up soon, time to warm up the hearse. He almost felt pity for the Lincoln. Sentencing such a fine vehicle to a lifetime of trafficking in the dearly departed was like using a $200 saucepan to make grilled cheese. She drove relentlessly smooth and sure, had a kind of misplaced regality normally reserved for non-governing heads of state and past-their-prime beauty queens. This was by far the nicest car you could never meet women with. Well, maybe Goth women, but how much fun can you have with someone while wondering whether she’s going to tie you up in the night, offer you to her pagan gods, a.k.a. the Moon as human sacrifice?
Curious line of work driving one of these things. Part limousine driver, part mover, part speed confidant, all strange. No matter how good one is at this job, there’s no such a thing as a ‘good day’. He’d better not be caught enjoying himself, joy is wholly inappropriate here. Hard to imagine how horrified a widow would be to find her hearse driver whistling while he worked, listening to Opie and Anthony on the radio, or trying to gossip about “True Blood” and Lebron James. Definitely can’t post status updates about how much he loves his job or is ‘taking it to the hole’.
People can't imagine how hard it is socializing as a hearse driver. Tell someone what you do at a bar, get an introspective "oh", followed by excruciatingly banal chitchat until someone gets the nerve to pretend their phone is vibrating. Nothing makes a guy feel happy to be out like watching someone desperately claw their brain for an exit strategy.
Can’t fault people for their discomfort, not a lot of entertaining places the conversation can go from there. It’s not like he had charming anecdotes and workplace hi-jinks to report “…so one time I was leading this motorcade and needed to stop for gas, the family was NOT pleased. I was like ‘What’s the rush? The dirt’s still going to be there’ …needless to say there were some curiously specific ‘general remarks’ on ‘preparedness and tact’ at the next strategy meeting. Why we have strategy meetings at a funeral home is beyond me. Pretty much everyone on earth is going to need us eventually; the only way we could broaden our market is by selling toilet paper and condoms on the side...”
10:45. Showtime at the front door, time to focus. Bill tried to concentrate on looking slightly somber yet dignified. Always ended up debating exactly how much of a smile would be appropriate for each group. Too little of a smile seems rude, too much grin looks like you work for the Reaper or are happy the guy is dead. Nothing like the science of miming empathy in a professional setting, Roma Downey and Della Reese would be proud.
11:35 Of all the recurring lines of post funeral dialogue, “Thanks for everything" had to be his personal favorite. Knew people were just trying to be polite, but really, thanks for what? He wasn’t driving this Lincoln town car as a personal favor. He was driving it because he wasn't quite focused enough his last two years of high school and this was all his uncle could hook him up with. He was just lucky his uncle didn’t run a rickshaw service, with his luck it’d be in some cardiovascular hell like San Francisco or Aspen. Next time someone tells you to stay awake in world literature class, listen.
The deceased’s mother invited him to attend the repast. He knew he would have to do it, but he could never figure out why people persisted in inviting him. Small talk was hard enough for guys in his line of work, but small talk at the funeral reception of a complete stranger was cosmically brutal. What does one even say? “Yeah, seemed like a good guy, but then again I only knew him dead.” Try to clean it up, end up making things worse “…for what it’s worth, he had a really nice body.” He had one hope; to stoke his face with crackers, bread, saltwater taffy, anything he could get his hands on that might take a while to chew. He couldn’t be expected to banter if his mouth stayed full of wheat thins.
He took one look around the reception hall and knew he’d have to quit this job, and soon. Formaldehyde and cracker binges do not a career make. There was no virtue in “going the distance” when the path was uninspired to begin with. That beautiful hearse couldn't choose its fate, he could. One of these days it would be someone else's job to drive him to the cemetery, and he’d damned if all the preacher could say is "he drove a mean Lincoln."
Friday, July 23, 2010
Gift Season
THIS is the most difficult time of the year people. Gift Season in the Way household. Mother’s Day, my birthday, Father’s Day, my brother’s birthday, and then my mom’s birthday. All in the span of about 10 weeks. A Mexican standoff of soul baring and thinking about someone other than yourself. Brutal on the wallet, more brutal on the brain. Luckily, I don’t have to buy a gift for myself (doesn’t stop me from doing it though), but that little perk is canceled out by having to think of insightful gifts for my mom twice in ten weeks.
Do you realize that if you’re a mama’s boy like me and get your mom something on Valentine’s day, then that means you have to think of gifts for your mother as often as four times a year? Four times. I’ve had women in my life, women who I loved dearly, two of whom I was willing to quit comedy for, and they never got more than three presents from me in a year. Three presents is close to overdoing it. Four? What the heck is somebody supposed to do four different times?
Adding to the difficulty of this particular mission is the fact that my mom doesn’t need or really want anything. It was so easy when my brother and I were kids and the whole family was Dust Bowl poor. Team poverty, by the way, is one of many golden paths to learning to be funny. Cracking jokes together takes your mind off how hungry you are, how irreconcilably wack your tennis shoes are, the fact that you never get to have your own soda when the family goes out for fast food, or how you just spent a whole Saturday night at the mall but came back with no bags.
Those were the days, how does being broke manage to become romantically nostalgic with the passage of time? Window-shopping for hot dogs, rationing pop tarts, learning you could make almost any meat of any age taste good with enough season salt. And dating. Dating poor was the kind of adventure that would make Indiana Jones soil his khakis. Starting as a teen and carrying pretty much all the way through college you’d see a cute girl and want to ask her out, but a part you was always like “Really man, what’s the point? Not like you can afford to take her anywhere. Better hope she likes unshaded parking lots…” Couldn’t afford to chill in the house, because that meant keeping the air conditioner on. If you went on a date with me anytime between 1993-2004, odds are we were going for a nice looong walk, preferably to someplace that didn’t have an admission fee or require more than two dollars of metro fare to get to. We’d walk around the playground a couple dozen times, walk back home, and then I’d walk you to your car, where hopefully you’d be able to find yourself some potato wedges or something on the way home. For giggles a young lady could always count on watching me break into a cold sweat if she asked for anything more than a courtesy cup of water. Yet I’d still think she was stuck-up if I didn’t get a goodnight kiss at the end, “hey what is this “hug” foolishness? No you can keep all that baby, I will NOT be patronized…” Real mature Michael, show her what she’s missing. And for the record, don’t judge or pity my social squalor peoples; have it on good information Richard Pryor wasn’t buying women full glasses of water for women back when he was in Peoria, Illinois either.
Anyway, when the family doesn’t have much disposal income, gift giving is pretty easy, almost magical; it’s all a win. Provided one can scrape together a couple of bucks, the boy who gets his mama a new four-slice toaster is a bloody hero. Not just within the family, but the community at large. The preacher mentions you in the Sunday sermon, and all the city councilmen want to get their picture taken with the “toaster boy poster boy”.
That’s not the case anymore. My mom’s a professional woman with her own budding accounting practice. I’m a young starving comic so I’m still going through my frozen pizza and courtesy cup of water phase, but my parents, they eat lobster on weeknights now. Can’t hate. Life in America had better get more luxurious for a couple when they don’t have kids to feed or put through private school anymore; otherwise somebody in that house has picked up a nasty opium habit. But all that relative prosperity leaves my brother and I in a dilly of a pickle, because anything mama doesn’t have at this point, she probably felt wasn’t worth spending money on.
Gets extra tough gift shopping because my mom doesn’t really have much in the way of hobbies. Why? Because when you’re trying to raise a family and put kids through private school, all while hovering tantalizingly close to the poverty line, you don’t have time for hobbies. You don’t have time for anything that doesn’t clean the house, earn you accounting credits, put food on the table or help pay down that tuition. The closest thing my mom has to a hobby is gardening, and that to me still looks too much like chores. Sometimes I think about the sacrifices my mom’s made to get my brother and I to this point, it gives me nightmares thinking about how much I owe. If she asked me to put a bullet in an army doctor’s head, I’d have to pull that trigger and then help arrange the evidence so it looks like that woman from her job she hates did the killing. So needless to say I need to come correct at gift season?
The pressure’s mounting on this one, feels like a pop final exam “How clairvoyant are you about your family?” Have to think something good for this one. Got my dad a watch for Father’s Day, got my brother an electronic drum set for his birthday, didn’t realize I was inadvertently setting the bar crazy high for mom’s birthday.
Feel the need to come up with something jaw-dropping here, just short of a vacation package to Korea or Europe. Mother’s Day was sincere, but not my strongest showing. Got her an iTunes gift card and some CDs. In retrospect, am amazed and grateful she didn’t call me an unimaginative “hack” and show me the door. Could’ve gone that way too; one year when I was about twelve I messed up and gave her an iron, she flipped out like a football coach, didn’t talk to me for thirty-six hours (note to guys: do NOT, EVER get a woman anything related to chores as a present, unless you otherwise can’t find the nerve to tell her you want her OUT of your life, forever).
Really running short on ideas this time. This lady has been my mom now for thirty years. Means I’ve probably now thought of at least 80 different presents for her since first getting allowance money. Each time I try to top myself; at this rate by the time I’m 50, will probably be buying her trips to Mars with Kelsey Grammar as her tour guide. One year I thought I was clever, got her a bonsai tree, that sucker was dead in a month. Why? Because bonsai trees don’t help you earn your accounting credits. One Christmas I got her a home pedicure tub. It’s still in the box to this day. Basket of exotic chocolates, win. Box of Asian teas, win. DVD on amateur photography, FAIL. Gardening wagon filled with assortment of her favorite candies, big big win. This is the open mic of gift giving; if I buy her something she uses, I’ll know it waskiller. Keep your fingers crossed peoples, the clock is ticking. If things get much tighter, am just going to pretend like we’re poor again; somebody’s getting a new “new toaster” and a gift certificate to Marshall’s.
Do you realize that if you’re a mama’s boy like me and get your mom something on Valentine’s day, then that means you have to think of gifts for your mother as often as four times a year? Four times. I’ve had women in my life, women who I loved dearly, two of whom I was willing to quit comedy for, and they never got more than three presents from me in a year. Three presents is close to overdoing it. Four? What the heck is somebody supposed to do four different times?
Adding to the difficulty of this particular mission is the fact that my mom doesn’t need or really want anything. It was so easy when my brother and I were kids and the whole family was Dust Bowl poor. Team poverty, by the way, is one of many golden paths to learning to be funny. Cracking jokes together takes your mind off how hungry you are, how irreconcilably wack your tennis shoes are, the fact that you never get to have your own soda when the family goes out for fast food, or how you just spent a whole Saturday night at the mall but came back with no bags.
Those were the days, how does being broke manage to become romantically nostalgic with the passage of time? Window-shopping for hot dogs, rationing pop tarts, learning you could make almost any meat of any age taste good with enough season salt. And dating. Dating poor was the kind of adventure that would make Indiana Jones soil his khakis. Starting as a teen and carrying pretty much all the way through college you’d see a cute girl and want to ask her out, but a part you was always like “Really man, what’s the point? Not like you can afford to take her anywhere. Better hope she likes unshaded parking lots…” Couldn’t afford to chill in the house, because that meant keeping the air conditioner on. If you went on a date with me anytime between 1993-2004, odds are we were going for a nice looong walk, preferably to someplace that didn’t have an admission fee or require more than two dollars of metro fare to get to. We’d walk around the playground a couple dozen times, walk back home, and then I’d walk you to your car, where hopefully you’d be able to find yourself some potato wedges or something on the way home. For giggles a young lady could always count on watching me break into a cold sweat if she asked for anything more than a courtesy cup of water. Yet I’d still think she was stuck-up if I didn’t get a goodnight kiss at the end, “hey what is this “hug” foolishness? No you can keep all that baby, I will NOT be patronized…” Real mature Michael, show her what she’s missing. And for the record, don’t judge or pity my social squalor peoples; have it on good information Richard Pryor wasn’t buying women full glasses of water for women back when he was in Peoria, Illinois either.
Anyway, when the family doesn’t have much disposal income, gift giving is pretty easy, almost magical; it’s all a win. Provided one can scrape together a couple of bucks, the boy who gets his mama a new four-slice toaster is a bloody hero. Not just within the family, but the community at large. The preacher mentions you in the Sunday sermon, and all the city councilmen want to get their picture taken with the “toaster boy poster boy”.
That’s not the case anymore. My mom’s a professional woman with her own budding accounting practice. I’m a young starving comic so I’m still going through my frozen pizza and courtesy cup of water phase, but my parents, they eat lobster on weeknights now. Can’t hate. Life in America had better get more luxurious for a couple when they don’t have kids to feed or put through private school anymore; otherwise somebody in that house has picked up a nasty opium habit. But all that relative prosperity leaves my brother and I in a dilly of a pickle, because anything mama doesn’t have at this point, she probably felt wasn’t worth spending money on.
Gets extra tough gift shopping because my mom doesn’t really have much in the way of hobbies. Why? Because when you’re trying to raise a family and put kids through private school, all while hovering tantalizingly close to the poverty line, you don’t have time for hobbies. You don’t have time for anything that doesn’t clean the house, earn you accounting credits, put food on the table or help pay down that tuition. The closest thing my mom has to a hobby is gardening, and that to me still looks too much like chores. Sometimes I think about the sacrifices my mom’s made to get my brother and I to this point, it gives me nightmares thinking about how much I owe. If she asked me to put a bullet in an army doctor’s head, I’d have to pull that trigger and then help arrange the evidence so it looks like that woman from her job she hates did the killing. So needless to say I need to come correct at gift season?
The pressure’s mounting on this one, feels like a pop final exam “How clairvoyant are you about your family?” Have to think something good for this one. Got my dad a watch for Father’s Day, got my brother an electronic drum set for his birthday, didn’t realize I was inadvertently setting the bar crazy high for mom’s birthday.
Feel the need to come up with something jaw-dropping here, just short of a vacation package to Korea or Europe. Mother’s Day was sincere, but not my strongest showing. Got her an iTunes gift card and some CDs. In retrospect, am amazed and grateful she didn’t call me an unimaginative “hack” and show me the door. Could’ve gone that way too; one year when I was about twelve I messed up and gave her an iron, she flipped out like a football coach, didn’t talk to me for thirty-six hours (note to guys: do NOT, EVER get a woman anything related to chores as a present, unless you otherwise can’t find the nerve to tell her you want her OUT of your life, forever).
Really running short on ideas this time. This lady has been my mom now for thirty years. Means I’ve probably now thought of at least 80 different presents for her since first getting allowance money. Each time I try to top myself; at this rate by the time I’m 50, will probably be buying her trips to Mars with Kelsey Grammar as her tour guide. One year I thought I was clever, got her a bonsai tree, that sucker was dead in a month. Why? Because bonsai trees don’t help you earn your accounting credits. One Christmas I got her a home pedicure tub. It’s still in the box to this day. Basket of exotic chocolates, win. Box of Asian teas, win. DVD on amateur photography, FAIL. Gardening wagon filled with assortment of her favorite candies, big big win. This is the open mic of gift giving; if I buy her something she uses, I’ll know it waskiller. Keep your fingers crossed peoples, the clock is ticking. If things get much tighter, am just going to pretend like we’re poor again; somebody’s getting a new “new toaster” and a gift certificate to Marshall’s.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Ohhh Mel...
"Hi. I'm Mel Gibson's career. Been asleep for a few years, but I'm finally feeling saucy and ready to bust a move again. Hey, Mel didn't happen to make any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants while I was out, did he? Oh, he did? Well would you look at that, naptime again. Was a promising six months, tell Jimmy Kimmel I said sorry about the lard. Nighty night America, guess the next time you'll see me will be on the "colleagues we lost" montage at the 120th academy awards."
"Hey. I'm Mel Gibson's fictional son EMelio. My dad didn't happen to make any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants did he? Because I was just starting to make genuine friends at school, friends who don't constantly pester me for "some of that 'Passion' money", or ask me what my Dad's like, if he wears blue face paint to the dinner table or if he's an insane-sounding racist misogynist nut job in real life or just on voicemail. It's been tough enough trying to find even the smallest scrap of legitimate-feeling identity in my father's shadow. Sure am glad he hasn't gone on any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants or anything. Oh, he did? Well would you look at that, naptime again. Guess this propofol should wear off sometime September. Not sure what school will be like this fall, but odds are I'll be taking more punishment than Jim Caviezel."
"Sup y’all. This is Roger Murtaugh. No, not Danny Glover. I'm Mel Gibson's jock strap. Mel named me Murtaugh because I'm always riding his jock. So glad Mel finally put some of his insane-sounding racist misogynist rants on wax. Been telling him for years those flows are classic, he could be bigger than Kanye with the right exposure. You gotta admit the misogyny is especially breathtaking. Any ignorant, poorly-read reactionary amateur can drop some convincingly intolerant grand-wizard quality bigotry, but it takes years of hard work, strenuously selfless teeth-gnashing, narcissistic women-hatred and just plain 'wanting it' to make hip-hop lyrics seem antiquated and genteel. I'm proud to say we've set a new standard, Mel is the Michael Phelps of “keeping it real”. So glad he finally listened to me, this is going to be a new day for my man Mel, I can just feel it... Then again, what do I know? I hang around a butthole all day."
"Um, yes, I’m Dr. Peter Silberman, clinical psychologist. Kind of embarrassing to admit, but uh, I had a patient by the name of Gibson, seems to have gone missing. Claimed to be sent here from the future, believed a computer company was on their way to manufacturing robotic assassins and would eventually be responsible for some sort of nuclear Armageddon. Kept referring to it as “Judgement Day”, freaked out when we showed him a clip of “Pumping Iron”. We attempted an experimental form of immersive hypno- therapy where we convinced him he was not really from the future but rather an insane-sounding racist misogynist. He didn't by chance get out and start terrorizing his ex-girlfriend did he? Because he trusted us to be discrete and keep him locked up tight until he was better, something about a precariously fragile public image to protect. Oh he did get out? Caught on tape telling his ex “she should just smile and blow him”? “Because he deserves it”? Raped by a pack of… Fiddlesticks. I don't suppose anyone's knows the web address of monster.com? Oh, it’s www.monster.com? Well I guess that makes sense, it’s my attention to detail that’s gotten me this far. Could someone tell Mel I have his Xanax?"
"This is Mike's copy of 'Payback'. If you see Mel, tell him to please be quiet, Mike's trying to enjoy the movie."
"Hello, my name is Daniel Lebern Glover. The next buster to ask me about Mel Gibson is getting an ax handle to the windpipe. Stay blessed."
"Hey. I'm Mel Gibson's fictional son EMelio. My dad didn't happen to make any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants did he? Because I was just starting to make genuine friends at school, friends who don't constantly pester me for "some of that 'Passion' money", or ask me what my Dad's like, if he wears blue face paint to the dinner table or if he's an insane-sounding racist misogynist nut job in real life or just on voicemail. It's been tough enough trying to find even the smallest scrap of legitimate-feeling identity in my father's shadow. Sure am glad he hasn't gone on any insane-sounding racist misogynist rants or anything. Oh, he did? Well would you look at that, naptime again. Guess this propofol should wear off sometime September. Not sure what school will be like this fall, but odds are I'll be taking more punishment than Jim Caviezel."
"Sup y’all. This is Roger Murtaugh. No, not Danny Glover. I'm Mel Gibson's jock strap. Mel named me Murtaugh because I'm always riding his jock. So glad Mel finally put some of his insane-sounding racist misogynist rants on wax. Been telling him for years those flows are classic, he could be bigger than Kanye with the right exposure. You gotta admit the misogyny is especially breathtaking. Any ignorant, poorly-read reactionary amateur can drop some convincingly intolerant grand-wizard quality bigotry, but it takes years of hard work, strenuously selfless teeth-gnashing, narcissistic women-hatred and just plain 'wanting it' to make hip-hop lyrics seem antiquated and genteel. I'm proud to say we've set a new standard, Mel is the Michael Phelps of “keeping it real”. So glad he finally listened to me, this is going to be a new day for my man Mel, I can just feel it... Then again, what do I know? I hang around a butthole all day."
"Um, yes, I’m Dr. Peter Silberman, clinical psychologist. Kind of embarrassing to admit, but uh, I had a patient by the name of Gibson, seems to have gone missing. Claimed to be sent here from the future, believed a computer company was on their way to manufacturing robotic assassins and would eventually be responsible for some sort of nuclear Armageddon. Kept referring to it as “Judgement Day”, freaked out when we showed him a clip of “Pumping Iron”. We attempted an experimental form of immersive hypno- therapy where we convinced him he was not really from the future but rather an insane-sounding racist misogynist. He didn't by chance get out and start terrorizing his ex-girlfriend did he? Because he trusted us to be discrete and keep him locked up tight until he was better, something about a precariously fragile public image to protect. Oh he did get out? Caught on tape telling his ex “she should just smile and blow him”? “Because he deserves it”? Raped by a pack of… Fiddlesticks. I don't suppose anyone's knows the web address of monster.com? Oh, it’s www.monster.com? Well I guess that makes sense, it’s my attention to detail that’s gotten me this far. Could someone tell Mel I have his Xanax?"
"This is Mike's copy of 'Payback'. If you see Mel, tell him to please be quiet, Mike's trying to enjoy the movie."
"Hello, my name is Daniel Lebern Glover. The next buster to ask me about Mel Gibson is getting an ax handle to the windpipe. Stay blessed."
Friday, July 9, 2010
Sunglasses
My folks have been harping on my to buckle down and invest in some sunglasses. Love the way loved ones warn you about health stuff. Start with fire and brimstone and escalate to aneurysm-inducing apocalyptic fables from there…
“You’re gonna get cataracts! Your retinas will lose their integrity and your eyeballs will liquefy in your head… happened to a buddy of mine at work, now everybody thinks he’s an oracle… you can do what you want, but I’m not leading you around if you go blind, I hope you like sticks…”
That’s how my parents get through to me, by telling what they’re NOT going to do for me if the worst happens. Last words from my Dad before I went to college
“ Boy, I’ll tell you like this, condoms are cheaper than diapers, and condoms are cheaper than medicine. And just so you know, I’m not babysitting and I’m not driving your scabby ass back and forth to the clinic. Protect your damned neck.”
I can’t wait until I have my own kids, looking forward to dropping all kinds of slightly-too-real knowledge on them
“Homework is like alibis, it’s all about commitment and attention to detail.”
“A little consent now saves a lot of legal fees later.”
“The only times a man should cry are at funerals, sporting events, and terminal hunting accidents.”
So it’s time to buy some sunglasses. I hate owning sunglasses. Always lose them, or break them, or forget they’re in my pocket and sit on them. And though expensive glasses were never my thing, the kind I bought were never quite cheap enough that I wouldn’t be annoyed about breaking a pair. You have to be so protective with them; it’s like walking around with an egg all day, except at least you have the option of eating the egg, or not caring and dropping the egg, or maybe letting it hatch, hook yourself up with some very tiny chicken nuggets. Shouldn’t have said that last part, we don’t know each other well enough for you to learn how little reliable intel I have in this skull. Should’ve probably just said I hate owning sunglasses and left it at that.
I’m now the owner of a pair of Kenneth Cole Aviators. Been kind of a bitter experience so far. Have realized there’s no way my non-threatening excuse for a glare can live up the gangster buildup that comes with a pair of aviators. Malcolm Jamal Warner would never buy these, why would I think I can pull off something he couldn’t? When I have them on, it looks like I might be an R&B singer with eating disorder abs, maybe a backup dancer for Jagged Edge, or at least one of those dudes who walks around nightclubs making sure everybody has their shirt tucked in. As soon as I take them off, you can instantly tell I come from a two-parent home, that DMX lyrics give me nightmares and that I’m the kind of guy who can’t let the hooker leave without trying to spoon.
Sucks being shown up by your glasses. Girls see me walk up, can feel myself starting to get that curious-but-still-too-proud-to-look-directly peripheral eye contact
“Girl, who’s that? Dontlookdontlookdontlook! Maybe he’s in a band! Maybe he’s the one I’ve been saving this uterus for all these years! Maybe we should start making out with each other here on the street just to get his attention, he looks like he like team players…”
Take off the glasses
“Oh… it’s just you. Cool if we be friends for a while? Hey, before you answer that, can you hold my purse for a minute? Gotta take this call… Hi Derek! No it’s ok, I wouldn’t have called me back either, so when am I gonna see you again?”
Am now on a mission now to find ways to toughen up this Candyland Care Bear stare of mine. Not as easy as it sounds. Difficult to get that genuine I-may-have-murdered-some-of-my-own-loved-ones-what-do-you-think-I-won’t-do-to-yours gaze without going overboard in the process. Last Saturday I watched nothing but war movies and a Band of Brothers marathon. That helped a lot but for the next twelve hours I was paranoid every time I walked by a cluster of trees or bushes. How do you play off reflexively screaming “medic!” in the middle of a FedEx Kinko’s? Sunday morning I went to parade. If seeing a parade doesn’t make a man look ready to take lives, nothing will (Think the only way a grown man should be at a parade is if he’s actually IN the parade or the head of a family that’s dragged him to a parade; every other reason screams “watchlist” and “offender registry”). Wednesday I spent my lunch break staring directly into the sun. That worked pretty well, had a menacing squint that would’ve given Clint Eastwood night terrors, but I’ve since been informed that staring into the sun defeats the purpose of owning sunglasses. Looks like I’m on to plan D; become an 80’s fighter pilot and play volleyball with other dudes in my spare time. Look what you’ve brought me to, damn you Kenneth Cole. Damn you to hell. Next time my parents warn me about something I’m buying a hat.
“You’re gonna get cataracts! Your retinas will lose their integrity and your eyeballs will liquefy in your head… happened to a buddy of mine at work, now everybody thinks he’s an oracle… you can do what you want, but I’m not leading you around if you go blind, I hope you like sticks…”
That’s how my parents get through to me, by telling what they’re NOT going to do for me if the worst happens. Last words from my Dad before I went to college
“ Boy, I’ll tell you like this, condoms are cheaper than diapers, and condoms are cheaper than medicine. And just so you know, I’m not babysitting and I’m not driving your scabby ass back and forth to the clinic. Protect your damned neck.”
I can’t wait until I have my own kids, looking forward to dropping all kinds of slightly-too-real knowledge on them
“Homework is like alibis, it’s all about commitment and attention to detail.”
“A little consent now saves a lot of legal fees later.”
“The only times a man should cry are at funerals, sporting events, and terminal hunting accidents.”
So it’s time to buy some sunglasses. I hate owning sunglasses. Always lose them, or break them, or forget they’re in my pocket and sit on them. And though expensive glasses were never my thing, the kind I bought were never quite cheap enough that I wouldn’t be annoyed about breaking a pair. You have to be so protective with them; it’s like walking around with an egg all day, except at least you have the option of eating the egg, or not caring and dropping the egg, or maybe letting it hatch, hook yourself up with some very tiny chicken nuggets. Shouldn’t have said that last part, we don’t know each other well enough for you to learn how little reliable intel I have in this skull. Should’ve probably just said I hate owning sunglasses and left it at that.
I’m now the owner of a pair of Kenneth Cole Aviators. Been kind of a bitter experience so far. Have realized there’s no way my non-threatening excuse for a glare can live up the gangster buildup that comes with a pair of aviators. Malcolm Jamal Warner would never buy these, why would I think I can pull off something he couldn’t? When I have them on, it looks like I might be an R&B singer with eating disorder abs, maybe a backup dancer for Jagged Edge, or at least one of those dudes who walks around nightclubs making sure everybody has their shirt tucked in. As soon as I take them off, you can instantly tell I come from a two-parent home, that DMX lyrics give me nightmares and that I’m the kind of guy who can’t let the hooker leave without trying to spoon.
Sucks being shown up by your glasses. Girls see me walk up, can feel myself starting to get that curious-but-still-too-proud-to-look-directly peripheral eye contact
“Girl, who’s that? Dontlookdontlookdontlook! Maybe he’s in a band! Maybe he’s the one I’ve been saving this uterus for all these years! Maybe we should start making out with each other here on the street just to get his attention, he looks like he like team players…”
Take off the glasses
“Oh… it’s just you. Cool if we be friends for a while? Hey, before you answer that, can you hold my purse for a minute? Gotta take this call… Hi Derek! No it’s ok, I wouldn’t have called me back either, so when am I gonna see you again?”
Am now on a mission now to find ways to toughen up this Candyland Care Bear stare of mine. Not as easy as it sounds. Difficult to get that genuine I-may-have-murdered-some-of-my-own-loved-ones-what-do-you-think-I-won’t-do-to-yours gaze without going overboard in the process. Last Saturday I watched nothing but war movies and a Band of Brothers marathon. That helped a lot but for the next twelve hours I was paranoid every time I walked by a cluster of trees or bushes. How do you play off reflexively screaming “medic!” in the middle of a FedEx Kinko’s? Sunday morning I went to parade. If seeing a parade doesn’t make a man look ready to take lives, nothing will (Think the only way a grown man should be at a parade is if he’s actually IN the parade or the head of a family that’s dragged him to a parade; every other reason screams “watchlist” and “offender registry”). Wednesday I spent my lunch break staring directly into the sun. That worked pretty well, had a menacing squint that would’ve given Clint Eastwood night terrors, but I’ve since been informed that staring into the sun defeats the purpose of owning sunglasses. Looks like I’m on to plan D; become an 80’s fighter pilot and play volleyball with other dudes in my spare time. Look what you’ve brought me to, damn you Kenneth Cole. Damn you to hell. Next time my parents warn me about something I’m buying a hat.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Broken A/C
“…You have got to be kidding. Not right now. Please. Ok, maybe if I turn it off and turn it on again. Nope, still squealing like alien weaponry. No cool air coming out. THIS is going to be the best summer ever…”
Compressor died in my Isuzu last week. It died on me while I was stuck in traffic on 495, trying to make my way out to Reston. There are two things you can’t do without in a car, music and A/C. Lose either one and you quickly find yourself daydreaming about driving the car to the edge of a riverbank and releasing the parking brake.
Is there ever a good time for a car repair? Feel the pinch whenever it’s time to put gas in this beast, so I know getting it fixed is going to open my nose like some horseradish. Why? Because Isuzus are built like a fraternity prank; to fix one thing, you must first take apart 12 other things that are nicely nestled in the way. Why? So you can forget how to put the car back together and wind up paying six times more to have the mechanic clean up the mess you made, who invariably thinks it’s cute to ask why you didn’t bring it to him in the first place. The family mechanic can’t give me an exact quote on how much the repair’s going to cost, but I just know it’s going to end up in the $700-$1200 range. The truck is not even worth $700-$1200. It hasn’t been for at least five years. The bicycle my co-worker rides to work is worth more than my car. At least now we have something in common though; neither of us have air conditioning.
Haven’t spent it yet, but can’t stop thinking about all the things I was going to do with that money. Oh it was going to be so good. I was going to be saving up and not buying air compressors, and hanging out with friends and not buying air compressors, and traveling on the road to do comedy gigs and not buying air compressors, and maybe finally invest in a laptop and oh yeah, NOT BUYING AIR COMPRESSORS! But all that changed because guess what son!?! It’s time to buy an air compressor.
I HAVE to do it too. The way I perspire in summer heat is unnatural, looks like I’m melting. Was waiting at a crosswalk Tuesday morning, just in the forty-five seconds it took for the light to change my forearms started to glisten like I had been landscaping. I sweat too much not to be a 70’s soul singer; Teddy Pendergrass wishes he had my pores.
Fate can be a sore loser sometimes, always likes to hook you up with a few groin kicks whenever something good is about to happen for you.
"Hey Mike, look! Is that success and everything you dreamed of on the horizon? Nope, it's just some freshly punted gonads, might recognize them, that’s right they're yours baby! ...hey, hey, don't be like that, you gotta remember to take it all in stride, enjoy the journey man. It's just like a footprints poster, only with your nuts instead of feet. Think of it as a cameo..."
Can't tell what's more sad, having to spend in the neighborhood of $1200 you didn't plan on or realizing your finances are so tight that news of a car repair hits with the gravity of an unplanned pregnancy.
"What? Oh… No, no, I'm good, just need to sit down for a minute and breathe. How did this happen? Nevermind, doesn't matter now. Are you sure? Of course you are. It’s ok, we'll figure this out, it's going to be ok… just changes the plan a bit..."
I’ll get it fixed in the next couple of weeks, but until then will just have to make due pretending I used to be Special Forces and am too tough for conditioned air. Or maybe I’m Denzel in Training Day and need to keep the windows down so I can hear the streets. Or maybe I’m a comedian of dubious means who’s going to do everything imaginable to avoid getting stuck in traffic on 495. Yay broken stuff.
Compressor died in my Isuzu last week. It died on me while I was stuck in traffic on 495, trying to make my way out to Reston. There are two things you can’t do without in a car, music and A/C. Lose either one and you quickly find yourself daydreaming about driving the car to the edge of a riverbank and releasing the parking brake.
Is there ever a good time for a car repair? Feel the pinch whenever it’s time to put gas in this beast, so I know getting it fixed is going to open my nose like some horseradish. Why? Because Isuzus are built like a fraternity prank; to fix one thing, you must first take apart 12 other things that are nicely nestled in the way. Why? So you can forget how to put the car back together and wind up paying six times more to have the mechanic clean up the mess you made, who invariably thinks it’s cute to ask why you didn’t bring it to him in the first place. The family mechanic can’t give me an exact quote on how much the repair’s going to cost, but I just know it’s going to end up in the $700-$1200 range. The truck is not even worth $700-$1200. It hasn’t been for at least five years. The bicycle my co-worker rides to work is worth more than my car. At least now we have something in common though; neither of us have air conditioning.
Haven’t spent it yet, but can’t stop thinking about all the things I was going to do with that money. Oh it was going to be so good. I was going to be saving up and not buying air compressors, and hanging out with friends and not buying air compressors, and traveling on the road to do comedy gigs and not buying air compressors, and maybe finally invest in a laptop and oh yeah, NOT BUYING AIR COMPRESSORS! But all that changed because guess what son!?! It’s time to buy an air compressor.
I HAVE to do it too. The way I perspire in summer heat is unnatural, looks like I’m melting. Was waiting at a crosswalk Tuesday morning, just in the forty-five seconds it took for the light to change my forearms started to glisten like I had been landscaping. I sweat too much not to be a 70’s soul singer; Teddy Pendergrass wishes he had my pores.
Fate can be a sore loser sometimes, always likes to hook you up with a few groin kicks whenever something good is about to happen for you.
"Hey Mike, look! Is that success and everything you dreamed of on the horizon? Nope, it's just some freshly punted gonads, might recognize them, that’s right they're yours baby! ...hey, hey, don't be like that, you gotta remember to take it all in stride, enjoy the journey man. It's just like a footprints poster, only with your nuts instead of feet. Think of it as a cameo..."
Can't tell what's more sad, having to spend in the neighborhood of $1200 you didn't plan on or realizing your finances are so tight that news of a car repair hits with the gravity of an unplanned pregnancy.
"What? Oh… No, no, I'm good, just need to sit down for a minute and breathe. How did this happen? Nevermind, doesn't matter now. Are you sure? Of course you are. It’s ok, we'll figure this out, it's going to be ok… just changes the plan a bit..."
I’ll get it fixed in the next couple of weeks, but until then will just have to make due pretending I used to be Special Forces and am too tough for conditioned air. Or maybe I’m Denzel in Training Day and need to keep the windows down so I can hear the streets. Or maybe I’m a comedian of dubious means who’s going to do everything imaginable to avoid getting stuck in traffic on 495. Yay broken stuff.
Friday, June 25, 2010
The Horror
First blog back in two years and I’m terrified. What am I thinking? I’m not sure I was that good at it the first time. Restarting something you used to do is so bloody painful. It’s that weird stomach pain too, like when you’re out with a girl and you realize it’s probably time to kiss her for the first time. Either you make your move here and now, ready to live with the consequences, or consign yourself to a lifetime of watching other dudes make their move while you play the part of her tragically frustrated platonic emotional caretaker. At some point there’s nothing left to do but dive in and just hope you come out untased. What a scary time. What if your instincts are wrong? How many apologies, retractions and awkward Hey-how’ve-you-been’s does it take to wash away the stink of that flub?
“Oh, hey what’s up? Yeah, sorry about the whole… uh, thing. Yeah, I’m just gonna be standing over here admiring the guacamole spread… no, it was good seeing you too.”
Hoping this blog doesn’t come to that level of awkwardness, pretty sure I got a lifetime supply of those moments in junior high and first year of college, the only thing sweeter than guessing wrong is guessing wrong while your friends watch… puberty's awesome. Who am I kidding? So’s adulthood.
But Michael, if the thought of blogging after such a long hiatus makes you so miserable, why do it? Because you and I need some regular quality time, so that MAYBE, perhaps, by the slightest of slightly slight possibilities there’s a chance you’ll hear I’m doing a comedy show in your neighborhood and be overcome with rapturous, bowel-relaxing anticipation. The naïve, soon-to-be-jaded idealist in me is thinking maybe you’ll think to yourself
“Oh wow, that guy who writes the amusing things I read when I’m supposed to be working is going say dumb stuff in person! And it doesn’t cost much to see the show because nobody’s ever heard of him! Maybe I’ll come out and bring my ha-ha’s so whoever hired him will think he’s going places and hire him again and again and again until everyone in the area has either grown sick of him or elected him to city council.”
Ok, so maybe that’s a tad far-fetched, but real marketing costs money, and if I had money I’d be out on the town spending it on amaretto & cokes, not sitting up on a Friday night trying to “type witty”. God must be good and disappointed in me right now. Just looking down, mind blown
“Really son? I created Friday night, and this is what you’re doing with it? This offends me more than Bill Maher…”
I would do a podcast, except that would require I learn something about podcasts. Besides everybody’s doing podcasts now. Nobody blogs anymore, at least not anybody who has a car. It’s almost retro at this point. If you’re writing a blog these days, you’re probably one of those endangered “journalist” creatures, clinging desperately to that last little bit of societal relevance before John Stewart, Stephen Colbert and Bill Maher manage to render your species wholly obsolete. Sad to admit this, but I don’t think I’ve watched a “legitimate” news program since the novelty of Obama’s election wore off. Can you believe I actually have the right to vote? Somewhere, out in there the ether, the ghost of W.E.B. Du Bois is pissed the f*ck off. I’ll get it together W.E.B., anyone who can impact a nation while sporting a moustache like that deserves to his ghostly rage taken seriously.
This is my blog. Will attempt to do at least one of these a week until I get famous or find something better to do with my Friday nights.
“Oh, hey what’s up? Yeah, sorry about the whole… uh, thing. Yeah, I’m just gonna be standing over here admiring the guacamole spread… no, it was good seeing you too.”
Hoping this blog doesn’t come to that level of awkwardness, pretty sure I got a lifetime supply of those moments in junior high and first year of college, the only thing sweeter than guessing wrong is guessing wrong while your friends watch… puberty's awesome. Who am I kidding? So’s adulthood.
But Michael, if the thought of blogging after such a long hiatus makes you so miserable, why do it? Because you and I need some regular quality time, so that MAYBE, perhaps, by the slightest of slightly slight possibilities there’s a chance you’ll hear I’m doing a comedy show in your neighborhood and be overcome with rapturous, bowel-relaxing anticipation. The naïve, soon-to-be-jaded idealist in me is thinking maybe you’ll think to yourself
“Oh wow, that guy who writes the amusing things I read when I’m supposed to be working is going say dumb stuff in person! And it doesn’t cost much to see the show because nobody’s ever heard of him! Maybe I’ll come out and bring my ha-ha’s so whoever hired him will think he’s going places and hire him again and again and again until everyone in the area has either grown sick of him or elected him to city council.”
Ok, so maybe that’s a tad far-fetched, but real marketing costs money, and if I had money I’d be out on the town spending it on amaretto & cokes, not sitting up on a Friday night trying to “type witty”. God must be good and disappointed in me right now. Just looking down, mind blown
“Really son? I created Friday night, and this is what you’re doing with it? This offends me more than Bill Maher…”
I would do a podcast, except that would require I learn something about podcasts. Besides everybody’s doing podcasts now. Nobody blogs anymore, at least not anybody who has a car. It’s almost retro at this point. If you’re writing a blog these days, you’re probably one of those endangered “journalist” creatures, clinging desperately to that last little bit of societal relevance before John Stewart, Stephen Colbert and Bill Maher manage to render your species wholly obsolete. Sad to admit this, but I don’t think I’ve watched a “legitimate” news program since the novelty of Obama’s election wore off. Can you believe I actually have the right to vote? Somewhere, out in there the ether, the ghost of W.E.B. Du Bois is pissed the f*ck off. I’ll get it together W.E.B., anyone who can impact a nation while sporting a moustache like that deserves to his ghostly rage taken seriously.
This is my blog. Will attempt to do at least one of these a week until I get famous or find something better to do with my Friday nights.
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