Klingons!

I am watching an episode of Star Trek: Enterprise, the under rated one in my opinion, and Klingons are in it. I have never thought of them as interesting creation. They are one dimensional and I highly doubt a culture so war like would have either survived long enough to make it into space or would even be capable of such science like faster than light travel.
"I hate the Klingons!" I say out loud.
My friend, who is either very stoned or very serious looks at me and says, "Your a racist!"
I start to laugh but I can see he is serious.
"They are fictional characters in a fictional future. I can't be a racist. There not real."
"They might not be real, but you are still saying that you hate an entire group of people."
"No. No I'm not. I am saying that I hate one dimensional characters in bad make-up."
At this he shakes his head, shocked and open mouthed that I would have the nerve to say such a thing.
"I had no idea a friend of mine could be such a stone cold racist!" He says this crossing his arms.
"Come on Dude. They are just actors playing aliens. I can't hate fake alien's? What other fictional creations am I a racist for not liking? I can't stand those lazy no good trolls. Have you seen the way those loud dirty Jawas treat their kids? I am disgusted by the very site of a unicorn. And those fucking Leprechauns! The way they wear their pants and the music they play! Don't get me started."
Give me a break?
Has real racism been solved so we can now move onto stamping out the hidden plight of the fictional people and their struggles to be thought of as equals?
"Klingons aren't even human!" I say with one last attempt at logic.
"That is the very same same talk Hitler used."
I shake my head. "Yes. You are right. Hitler did claim that an entire group of people were less than human, but unlike Klingons, the Jews are a real people who live here on Earth in this time, not a fictional race that lives on another world somewhere in the 22nd century."
"It's the same thing. Hate is hate."
"So I am not allowed to dislike anything or anyone even if they don't actually exist?"
It's at this point that I realize this conversation is beyond ridiculous. I keep waiting for him to say, Gotcha! But it's not coming.
"I am all for love and understanding, but give me a brake. Klingons are just boring one dimensional fictional beings who only want to destroy things. That's it!"
He stands up and shouts at me, "That's their culture Joe! Who are we to judge with our wars and our problems?"
"Your right. They are battling in space for survival and our problems are real."
You know what you shouldn't do in this situation? You shouldn't laugh. After all, this is his passion and clearly I have upset him. But I laugh anyway because in a completely surreal situation, that's what I do. It's my way.
He storms out of the room muttering something about ignorance and close mindedness. I am now left there to consider my racist ways. I am a racist of cultures in the future. I admit it. I think they are an evil and vile race of beings that should be burned from the universe. I feel better for saying it now. If you will excuse me, I have to go find a sheet I can wear to the cross burning we are having to rid the neighborhood of those stinking dirty Droids.

If You Missed it.

Just in case you missed it, here is the interview segment and my set on Last Comic Standing. I don't know how long it will stay up. They tok it off YouTube last night after being up there for a few hours. Oh Well. Enjoy=)

Respect!

The times, they are a changing.
Driving back into the city from Sacramento last night, I saw this written on the back of a car window: Just Partnered!
Get use to it America. Course, a Subaru blasting ABBA tunes with two guys in it already says they are partnered. Doesn't it?

The other day, I was walking past a meter maid who was about to write a ticket. Just as he bent a little and squinted to read the parking meter, a man ran across the street frantically making the time out sign with his hands. The meter maid had already gone perfectly still trying to read the clouded window on the meter. The friend I was walking with and I had the same idea at the same instant; we froze in place, mid stride, arms in the air. The guy running toward the seen stopped dead in his tracks and just went "Wow!" Like he actually froze time.
We busted up at that point and the meter maid, oblivious to any of this turned to look at us laughing as the guy came to terms with the fact that he not only didn't have super powers, but he was also about to get a ticket.

At the Sacramento Punchline, they provide Playboy's to "read" in the green room. More prof that I am indeed getting older, I actually picked one up for the interview with Steve Carell. Yeah, thats right. I picked up a Playboy for the man inside it. Of course, once I had it in my hands (The Magazine) I did page through it. They had the Playmate of the year. You have to look. Don't ask me her name. All I can tell you about her is that she is Canadian, has a flawless shaved beaver and tattooed just above it is a single word: Respect.
Are you kidding me? Oh I will respect the shit out of you darling!
Maybe respect and pussy should be associated with each other. But lets remember, your a hot girl who makes a living by taking her clothes off. No offense, but I doubt guys are viewing you and saying, "I sure respect her!" I don't think I have ever disrespected the vagina, but seeing any word stenciled across a perfect flawless body sorta ruins it for me. You are already crazy hot, an 11 on a scale of 1-10, why would you put graffiti on that? Especially there!
You have to figure that her vagina has been disrespected so many times that finally she said, I need a sign to tell guys not to disrespect me when they see me naked for money grinding my ass against a poll or spreading it in a world wide magazine that was build on the premise of objectifying nude women. Because who would disrespect you then? Clearly you have warned them now with all the subtly of, oh I don't know, a tattoo of the word respect above your snatch!
In the interview, she alludes to it being something about feminism. Darling, you are to feminism what Bush is to world peace. Sorry to mention Bush. I can see from the photos you are no fan of any Bush.
I mean, come on! You are a playboy model who will be ogled, jacked-off to and kept under 13 year old boy's beds. You didn't win a Nobel piece prize (I know how I spelled it!) Your a nude girl with a hot body. It's not like I have anything against you (I would like to though!) it's just that putting the word respect directly above your smooth beaver in a Playboy might be the greatest and hottest demonstration of irony I have ever seen. Rarely can I enjoy irony with one hand. Never before has irony had a centerfold.
The especially funny thing about it all is the font that it is written in and the way it looks looks exactly like the words you see on posters of cows when they show you where the various cuts of meat come from. In her effort to gain respect for her body, she looks like she has just labeled her self like a piece of meat. I say, keep going with it. Stencil the word, integrity where the typical tramp stamp would be. Write the word, values on each breast. That way when guys totally objectify your body we can say to each other, "Did you see the Integrity on her? I wish I could get my hands on those values!"
"Yeah, but guys. I so want to earn her respect! What do you think that would take?"
A camera and a green card.

My Party.

Every once in a while just in the nick of time something happens to remind me that things, at least for the moment, are pretty good. Last night was one of those times. For the last two years or so, I have taught comedy at a small independent place in the city. It's a great idea. People want to learn and the open Mic's can sometimes be nothing more than a training ground in what not to do, so a school that is supportive and structured is perfect. The money wasn't bad either. After two years of loving being a teacher, I stepped down. When I didn't have a gig at night, I was pretty much there. Every night was a night where I put energy out. I need some down time. I need some time to do the things I know I have to do to stay on just this side of crazy. It was a hard choice that I kept in the back of my mind for a while, but drama and fatigue made the choice easier. Last night I was given a going away party. I have to especially thank Dhaya for organizing the whole thing and securing a great location for it. I was given gifts, sentimental cards for occasions other than this (First communion, were having a baby and Fathers day cards were among them.) There was a unicorn pinata filled with candy that Kelly had individually wrapped with bad yo mama jokes, Darth Vader cardboard masks and of course, a cake in the shape and flavor of an Asian girls ass complete with two X-wing fighters flying across it's shapely Moon. Damn! Do these people know me or what? Don't ask how one captures the flavor of an Asian girls ass. Upon entering, I was made to sit down and Loren read a wonderful poem to me, about me and whores. Christ, I have to stop writing everything in my Blog! I have issues. What comic doesn't. All this positive emotion, all this love directed at me, it was overwhelming and beautiful. I should of left earlier! It was worth all the jokes about the cake. The cake, by the way, was accurate. Joe modeled it after his Asian girlfriend and then got it made at an adult bakery, delivered to Dhaya's house where Kelly picked it up and delivered it to the party. That's team work. I spent the night cutting it up and serving it on Star Wars plates. "Does anyone want more ass?" I kept asking. Loren asked for an end piece. "Loren, there all end pieces."
Then came the cards, the gifts, the warm words and awkward hugs. Oh, and the photos of us doing things to the unicorn/donkey that would scar it if it was real. By the way, Jennifer took it home. She became very attached to it and I didn't have the heart to take it back from her. In fact, she has now asked for a mythical creature pinata filled with fruit candy for her birthday. Done. There was also a giant card made by Aninta that everyone signed. All in all, it was a love fest for me. Man, I wish I was better with emotion!
As the party broke up, some people went back to the SFCC for shows and five women and I went to my favorite greasy spoon dinner, The Pinecrest. There is nothing like sitting around a table with five quick witted women. I need to do it more often. After that broke up, more people headed off in other directions and the rest of us, Donkey pinata and smiley face balloon in hand, headed for the SFCC.
The SFCC sits on the 7th and 5th floor of the native sons building on Mason Street. It is probably best known as the location for Ruby Skye, a dance club. Outside the club on this evening where two giant swirl lollipops. That didn't seem all that unusual to us. After all, if you were going to a dance club pumped to your gills on XTC, you to might want to see the inviting promise of giant lollipops outside. However, next to these was a sign that read, Sadie's Bat Mitzvah. Oh thats a great idea, have your daughters coming of age party in a place associated with cocaine and date rape. OK baby. Today you are a woman. Put on some glitter, get out there under the disco ball and shake your money maker!
The Comedy Colleges youngest student, 13, was told of the party down stairs. His first thought, "If I could crash it I would be knee deep in pussy!" Yes you would, young man. Yes you would. You would also have a great opening line. "Ladies, who wants to loose their virginity tonight? I promise I'll be gentile!"
All in all, a great night with too much for me to put in any one blog post. I was touched by every ones warmth and felt special. Thank you to everyone. It meant a lot to me and I smiled more last night than I have in a long while. I will miss teaching, but I think I made the right choice for myself. Take care of each other and always remember, the Force will be with you.

A Pretty Good Anxiety Attack

Anxiety attack!!!
For me, these manifest themselves in my chest. I can feel it coming before it completely takes over and that just scares me more. It's like the first tremors in an earthquake where everyone in an office looks at each other for a second to confirm what they suspect. Then, that first big wave hits and everyone jumps for a door frame. That's what it's like for me. I haven't had one in a while, so just like that California big one we keep waiting for, I guess I was overdue. Still, when those first few pin pricks gather in my chest and some part of my primitive mind floods the blood stream with fight or flight juice, my first thought is always, this is not an anxiety attack.
Ah denial.
It is all just part of the process. Because when I think that, the wave building in my chest explodes in my mind and all rational thought it done. Now I can only sit back and ride the ride. You can't think yourself out of an anxiety attack. It's like trying to repair a broken machine with the broken machine. That's the next thing I tell myself and that leads to the unbelievably depressing thought that my head is a broken thing. Depression and anxiety now!
Two for the price of the one. Great.
Do I sit up? Maybe I should go for a walk? Do I just lay there in bed? Will there be something on TV that could possibly help? There is no right answer and to every choice I entertain there seems to be a cascade of reasons why that won't do any good either. In the end, I usually end up laying where it started. These pass pretty quickly, but while I am in the middle of it, that thought never crosses my mind. What crosses my mind is a million things in rapid images that all say, you have failed. Isn't it nice when your own mind becomes your biggest enemy in a crisis?
I sit up in bed, take a few deep breaths and look and the tiny little room I rent. The anxiety starts to fade as quickly as it started. Now comes the soft landing of sadness. When I look at the small room I refer to as the box, I wonder if I will still be here when I am 50 and if I will still be thinking I am just a step away from the larger career in comedy I have wanted for so long. I think of a line from the Russel Crowe movie, Gladiator. It is in the beginning of the movie when they are about to fight the tribes of Germania. One of his generals comments, "Don't they know they are already beat?" Crowe, sitting on his horse barely smiles and says, "Would you?" That line has echoed around in my head since I saw that movie. At 40, the chances of becoming a well known comic are pretty slim. But it's the only thing I truly know how to do. It's the only thing I am any good at. It's the only thing that gets me out of bed in the morning. So maybe I am already beat and I am just too stupid or too much in denial to admit that its over for me. I could live in a nicer place. I could look for a better day job. I could hang up the dream and be a happy productive member of society. Right? When I think this thought I know that it is just a rationalization. Nothing more. When I ride the bus in the morning sometimes, I look around at the people dressed in suits and clutching their coffee. They already look defeated before even steeping foot inside the places where they work. I understand that the vast majority of us will never get the chance to live out our dreams. But looking around at the people on the bus, well, I don't know if they ever took a shot or if they ever thought it was time to just quit and get a "real" job, but I would rather keep living my life as if I haven't been defeated yet rather than join this somber army of those who did the realistic thing with their lives.
I have a lot of anger bottled up inside me. Anger for a system that blindly hands out opportunities to youth rather than talent. Anger that contact from the X still rattles me so much. Anger that any peace with comedy still eludes me after all these years. Anger, it seems is driving this latest anxiety attack. I was OK with the results of Last Comic Standing. I really was. Of course I wished I had advanced. Just the tiny bit of screen time I had got me e-mails from people all over the planet. All over the planet!
Almost everyone told me I was robbed. Well, no. Nothing was taken from me and the exposure was nice. it's that I wanted more. There was no sudden rush from Bookers or managers. So, for the millionth time I ask, what is it I have to do to get attention? And really, it doesn't matter. It really doesn't. My petty wishes for fame are nothing compared to the suffering around the world. It seems silly, selfish even to be pissed about this. The thing is, without a larger measure of fame no ones career can move forward in this biz. I have felt stuck for a while now. That next level that next steep is so close. It's like a weight above my head. I can feel it. It's just that now I will be 40 soon and all this was how I felt at 30. I think thats what started this particular attack, age. Right before my chest went fuzzy with those pin pricks I thought, in 10 years I will be 50. Boom. Thats where it started. Because the thing is, I am like an addict. I can't stop doing comedy and yet I wonder if it is the most rational thing for a man my age to keep doing. I certainly don't feel like an adult. Friends are married, having babies, going back to school, enjoying relationships, moving into bigger places or new towns and here I am, sitting up in bed at night, alone and freaking out because I have poured so much of my life into a thing that could never offer any promises in the first place. That makes me think of the X. Was she my last chance at anything like happiness with another human? Fuck, I hope not. How can you find happiness with a partner who cheated on you once and lied to you a second time after you got back together? You can't.
So there I am, sitting up in bed crushed on all sides by silence feeling alone, missing a girl who broke my heart twice and questioning my sanity for still thinking that I could have a career like any of the people I see on TV. Yeah. That's a pretty good anxiety attack.

Stuff that fits no where else.

Why do I get the feeling that the big twist at the end of The Happening, is going to be that I paid to see it?

I hear Bush is having trouble raising money for his Presidential library. It's the Bush Library. How much does a shelf cost?

I have reached the age where I determine what I am going to eat by how it is going to feel coming out.
"I can't eat that burrito at this hour. That is going to burn on re-entry."
That's how I like to think of the actions of my ass, under the control of NASA.

At a restaurant today, the host tried to sit us between two tables already occupied by people. I asked if we could sit someplace else. Someplace away from other people. If I wanted to meet other people I would stay home and go on line. Not go out to a restaurant.

The best name to give at a busy restaurant with a long wait is Eaton. That way, the hostess must wander around a group of people who have waited for more than an hour and say, "Eaton! Who here has Eaton."

Last nights crowd did not enjoy the story about me, the girl, a sharpie and her ass. Oh well.

John McCain looks like the Nazis who melted at the end of Raiders of the lost ark. Keep your eyes closed at his rallies. No matter what you do, don't open your eyes people!