My brother and I are kind of assholes. I embrace it and entertain you all with it. He denies it, but it's nonetheless just as true about him. That said, it's no surprise that my mom is so impressed with one of my brother's friends that she can't shut up about what a sweet boy he is. The first time she brought it up, I just kind of rolled my eyes. The second time, I was said "Ok! We get it! You want to bang him!" And of course, she was like "No! I do not want to...do that to him!" I said, "I said 'bang,' not 'eff.' You can say 'bang him'." And then she tries to change the subject by talking about what a filthy mouth I have. Me thinks she doth protest too much. And I don't really know why. I mean, the guy is legal, so there's no chance of her being on Dateline: To Catch a Predator, although believe me, I would send out engraved invitations to my viewing party if she got busted for something like that after all the conservative bullshit she's made me listen to over the last 23 years. I guess she had to put up a fight because Dad was in the car with us. He thinks I'm hilarious, and who wouldn't? But now, I bust Mom's balls all the time. Even if she's talking about another friend of my brother's, I'm like "Is that the one you want to bang?" Ah, good times.
Speaking of my brother and his friends: he has injured himself yet again. The Thursday before Easter, he pulled a soccer goal over on himself, which cut open the center of his forehead and required about 7 stitches. Fortunately, that healed rather well, but for awhile he looked like Ashton Kutcher with a Harry Potter symbol on his forehead, or (alternate punchline) a new Manson family recruit that backed out when the swastika was halfway carved into his forehead. Anyways, now that that's about healed, his friend ran into him while playing ultimate frisbee or some other ridiculous pseudo-sport and separated his index and middle fingers so wide that the skin in between them ripped and continued to rip AROUND his index finger. Again, I believe the number of stitches was...Lucky # 7. So, basically at this point, he's sewn together like the Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz, and ironically enough, my brother also does not have a brain. Most amazingly, he does very dangerous things like rock-climbing, and...I don't know...other dangerous things that my fat ass is too lazy and scared to do. But does he injure himself then? No. It's when he's playing frisbee. Guess who's getting a helmet and pads for Christmas?
It was great to see my family last weekend, and the main reason it was great is because I was only around them in short spans of time. Being with my family is like interval training: high-intensity for short periods of time with frequent breaks needed in between. So, my trip to Huntsville for a wedding was a great distraction. I left with plenty of time to arrive early. And let me just break here and say that there once was a time when I was a truly classy person. I kept the foul language among only my closest friends, I was prim and proper and had a much bigger stick up my ass than I do today. However, I think that any shred of dignity or grace that I ever possessed was erased when I finished getting ready to attend a very lovely wedding by stopping by the restroom at the Wal-Mart in Arab, Alabama. This little diversion put me behind schedule and had me literally running (eh, jogging) into the church as the wedding party was lined up in the narthex about to go down the aisle.
But I got there on time, and the service was beautiful, but me, not ever able to take anything serious, couldn't focus because a soloist sang "Be Thou My Vision" which is a sweet Christian song. However, it was also used in the teaser trailer for Saw 5, so I kept thinking "Wow, I didn't even know they were fans. How cool would it be if I gave the pianist an extra twenty bucks to play the theme from 'Halloween' when my fiance walks down the aisle! Maybe a couple of bars of the Wedding March to get her started, but then a quick change to the 'Halloween' theme. Maybe I could get Jamie Lee Curtis to come to the wedding and run across the altar screaming 'Michael!...Michael?!' I mean, she's doing poo-yogurt commercials now for Christ's sake! How expensive could she be? Maybe $5,000?...Oh, they're married now!"
The weekend was fun, but when I got back to Savannah on Sunday night, things were not. The air conditioner at the condo wasn't working so my neighbors generously let me stay in their guest room. I watched Mad Men with them for the first time that night and instantly became hooked. I rented the first season on DVD and am fascinated! Part of me wonders if there was a TV writer who was like "I want to make sexist, racist, homophobic, anti-semitic jokes on national TV and have it be ok. How can I get away with it? ... Oh, I know! I'll set it in 1960s Manhattan!" And another part of me thinks, "Wow! If they can do this on AMC, what would they do if a REAL network had picked up the show?" I mean, Mad Men is wonderful, and Breaking Bad looks good (although I've never watched it), but I see these shows on AMC and just feel like that network is HBO's nerdy little brother. Like Showtime comes over to HBO's house and they're hanging out, sneaking booze from their parents' liquor cabinet, and AMC is sneaking cigarettes when they aren't looking, but it just keeps coughing and getting nauseous whenever it tries to smoke them. Is it just me?
***On a side-note, one of my comedic icons Jackie Kashian and I tweet with one another on a regular basis. Earlier today she tweeted (to everyone) that she is doing a show in Tucson this weekend and that she will have to dust off her Apartheid material (which is hilarious because Arizona is also controlled by racists seeking to do a less violent ethnic-cleansing). Anyways, I replied and said "Make sure you have all your papers; no exposure to sunlight until after the show; and don't use words like Chihuahua." And then she replied to me and said "haha! Chihuahua! I may use that in my show (with your permission)." Holy fuckballs, you guys! I haven't been so happy in months! I post my witty tweets and status updates and I trot out one of these blog posts once a month or so, and I would LOVE, LOVE, LOVE to make some kind of career with my comedy, whether it be stand-up, books like Chelsea Handler's, or writing for television and/or film, and I have people like Liz and Beth and most of the people who read this blog say very encouraging things, which is so sweet and wonderful, but I never know if you're just saying them to be nice. So to have a comic that I idolize validate me like that just put me in the best mood and built my confidence so much! I don't know if I'll ever work up the balls to overcome my fear of public speaking and do stand-up, but knowing that an expert on funny thinks I'm funny enough to consider putting my joke in her act inspires me to keep sending my witty tweets and keep updating this blog and actually do some real damn comedy writing!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Thursday, June 24, 2010
I Made It as Far as "Attending the University of Phoenix"
Hello! It's been awhile since my last post, and so little has happened. I took my usual Memorial Day trip to Gulf Shores. I let the Goose loose the first night and only have a portion of my memory. Astonishing how I can drink such nice vodka and yet smoke a Black n Mild like I'm at late night barbecue in Section 8. But I paid for it by straining my back for the rest of the weekend, possibly from falling asleep (AKA passing out) while lying on a wooden deck. So when I got back home, I had to see the doctor about my back. He put me on generic Valium! I was so excited! Having never taken any muscle relaxers, I had high hopes of becoming like those classy ladies in "Valley of the Dolls." Not Sharon Tate, but maybe Patty Duke or the other one. But alas, they had no effect on me. The anti-inflammatory meds "healed" my back, but I'm still not able to train for that marathon to raise money for the orphans...with cancer...affected by the oil spill...in Haiti.
But seriously, I hate exercising. I understand the vanity of it--you know I think that unattractive people are the real "untouchables"--but all that sweating, and the breathing hard, and having to miss "Last Comic Standing" to go to the gym. It's not for me. I'd rather wait until I can afford lunch-time lipo. And I want Botox too, but not that bad batch that Kate Gosselin got. Jesus Christ! As if her face wasn't jacked up enough, now she has that "No, I've always looked like a villain from the Batman comics" face. Speaking of Christa Miller...another time.
Oh, and guess who's girlfriend is pregnant! That's right, congratulate me now, because when the clinic opens in the morning, it'll be too late. (I've been trying to work up the balls to do that joke as a Facebook status, but I'm really not in the mood for the conservative backlash. But it's a solid joke, and I'm proud of it, as I am all my jokes--they're like my children.)
I'm really broke these days. I auditioned for a porn and was offered the role, but I turned it down. It was a fetish porn, and the fetish was fast food icons. I was on board when they wanted me to be the Burger King--they were even going to let me keep the giant plastic head--but there were legal issues with BK and McDonald's. Eventually, I was cast to play Jared from Subway. Now, nobody loves double entendre more than me, but all the "$5 footlong" jokes in the world couldn't get me to demean myself that much.
I need a date. I was going to finally give in and try the online thing but I read a few profiles and most of the women on there have kids. I was telling my friend about it and how 90% of them are really young, single mothers. She said, "Don't they have planned parenthood offices in Georgia?" I said, "Apparently not enough to keep up with the demand." But I pushed on, and eventually found someone age-appropriate and moderately attractive--she looked like Princess Diana (when she was still alive...not now). So I started reading her profile, and I got as far as "I'm currently attending the University of Phoenix..." and I was like, "I'm out! If this is what's out there, I'll gladly stay single!" I say that, but actually I had a date last night. I'm gentleman, so I won't kiss and tell, but let me just say that I spent the better part of today figuring out how to get semen out of a microsuede couch. I know, I know; I'm a hopeless romantic.
Although, not much has gone on in my own life since my last post, there's been a lot going on in Hollywood! It's so sad about Gary Coleman. You know he died pretty much penniless? Thank God, they can save the cost of a casket and just bury him in a cooler. Maybe they can get one with wheels--like the kind you take to the beach--that way, they can just have one pallbearer. And Heidi broke up with Spencer. I heard she caught him having sex with a blowup doll. In his defense, he probably thought it was her. And, not that they're real celebrities, but the soccer players have been all over the news because of the World Cup. I haven't watched any of it, but I keep hearing people talk about these things making this loud, irritating noise. I can't remember what they called them...I think they called them "vulvas?" I don't know; it was something Spanish. People were blowing all these vulvas at the World Cup and the noise was distracting the players. I mean, the game really should be all about the fans though, so I say if they were having fun blowing vulvas, God bless. Live and let live.
But seriously, I hate exercising. I understand the vanity of it--you know I think that unattractive people are the real "untouchables"--but all that sweating, and the breathing hard, and having to miss "Last Comic Standing" to go to the gym. It's not for me. I'd rather wait until I can afford lunch-time lipo. And I want Botox too, but not that bad batch that Kate Gosselin got. Jesus Christ! As if her face wasn't jacked up enough, now she has that "No, I've always looked like a villain from the Batman comics" face. Speaking of Christa Miller...another time.
Oh, and guess who's girlfriend is pregnant! That's right, congratulate me now, because when the clinic opens in the morning, it'll be too late. (I've been trying to work up the balls to do that joke as a Facebook status, but I'm really not in the mood for the conservative backlash. But it's a solid joke, and I'm proud of it, as I am all my jokes--they're like my children.)
I'm really broke these days. I auditioned for a porn and was offered the role, but I turned it down. It was a fetish porn, and the fetish was fast food icons. I was on board when they wanted me to be the Burger King--they were even going to let me keep the giant plastic head--but there were legal issues with BK and McDonald's. Eventually, I was cast to play Jared from Subway. Now, nobody loves double entendre more than me, but all the "$5 footlong" jokes in the world couldn't get me to demean myself that much.
I need a date. I was going to finally give in and try the online thing but I read a few profiles and most of the women on there have kids. I was telling my friend about it and how 90% of them are really young, single mothers. She said, "Don't they have planned parenthood offices in Georgia?" I said, "Apparently not enough to keep up with the demand." But I pushed on, and eventually found someone age-appropriate and moderately attractive--she looked like Princess Diana (when she was still alive...not now). So I started reading her profile, and I got as far as "I'm currently attending the University of Phoenix..." and I was like, "I'm out! If this is what's out there, I'll gladly stay single!" I say that, but actually I had a date last night. I'm gentleman, so I won't kiss and tell, but let me just say that I spent the better part of today figuring out how to get semen out of a microsuede couch. I know, I know; I'm a hopeless romantic.
Although, not much has gone on in my own life since my last post, there's been a lot going on in Hollywood! It's so sad about Gary Coleman. You know he died pretty much penniless? Thank God, they can save the cost of a casket and just bury him in a cooler. Maybe they can get one with wheels--like the kind you take to the beach--that way, they can just have one pallbearer. And Heidi broke up with Spencer. I heard she caught him having sex with a blowup doll. In his defense, he probably thought it was her. And, not that they're real celebrities, but the soccer players have been all over the news because of the World Cup. I haven't watched any of it, but I keep hearing people talk about these things making this loud, irritating noise. I can't remember what they called them...I think they called them "vulvas?" I don't know; it was something Spanish. People were blowing all these vulvas at the World Cup and the noise was distracting the players. I mean, the game really should be all about the fans though, so I say if they were having fun blowing vulvas, God bless. Live and let live.
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
They Make Larry Craig Look Like Billy Graham
What the hell? Remember the good ole days when a celebrity affair was classy? One man with a nagging wife. One whore with Daddy issues. In the really interesting cases, there was a Senator blowing a 17 year-old page or tap dancing in the Minneapolis Airport bathroom. Ah, simpler times. Nowadays, when the news breaks that a celebrity has cheated, it immediately turns into a clown car of sluts--each with a more intricate story than the one before. Tiger Woods had 12 mistresses and Jesse James had 4, and those are just the ones we found out about. Tiger was with a porn star. Jesse was with a neo-Nazi white supremacist. Reille Hunter did a photo-shoot dressed like Jenna Jameson at church. There's no dignity to it anymore. No discretion. Marilyn Monroe, the country's biggest movie star, in all likelihood had an affair with JFK, America's most beloved President until Black Jesus...I mean Obama. And to this day, we can't be sure, because that pill-head and Bullseye McGee knew how to keep their mouths shut. Just the thought of it makes me nostalgic.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
"Don't Get An Erection!"
I love getting massages, with the exception of this one time when I used my friend Jaime's gift certificate and went to a male masseur, which I have no problem with in general. However, this man was old and super creepy and to this day, I don't know if he was a Licensed Massage Therapist (LMT). Anyways, his "studio" was in the back of this old musty shit hole strip mall. Unlike all the massages I had gotten previously and all the ones I've gotten since, this man's massage did not include a sheet for me to lie under. I can't remember if there was the usual tranquil music or not, but in any case, it was me lying uncovered in my boxer briefs on a table while this man poked and prodded me with his bony old fingers. There was no skill to it--just pain. I was like that episode of Friends where Ross pretended to be a massage therapist, and he beat the client with wooden kitchen spoons and rolled a Tonka truck across his back, except this wasn't comedic--it was somewhere in between Hostel and Dateline: To Catch a Predator. The worst part was while most LMTs tuck the sheet into the top of your underwear and pull it down maybe an inch to have plenty of room to massage your lower back, Uncle Creepy (having no sheet in his way to begin with) pulled my boxer briefs much further down, exposing half of my ass. I've never been so glad to leave somewhere as when I left his "studio" that day!
Anyways, I didn't let that one bad experience put me off spending excessive amounts of money that I don't have on a luxury service that I don't need :) And since she was running a "Tax Season Special" for the accounting firm where I work, I decided to take advantage of the $40 hour long deep-tissue massage that was being offered. My appointment was yesterday morning and when I arrived in front of an old house that is currently being used as a construction company's business office, I immediately had post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks to my hour of hell with Uncle Creepy. But when the LMT arrived, she led me to her studio on the back side of the house, which was well-appointed and looked as a massage studio should. I had made sure she was actually licensed before scheduling the appointment, and the fact that she was wearing something akin to scrubs made me feel at ease.
The massage began, and thankfully it included a dimly lit room and flute music played over the sound of ocean waves. Now, despite the peaceful environment, my mind is working every waking hour. There is no transcendent place where I let my mind wander and relax. No, I was deciding where to go for lunch afterwards and thinking about the sitcom pilot I'm writing for Paula Deen. So I kept trying to push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on relaxing. And let me just say that the massage was intentionally not relaxing; I chose deep-tissue over Swedish and then asked for a lot of pressure. I was trying to loosen my muscles and force out the toxins that have built up from my diet of Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches and Tahitian vanilla bean gelato and a lack of exercise. By the way, the intake form I had to fill out before the massage asked what type of exercise I participate in and how often; I wrote "NONE/NEVER."
So I finally get the practical thoughts out of my head, which was a huge mistake. Because then my outlandish comedy mind kicked in. I became concerned that this girl might ask if I wanted a happy ending, and while this girl was only somewhat cute (barring the tattoos), I couldn't help but let my mind wander down that road. But 10 seconds in, I was yelling at myself in my head "Stop it now before it gets out of control! Don't get an erection! Don't get an erection! Think of dead bodies and baseball!" So then I start smiling at the ridiculousness of my life and my thought process (and I immediately started drafting this blog in my head). Thank God my face was in the face hole on the massage table because I had this huge cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin on my face!
So later I had to roll over--and no worries: this is not an erection story. But I did get to thinking about how I had to talk myself out of letting my mind wander about the happy ending and I wanted to laugh and I could feel myself beginning to smile--not a sexual smile, but a my-life-is-an-episode-of-Everybody-Loves-Raymond smile--so then I'm biting my lip so I don't look like a big weirdo. It was just bizarre, as is most of my life.
On a side-note, she told me to drink lots of water for the rest of the day; of course I didn't because I hate water, and I've felt flu-like symptoms ever since, including nausea and exhaustion, so FYI: Do drink lots of water after a deep-tissue massage; they're not kidding when they tell you that.
Anyways, I didn't let that one bad experience put me off spending excessive amounts of money that I don't have on a luxury service that I don't need :) And since she was running a "Tax Season Special" for the accounting firm where I work, I decided to take advantage of the $40 hour long deep-tissue massage that was being offered. My appointment was yesterday morning and when I arrived in front of an old house that is currently being used as a construction company's business office, I immediately had post-traumatic stress disorder flashbacks to my hour of hell with Uncle Creepy. But when the LMT arrived, she led me to her studio on the back side of the house, which was well-appointed and looked as a massage studio should. I had made sure she was actually licensed before scheduling the appointment, and the fact that she was wearing something akin to scrubs made me feel at ease.
The massage began, and thankfully it included a dimly lit room and flute music played over the sound of ocean waves. Now, despite the peaceful environment, my mind is working every waking hour. There is no transcendent place where I let my mind wander and relax. No, I was deciding where to go for lunch afterwards and thinking about the sitcom pilot I'm writing for Paula Deen. So I kept trying to push these thoughts out of my mind and focus on relaxing. And let me just say that the massage was intentionally not relaxing; I chose deep-tissue over Swedish and then asked for a lot of pressure. I was trying to loosen my muscles and force out the toxins that have built up from my diet of Wendy's spicy chicken sandwiches and Tahitian vanilla bean gelato and a lack of exercise. By the way, the intake form I had to fill out before the massage asked what type of exercise I participate in and how often; I wrote "NONE/NEVER."
So I finally get the practical thoughts out of my head, which was a huge mistake. Because then my outlandish comedy mind kicked in. I became concerned that this girl might ask if I wanted a happy ending, and while this girl was only somewhat cute (barring the tattoos), I couldn't help but let my mind wander down that road. But 10 seconds in, I was yelling at myself in my head "Stop it now before it gets out of control! Don't get an erection! Don't get an erection! Think of dead bodies and baseball!" So then I start smiling at the ridiculousness of my life and my thought process (and I immediately started drafting this blog in my head). Thank God my face was in the face hole on the massage table because I had this huge cat-that-swallowed-the-canary grin on my face!
So later I had to roll over--and no worries: this is not an erection story. But I did get to thinking about how I had to talk myself out of letting my mind wander about the happy ending and I wanted to laugh and I could feel myself beginning to smile--not a sexual smile, but a my-life-is-an-episode-of-Everybody-Loves-Raymond smile--so then I'm biting my lip so I don't look like a big weirdo. It was just bizarre, as is most of my life.
On a side-note, she told me to drink lots of water for the rest of the day; of course I didn't because I hate water, and I've felt flu-like symptoms ever since, including nausea and exhaustion, so FYI: Do drink lots of water after a deep-tissue massage; they're not kidding when they tell you that.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
I'm the White Oprah
I'm the white Oprah for two reasons: 1) I participated in meatless Mondays once about 2 weeks ago. If you're unfamiliar with this, it's a simple concept: for health benefits, you go without meat one day a week, and since Monday provided alliteration, that was the day they chose to abstain. As any meat-eater might guess, it freaking sucks. It especially sucks for me because my diet is built on four food groups: meat, bread, cheese, and sugar. But I suffered through it, and through my triumph of the human spirit, I survived, and now I'm just like Oprah because this is something she pretends to do while sneaking hot wings in her dressing room...allegedly.
The other reason that I'm the white Oprah has to do with my tax refund. Remember that episode a few years ago when both Oprah and her audience were more ridiculous than usual because she gave everyone in the studio a free car? And then the clip that was played on all the news programs and parodied on countless shows was the clip of Oprah pointing at people individually and screaming "And you get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!" and all the soccer moms and the old ladies and the gays in the audience were holding each other and jumping up and down and crying. It was event television.
Anyways, I got my federal tax refund yesterday, so now I get to point to Express, Discover, my roommate who I owe for utilities, and my friend who paid for our beach rental for Memorial Day, and I get to scream at them: "And you get a check! And you get a check! And you get a check!" I'm hoping for the same reaction of Oprah's audience, but only time will tell.
The other reason that I'm the white Oprah has to do with my tax refund. Remember that episode a few years ago when both Oprah and her audience were more ridiculous than usual because she gave everyone in the studio a free car? And then the clip that was played on all the news programs and parodied on countless shows was the clip of Oprah pointing at people individually and screaming "And you get a car! And you get a car! And you get a car!" and all the soccer moms and the old ladies and the gays in the audience were holding each other and jumping up and down and crying. It was event television.
Anyways, I got my federal tax refund yesterday, so now I get to point to Express, Discover, my roommate who I owe for utilities, and my friend who paid for our beach rental for Memorial Day, and I get to scream at them: "And you get a check! And you get a check! And you get a check!" I'm hoping for the same reaction of Oprah's audience, but only time will tell.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
You Play the Part of the Little Mute Girl...Action!
I created this blog like the day after I got hired for my job in Savannah with the intention of blogging everyday beginning with the day I moved here. Well, here we are 5 months later, and I'm churning out my first post, and it has nothing to do with Savannah...yeah, that sounds about right.
So, being that there's nowhere to see stand-up comedy in Savannah other than the Civic Center which only gets big names like Lewis Black, Sommore, and DL Hughley, I constantly check the websites of my favorite B-list comics to see if they're coming anywhere within driving distance of Savannah. Well, about 6 weeks ago, I discovered that two of my all-time favorite comics were doing a show together in Atlanta. So I invited all my friends to meet me there...and two actually showed up. Being that the drive from Savannah to Atlanta is about 5 hours with all the necessary gas, pee, and Starbucks breaks, I decided to make a weekend of it.
I scheduled lunch with my 9th grade history teacher, formerly Ms. Young, now Mrs. Jackson, at Copeland's in Buckhead. I've been dying to see her since I graduated high school 6 years ago, and I've been dying to have wood-grilled chicken with yams since they closed all the Copeland's in Alabama more than 6 years ago, so this lunch was win-win. The food was delicious, just as I remembered it, and seeing Mrs. Jackson and her daughter was absolutely wonderful.
Following lunch, I met up with my high school classmate Kate. She and her boyfriend Michael had driven in from Auburn to spend the afternoon with me and then go to the show last night. We decided to do the World of Coca-Cola tour. I arrived before Kate and Michael, and as I sat in the big park between the World of Coca-Cola and the Aquarium, I felt like the prom king. Hundreds of people there, snot-nosed kids running around and screaming, fatties, baldies, pregos, and a parade of bad haircuts. I probably saw ten people with either better genetics or more style than me; it was quite the self-esteem booster.
After Kate and Michael arrived, we bought our tickets and did the World of Coca-Cola tour. Interesting enough for $15, but Kate and I were all in it for the last stop on the tour: the Tasting Station! A giant room with a big counter top for each continent and that continent's Coke products. Most stuff was weird but not bad, but the last thing I had was the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. It's called Beverly and it's sold in Italy. It tastes like vinegar and toilet water. Absolutely disgusting!
On the way out, we stopped in the gift shop, and as we stood in line for Michael to pay for his stuff, I saw the most disturbing sight of the weekend. A family: the dad is a soldier--clean-cut in his military uniform. The mom is about 10 months pregnant, looks like she hasn't had a bath in days, and looks like she fell out of the trailer park tree and hit every white trash branch on the way down. So all of that, I'm used to; Mrs. Greaseball isn't my first experience seeing skanks. The kicker is the kid. Can't be more than 3, and that's probably a liberal estimate. Little boy with...a pierced ear! What the hell?! I begged Kate to ask the mom what the deal was and why they had pierced their toddler's ear, but as she pointed out, the mom, severely pregnant as she was, could've probably kicked Kate's ass.
So, the comedy club is through some obscure back hallway of this weird biker-themed bar and grill in midtown. I was really worried that it was like one of those weird sex places like in Vegas where you go down the dark corridor and it's like a mass glory-hole and there are naked women masturbating behind Plexiglas windows...turns out, it wasn't. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My friend Samantha came in from Birmingham via her parents' house in North Georgia to have dinner with us and go to the show. All the servers at the restaurants looked like art school grad students. The girl waiting the table behind us had two French stick figures tattooed in the center of her back...and the reason I know they were French stick figures is because the guy stick figure was wearing a little beret. Another waiter had Adam Lambert hair...you get the picture: just really hipster kids. I'm sure they were smoking weed on their breaks....allegedly.
So we finish dinner and go down the back hallway to the comedy club. Now when I say "comedy club" I mean a tiny room about the size of a high school classroom with about 50 folding chairs and 3 rows of booth seating set up like a judges' panel. Very intimate, and I loved it, but it was not at all what I was expecting after having seen shows at The Stardome in Birmingham. I thought the wooden booths would be slightly more comfortable than the metal folding chairs so we grabbed the back row which was still only 40 feet from the stage.
The club requires a two-drink minimum and had two bartenders--a girl and a guy. The girl was the main one who took care of the four of us (me, Samantha, Kate, and Michael). Like the servers in the restaurant, she was a hipster. Bleach-blond hair shorter than mine, wearing some little headband with like a feather or a flower or some other symbol of femininity to signal that she wasn't some twink who'd be dancing at Pirate's Booty later that night. Anyways, she was ridiculously ditsy, and it took her three attempts at making change for us before she got it right.
But there we were, sitting in the club with our drinks waiting on the show to start. I had been excited all day and was on the verge of jumping up and down in anticipation about seeing two women I had watched on TV since I was in high school. We sat through the emcee's mediocre set and then a lovely black lady's set...I think her name is Joelle. She was pretty funny, but I see why she isn't headlining.
And then the moment I had been waiting for: Jackie Kashian bursts onto the scene. Brilliant and hilarious! She even closed with a joke from like 8 years ago that I had asked her to do via our Facebook communication (I'm a dork...I know it, you know it. Let's move on.) But during the middle her set, this drunk girl in the second row interrupts her when she was talking about how ridiculous it is that we spend thousands of dollars to keep 20 year old pets alive when they're really sick. So Jackie responds, "Uh...ok, Miss, do you have a cat or a dog?" "A dog." "How old is it?" "Four." "Well, you're dog's fine then, so fuck off!" The crowd goes wild! The whole set was great, and I hope I can see her again soon.
Then it was time for the headliner: Maria Bamford! Her set was amazing and hilarious too, but the most interesting part was her interaction with the drunk girl. The girl keeps interrupting her and so Maria asks the guy she's with how he knows her; the guy says it's their first date. Poor bastard! It's bad enough he was with this alchy, but what came later was just tragic. So, the girl keeps interrupting, and Maria tries to handle her in different ways. "I know some people like to play a part in my show, so I'm going to give you a role: I want you to play to the part of the little mute girl. Just sitting there, quiet as can be...action!" and then later "You seem to think that this isn't a comedy show, and tonight, you're right. This is an intervention. Myself and everyone in the community has gotten together to tell you how we feel when you make a jackass of yourself at comedy shows. We're going to go around the room using 'I' statements to tell you how this makes us feel. I'll start..." Now, I saw her do this in a video clip from Jamie Kennedy's documentary "Heckler." The response usually ends "I'll start. I feel...like you should shut the fuck up!" But unfortunately, Maria didn't get to do that, because when she says "I'll start," the drunk girl interrupts AGAIN, and says something like, "Just keep going." So at that point, the male bartender finally wised up and comes and escorts the drunk girl and her boyfriend out. And Maria is like, "Oh, I hate to have to do that, but it's better that she left now before I start saying things like 'Don't they have a curfew at the whorehouse?' and I don't want to go down that road." So then Jackie comes out and takes their seats to watch the rest of Maria's set and we all clapped and went crazy! She finished her set and it was great! The whole show was great and I love them both now more than ever!
Sam went back to her parents' house in North Georgia, and Kate and Michael went back to Auburn. It would've been ridiculous and unsafe for me to drive back to Savannah that late, so I got a great room at the Hilton Atlanta. I had a room on the 14th floor with a beautiful view of the cityscape.
The whole trip was wonderful, and it was so good to spend time with Mrs. Jackson, Kate and Samantha :)
So, being that there's nowhere to see stand-up comedy in Savannah other than the Civic Center which only gets big names like Lewis Black, Sommore, and DL Hughley, I constantly check the websites of my favorite B-list comics to see if they're coming anywhere within driving distance of Savannah. Well, about 6 weeks ago, I discovered that two of my all-time favorite comics were doing a show together in Atlanta. So I invited all my friends to meet me there...and two actually showed up. Being that the drive from Savannah to Atlanta is about 5 hours with all the necessary gas, pee, and Starbucks breaks, I decided to make a weekend of it.
I scheduled lunch with my 9th grade history teacher, formerly Ms. Young, now Mrs. Jackson, at Copeland's in Buckhead. I've been dying to see her since I graduated high school 6 years ago, and I've been dying to have wood-grilled chicken with yams since they closed all the Copeland's in Alabama more than 6 years ago, so this lunch was win-win. The food was delicious, just as I remembered it, and seeing Mrs. Jackson and her daughter was absolutely wonderful.
Following lunch, I met up with my high school classmate Kate. She and her boyfriend Michael had driven in from Auburn to spend the afternoon with me and then go to the show last night. We decided to do the World of Coca-Cola tour. I arrived before Kate and Michael, and as I sat in the big park between the World of Coca-Cola and the Aquarium, I felt like the prom king. Hundreds of people there, snot-nosed kids running around and screaming, fatties, baldies, pregos, and a parade of bad haircuts. I probably saw ten people with either better genetics or more style than me; it was quite the self-esteem booster.
After Kate and Michael arrived, we bought our tickets and did the World of Coca-Cola tour. Interesting enough for $15, but Kate and I were all in it for the last stop on the tour: the Tasting Station! A giant room with a big counter top for each continent and that continent's Coke products. Most stuff was weird but not bad, but the last thing I had was the most disgusting thing I've ever tasted. It's called Beverly and it's sold in Italy. It tastes like vinegar and toilet water. Absolutely disgusting!
On the way out, we stopped in the gift shop, and as we stood in line for Michael to pay for his stuff, I saw the most disturbing sight of the weekend. A family: the dad is a soldier--clean-cut in his military uniform. The mom is about 10 months pregnant, looks like she hasn't had a bath in days, and looks like she fell out of the trailer park tree and hit every white trash branch on the way down. So all of that, I'm used to; Mrs. Greaseball isn't my first experience seeing skanks. The kicker is the kid. Can't be more than 3, and that's probably a liberal estimate. Little boy with...a pierced ear! What the hell?! I begged Kate to ask the mom what the deal was and why they had pierced their toddler's ear, but as she pointed out, the mom, severely pregnant as she was, could've probably kicked Kate's ass.
So, the comedy club is through some obscure back hallway of this weird biker-themed bar and grill in midtown. I was really worried that it was like one of those weird sex places like in Vegas where you go down the dark corridor and it's like a mass glory-hole and there are naked women masturbating behind Plexiglas windows...turns out, it wasn't. But I'm getting ahead of myself.
My friend Samantha came in from Birmingham via her parents' house in North Georgia to have dinner with us and go to the show. All the servers at the restaurants looked like art school grad students. The girl waiting the table behind us had two French stick figures tattooed in the center of her back...and the reason I know they were French stick figures is because the guy stick figure was wearing a little beret. Another waiter had Adam Lambert hair...you get the picture: just really hipster kids. I'm sure they were smoking weed on their breaks....allegedly.
So we finish dinner and go down the back hallway to the comedy club. Now when I say "comedy club" I mean a tiny room about the size of a high school classroom with about 50 folding chairs and 3 rows of booth seating set up like a judges' panel. Very intimate, and I loved it, but it was not at all what I was expecting after having seen shows at The Stardome in Birmingham. I thought the wooden booths would be slightly more comfortable than the metal folding chairs so we grabbed the back row which was still only 40 feet from the stage.
The club requires a two-drink minimum and had two bartenders--a girl and a guy. The girl was the main one who took care of the four of us (me, Samantha, Kate, and Michael). Like the servers in the restaurant, she was a hipster. Bleach-blond hair shorter than mine, wearing some little headband with like a feather or a flower or some other symbol of femininity to signal that she wasn't some twink who'd be dancing at Pirate's Booty later that night. Anyways, she was ridiculously ditsy, and it took her three attempts at making change for us before she got it right.
But there we were, sitting in the club with our drinks waiting on the show to start. I had been excited all day and was on the verge of jumping up and down in anticipation about seeing two women I had watched on TV since I was in high school. We sat through the emcee's mediocre set and then a lovely black lady's set...I think her name is Joelle. She was pretty funny, but I see why she isn't headlining.
And then the moment I had been waiting for: Jackie Kashian bursts onto the scene. Brilliant and hilarious! She even closed with a joke from like 8 years ago that I had asked her to do via our Facebook communication (I'm a dork...I know it, you know it. Let's move on.) But during the middle her set, this drunk girl in the second row interrupts her when she was talking about how ridiculous it is that we spend thousands of dollars to keep 20 year old pets alive when they're really sick. So Jackie responds, "Uh...ok, Miss, do you have a cat or a dog?" "A dog." "How old is it?" "Four." "Well, you're dog's fine then, so fuck off!" The crowd goes wild! The whole set was great, and I hope I can see her again soon.
Then it was time for the headliner: Maria Bamford! Her set was amazing and hilarious too, but the most interesting part was her interaction with the drunk girl. The girl keeps interrupting her and so Maria asks the guy she's with how he knows her; the guy says it's their first date. Poor bastard! It's bad enough he was with this alchy, but what came later was just tragic. So, the girl keeps interrupting, and Maria tries to handle her in different ways. "I know some people like to play a part in my show, so I'm going to give you a role: I want you to play to the part of the little mute girl. Just sitting there, quiet as can be...action!" and then later "You seem to think that this isn't a comedy show, and tonight, you're right. This is an intervention. Myself and everyone in the community has gotten together to tell you how we feel when you make a jackass of yourself at comedy shows. We're going to go around the room using 'I' statements to tell you how this makes us feel. I'll start..." Now, I saw her do this in a video clip from Jamie Kennedy's documentary "Heckler." The response usually ends "I'll start. I feel...like you should shut the fuck up!" But unfortunately, Maria didn't get to do that, because when she says "I'll start," the drunk girl interrupts AGAIN, and says something like, "Just keep going." So at that point, the male bartender finally wised up and comes and escorts the drunk girl and her boyfriend out. And Maria is like, "Oh, I hate to have to do that, but it's better that she left now before I start saying things like 'Don't they have a curfew at the whorehouse?' and I don't want to go down that road." So then Jackie comes out and takes their seats to watch the rest of Maria's set and we all clapped and went crazy! She finished her set and it was great! The whole show was great and I love them both now more than ever!
Sam went back to her parents' house in North Georgia, and Kate and Michael went back to Auburn. It would've been ridiculous and unsafe for me to drive back to Savannah that late, so I got a great room at the Hilton Atlanta. I had a room on the 14th floor with a beautiful view of the cityscape.
The whole trip was wonderful, and it was so good to spend time with Mrs. Jackson, Kate and Samantha :)
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