Proof in the Existence of God!

On This day in 1997, something happened that perfectly puts into place everything I find truly strange and fascinating about religion.

The Jerusalem Post reports that high rabbinical sources have confirmed the birth of a rare red heifer named Melody in a kibbutz near Haifa. The ashes from such a beast will be needed to ceremonially purify any Jews before they would be permitted to enter the former site of Solomon's Temple in Jerusalem. At present, the land is occupied by the Dome of the Rock mosque, which is located on the spot where Muslims believe that Mohammed rode his horse into Heaven. The Jewish people wish to reconstruct the Hebrew temple, but this would necessitate tearing down the mosque, virtually guaranteeing outright war between Israel and the Arab world. Even more ominous, the construction project is a necessary prerequisite for the second coming of Christ, which itself involves all the End Times stuff in the book of Revelation. Melody is the first red heifer in 2,000 years, and quite possibly the last.

So there you go. In a nut shell, all three of the worlds major religions are tied to this one spot of land. By the way, there are not three different God's either. God is the same God for the Jews, Muslims and Christians. The Virgin Marry is mentioned more in the Koran than in the Bible. Muslims, like the Jews, believe that Jesus was a great profit, not God's son. Most of the Christian old testament is the Hebrew Torah. It is only the interpretation of God's words that everyone seems to be arguing about. That, and this tiny spot of land where each religion holds some supernatural claim.

To me, this is iron clad proof in the existence of a God. What a wonderful and elaborate practical joke God has played on humanity. Hey, if he/she/it made us in it's image, think about how strange, mixed up and truly odd we can be. God must also hold all these qualities too. Maybe this is the real test. When you die, it would be like walking into a surprise birthday party. You come through the pearly gates and Buddha jumps out. "Surprise!"
Who Knows?

Maybe, after God gets bored with this joke, he will one up it. The world will wake up one day and where the Dome of the Rock is and the walling wall now sits, there will be nothing but a giant hole. Imagine how everyone would react to that? A perfectly round extremely deep hole. What would the three religions make of this? Undoubtedly they would all blame each other for what would be best described as a miracle. Soundlessly, in a second, this disputed area no bigger than the average shopping mall would disappear. I bet people would start to throw themselves in it. I bet that after a few hundred do this, someone would have to put up a fence around it. Then, we could charge the people who think throwing themselves into this pit would get them closer to whatever vision of God they hold dear. We could take that money and use it to improve the quality of life in the Mid-East. Eventually, all the true believers will have jumped into the hole. That's the moment that Jesus and Mohammad, together on a horse, would drop down from the sky and to a stunned audience watching on TV's around the world, they would say in every language simultaneously, "Alright! Now that those sticks in the mud are gone, let's get down to business! What part of Love didn't you understand?"

Joke Thief

Lets get something clear comic to comic.
Anyone who knowingly steals another comics joke is something beneath a thief. It is the lowest thing one artist can do to another artist. A joke is intellectual property. A joke is less than a sentence but more than a collection of words. A joke is someone's individual and unique take on a subject. To take that and pass it off as your own is to be a traitor. A traitor to the belief that comedy can be an art. We might occasionally come up with similar jokes based on something in the news, or even a similar joke about something random, but stealing a persons joke completely and knowingly is low. Apologize, stop doing the joke and hope people who are in a position to hold you back don't care as much as other comics do. It's just plain wrong, man. It would be like stealing another man's horse in the old west. It's like taking the last condom from your buddy's wallet. It's like taking his wallet too! I know that the audience doesn't know or even care if it's not yours, but comics do. That small group of fellow artists that you will see for the rest of your career know. They don't forget shit like this. None of us do. It will follow you around and shadow every step of your career. We have all had the occasional riffing moment where a friends joke slips out. Or the conversation where the person says something you spit back out to laughter on stage. These are different, even forgivable instances. I am talking about out right theft. Someone else wrote it but someone else shouldn't be saying it.

Dark and Bright

Saturday afternoon I drive to Sacramento. Back up I-80 for another gig. This one doesn't pay much, but when it's for a A.A. convention, it's hard to argue about pay.
In a small ballroom, 100 people at circular tables will be eating over priced chicken and listening to me. No matter how many times I say this, no one seems to listen; performing while people eat never works out well. Their faces are all looking down at their plates, not up at a performer. The comic becomes not just a distraction, but an annoyance. But, this is how it is to be. so be it. About 15 minuets into it, I start to do well. In 30 minuets I am done and come face to face with something I don't know how to take, a standing ovation. I pretty much did my regular act with a few reference thrown in that only this crowd would get. When I leave, I feel strange. Strange for a bunch of reasons I don't care to admit to myself and strange because I am such a lonely man who is deeply uncomfortable with people. I shake a lot of hands, smile at bright faces that are truly, genuinely touched by me being there, but I just want to run off to the safety of isolation. Isolation is never that safe.
I get back into my car, look at the accumulation of fast food wrappers and empty water bottles and resolve for the one hundredth time to finally clean my car. Then, in 5 minuets I am back on the highway and driving directly into the setting sun.
I had a request to do a birthday party in Napa. I could of done it. They wouldn't come up in the money, but as I drive straight into the glare of coming dusk I think, I should of taken it. Money is money. But, it is also nice to just have to drive home and do this gig I promised I would do at one of the little hip rooms in the city.
It's the Dark room, in the Mission.
The Mission on Saturday night in San Francisco.
I love it. I hate it.
Dour looking girls from the suburbs walk down Valencia in shoes you can hear a block away repeating to themselves, "I am a lesbian. I am a lesbian."
Hipsters, at Muddy Waters cafe wearing $200 shoes and twenty bucks worth of product in their hair try hard to look like they can't afford to be there.
Most people stare at their lap top computers accomplishing nothing but listening to other peoples conversations to judge themselves by.
In every little corner and each doorway, a person in gray rags ask for change or smokes a cigarette.
The bars, the cafes, the new restaurants are over run with people who feel like just parking here means they are experiencing the city. They pat themselves on the back for mixing with the "rough element."
I learned on Myspace that last night someone slit the tires of 20 cars down here. It is culture clash for real. Gentrification and homeless mix with the economic realities of brand new lofts that overlook crack deals on the corner, and everyone crosses the street in the middle, not at the corners. Where the homeless don't stand to get out of the wind, the smokers do. Their laughter is louder, their speech is slurred. They stand in groups of 5 and 6 outside bars shivering for their nicotine fix. You can smell the music drifting out and hear the beer splashing in their belly's.
"Oh my God!" is the exclamation of choice for the gay men, the suburban girls and the guy on the cell phone next to me. We are all here, self absorbed and self aware to the point of being incapacitated by how cool we want to be. Everyone has worked hard on their look, attitude, outfit and sideburns. Secretly, I think we all think we are stars in a movie for cameras we never see. Tomorrow, we will look at the photos snapped on our phones and upload to Facebook so we can show people what we did rather than tell them what we did. Inside, I think, everyone of us is a lonely lonely soul that wants the warmth we think that couple we saw hugging in the laundry mat has. We have our piercings, tattoos, lap tops, cell phones, key rings and shoes to tell each other what tribe we belong too. It's a carnival and a flea market, a Circus and a drug deal.
The guy at the other table just said, "I am so over philosophy!"
I bite down on the laugh I want to let out, the guy on the cell phone sneers a bit as he pages through a Guardian, looking for something to show up fashionably late to. I smell desperation and strong coffee. I smell sweat and bleach. I smell the wood tables and the cologne.
The Philosophy guys take a cell phone call. He answers, "Were in the Mission!" as if they are cooler for being here. Everyone thinks that. Jazz is playing on the falling sound system in the cafe. That makes us cool. Right?
I check my phone for the time. It's time to head for the Dark Room. The sign is never lit. It probably went out years ago and they just said, fuck it. That's the mood of the place. At one time it was something. That can be said for most of the buildings on this stretch of Mission; they all use to be something. Now, it is a dark crumbling little theater where eclectic shows are put on by frustrated art students and new comics claiming their right to the San Francisco comedy heritage. Not to far from here, was a place called the Mock cafe. It was part of the Marsh Theater. When I was a relatively new comic, it was a worn out little space that experimented with stand-up. No one knew about it for a while. A friend and I didn't tell any of the other comics about it either. It was great! We could show up and end up doing 40 minuets on a tiny stage in front of less than 10 people. More than anything else, it was a great place to grow. The Dark Room is this generations Mock Cafe.
Everyone greets me warmly. I sit down in the back/green room. A collection of hats and wigs hangs on the wall with a sign in marker that reads; Before touching any of the hats, ask Erin. People are busy opening bottles of wine and discussing a story about a girl who sat on a toilet for two years before her boyfriend, who apparently fed her, said enough is enough and called the police. Her ass, the story goes, grew around the toilet. So when they came to remove her, they had to cut the toilet from the floor and take it with her.
This is crazy enough to be true.
Two years! What kind of relationship could they have had? Do you realize this woman celebrated at least one new years on the toilet! How festive could that have been? Where did he go to the bathroom? So many questions.
Despite the warning, one of tonight's guests tries on a hat, decides he likes it and then begins to accessorize it with shoes and a sheriffs badge. Yeah. It's that sort of show. Basically, there is no structure. The idea is, you go out, sit down on stage and talk. It's not a bad idea and I am told that usually, when there is a crowd, it goes really well. I am going to have to take their word on that. On this night, there are 7 people in the crowd. Two girls who are past belligerently drunk sit up front, a young couple sits off to one side and in the very back, three people who were invited by one of the other comics on the show sit. Alright, I am all for experimentation and the occasional joyous train wreck can be fun, but this? I have no idea what is going on here. As I sit in back beneath the hats I seriously think about finding a back door and disappearing. All I can hear is 6 or 7 people talking at once about at least 3 different subjects. It is drunks yelling at each other. That's it. At one point, since the girl on the toilet seems to be the subject that captures the most attention, the guy in the hat says he invites anyone in the audience to watch him on the toilet. In a sudden mad rush, he walks to the bathroom and the audience follows. Thats when I first meet them, the audience. The bathroom is across from the waiting room. The host turns to them and says, "This is our last guest." We all say hello. I wave my hand, they raise their crumpled brown paper bags of booze. The host then tells me in front of everyone that if I want to go I can. And miss this? God no!
For a few awkward minuets everyone mills around the bathroom. Only the two loud drunk girls actually go in. I cannot confirm if he ever sat on the toilet or what state of undress he was in. It's not exactly the big attraction everyone thought it would be.
When everyone is back in the show room, I follow and take a chair on stage.
Pandemonium is not the right word. I just keep thinking about where I was a few hours ago and how much I should of taken that other private gig and canceled this. The two drunk girls are just ugly. I don't mean that in a cruel way or even as a comment on their physical appearance, they are just so drunk and so loud and so without any sort of idea about how ridiculous they are being that they are ugly. One girl leans back and wraps her legs around the other one as she tries to explain why she is scared of birds. I make the mistake of asking "did something happen to make you afraid of birds?" She replies, "Should we be Freudian then?" In what I think she thinks is a Freudian accent, she launches into an explanation of being bit by a Canadian Goose when she was young.
Beside me, one of the other comics and I just go back to our side conversation about the perils of getting involved with younger woman. Next to him, well I don't know what they are yelling about and in the back, I can hear the mumble of disapproval, but thats about it. I could be home masturbating instead of this and still feel better about myself.
Eventually our cordial host, a paper cup of red wine in his hand, stands up to announce next weeks line up. From the back of the room we all hear someone say, "Some actual comics." I turn to the host and say, "Did you hear that?" He then admonishes the crowd for what I probably would of said if I was sitting in the audience too. I admit, that comment bugs me. It bugs me because I haven't done anything. All I have done is sit down and get yelled at by two drunks. What comedy? Our host points to me and asks, "How many years in the business Joe?"
"15." I say flatly.
Pointing to the back of the room he says, "You can mock the rest of us, but this man has 15 years."
When he says it like that it feels more pathetic than anything else. Then he asks if I have anything to promote. God, I don't want any of these people showing up at one of my shows! Before I can figure out a polite way to get out of saying anything, he says, "Your headlining the Punchline this month, right?"
I think, that's right. I am!
There really is no ending. People mill about continuing the conversations that took place during the "show" but now the whole place is lit.
I gather my things, shake some hands and in a few minuets I am out in the cool air and exhaust fumes of the night.
What to make of all this? I could judge it harshly I suppose. In an odd way though, it was so completely strange that it became fun. It was like being on an acid trip without the acid. Oh well. It beats the hell out of just going home and wondering out loud to myself about what I could of done.

Flat Earth

You ever read something that just makes you want to scream? This is a Glen Beck piece for CNN on line. Everything in italics is my answer to his words.

NEW YORK (CNN) -- We all want to live in a world that's clean, healthy and prosperous.

We all want to hand that world off to our children in slightly better shape than we received it. No one, even the supposedly evil oil executive, has any reason to want anything different. But, for some reason, we find ourselves searching for villains. Surely they exist, but the endless quest to create them sometimes overwhelms our better judgment, whether intentional or not.

You want to hope that everyone wants to hand the world off in slightly better condition, but the truth is, a lot of people either don't see the problem or they live in communities that can afford to be free of the problems less prosperous communities have to deal with. Things like Toxic waste dumps, power plants belching smoke and abandoned infrastructure never seem to happen in "rich" communities. What does he think recycling, searching for cleaner fuels and the attempt to get people to moderate their lifestyle of consumption is? It is a direct way to leave the planet in better shape.

Congress has picked "Big Oil" as their enemy of the week. These companies inexplicably put profits above people, ravaging the environment and financially assaulting the poor to put another couple of dollars on their balance sheet. That's the storyline we've all been taught.

Yes, times are tough for many. Sure, oil companies make a lot of cash. But, for that money, they get us to work, get ambulances to the hospital, keep our homes warm, and employ thousands of our friends and neighbors while financing their retirement, paying their health care, and providing energy to millions. Because of capitalism, they have the incentive to do that. I've yet to see what our government does for us with their rather large chunk of each gallon of gas we buy, and I've yet to see them offer to return it or suggest a gas-tax-windfall-tax-tax.

Forget for a second how much of a tool he looks like defending "big Oil" and instead focus on some undisputed facts. Chevron oil earned 40 Billion dollars in their last quarter. That's 40 Billion dollars in 4 months. The quarter before that, it was in the 30 billion dollar range. The quarter before that, in the low 30 billion dollar range. So lets get this completely clear, in a time when families are loosing their home's, the price of gas at the pump is affecting the budgets of those families. Chevron has made more money in the history of any company over any single quarter.
When asked about this windfall by Congress, the general answer by the oil executives was the same; we need this money for the lean times and for research and development. Fact: no oil company in America has built a new refinery in this country for more than 30 years. The infrastructure they use is not only outdated and crumbling, it makes them money to leave it as is. It's a choke point in their distribution of product. Keep the supply low and the price you can charge will be high. That's basic capitalism.
You yet to see what the government does with the taxes they collect? Really? We can start with the most obvious if you like; war in Iraq. A war that a vast majority of people now correctly see is over oil. We cut back the budget at the V.A., but the companies that are directly profiting from these soldiers service don't even have to pay into the V.A.
Then their is roads, bridges and the operation of the biggest transportation system in the world. Wake up!

The other villain of the moment is the global warming "denier." Anyone who disagrees, even in the slightest, must be ridiculed. On "60 Minutes" last weekend, Al Gore said: "They're almost like the ones who still believe that the moon landing was staged in a movie lot in Arizona and those who believe the Earth is flat. That demeans them a little bit, but it's not that far off."

Approximately 6 percent of Americans believe in the fake moon landing theory, although I've always heard there was a conspiratorial consensus that it was staged in Nevada, not Arizona. I'm going to guess quite a bit less than 6 percent believe in a flat Earth, but no one seems to be asking that question in polls anymore, so I can't be sure. So, who are those people Gore was demeaning "a little bit" by these comparisons? There's a good chance it's you. That's because the vast majority of Americans believe something that categorizes them as a flat earther to environmentalists like Gore.

Despite the media's one-sided view (the Business and Media Institute says dissenting voices about global warming are outnumbered on CBS News broadcasts by a 38 to 1 ratio), only 21 percent of Americans say "the release of greenhouse gasses is the most important factor causing global warming" according to a 2007 New York Times/CBS News poll.

The vast majority of Americans believe that Global warming is real. It is a disingenuous argument when he cites the poll question asked. "the release of greenhouse gasses is the most important factor causing global warming." Why? Because poll takers and politicians know that by wording questions just right, they can influence the outcome of a poll. When people have been asked what is the biggest contributor to Global warming, they overwhelmingly say, car exhaust. When the people who gave that answer were then asked if they knew that car exhaust was a greenhouse gas, a little less than half said they knew that. Like a lot of problems we have here, it is one part education and one part freeing yourself from the manipulation of agendas to get a clear picture of what is going on. I think Al Gores example is not ridicule, but using history to paint an accurate picture. People who thought the Earth was flat were on the loosing side of history, knowledge and facts. Just as the people who deny global warming are on the loosing side of scientific proof as well.

The "60 Minutes" piece wasn't just filled with misrepresentations of opinion; it had plenty of Gore-style hypocrisy. He was embroiled in controversy when it was revealed his mansion used 20 times more energy than the average American. His explanation? "Since then" his house has been retrofitted with solar panels. I'm sure Eliot Spitzer hasn't been renting many women since he was caught either. (Although I'm not betting my life on it.)

We then see footage of Gore's parents' farm that will, sometime in the future, be run on wind power. Apparently, the windmill store has been out of stock for the past 20 years.

Perhaps most comically, Gore is seen dragging an entire film crew on a jet to India to give a climate presentation to about 100 people. Gore claimed: "We just don't have any choice. I wish I knew a better way to do it. I constantly ask myself, 'How can I be more effective in getting this message across?' " The most effective thing you can think of is flying halfway across the world to speak with 100 people? Maybe you had other things to do while you were there, but I'd be surprised if there was anything essential that couldn't be accomplished with a telephone and a computer. The people in India will be able to see your fancy graphs on their screens, and you'll cut demand for those evil overseas flights.

Death by a thousand paper cuts. That's part of the strategy here. Don't dispute the message, just smear the messenger. It is true that Bio jet fuel is just now starting to be available. It is true that wind mills could be installed to run Gores family farm that would work pretty well. It is true that his family home is now run on solar, wind and other means. But I think this is an example of a rare sort of politician. The sort that says, "Your right. I could do that." And then does. Using Spritzer in the example is a pointless and poor debate trick.

The entire "60 Minutes" piece felt like a commercial for Gore's upcoming commercials. He's spending $300 million in advertising to convince people of something he claims there is already a consensus on. To put that much money into perspective; it's more than Sen. Barack Obama, Sen. Hillary Clinton, Sen. John Edwards, Sen. John McCain, former Gov. Mike Huckabee and Rep. Ron Paul raised in all of last year combined. Think of it as going green by getting lots of green.

Where is all that money coming from? Gore says he's donating his profits from "An Inconvenient Truth," and his Nobel Peace Prize cash award. Let's be generous and say there's only $290 million left to explain. Apparently, a follow-up question to find the origins of this nine-figure sum would have involved six seconds that "60 Minutes" wasn't willing to commit.

I guess the question is, where do you think the Money is coming from Mr. Beck? with no facts or knowledge of how much money people have donated for this cause, you instead use vague insinuations to imply something darker going on.

What is there to learn from all of this? Whether it's politicians on both sides of the aisle or our vaunted environmental superheroes, the quest for power overwhelms even the slightest instinct of self-examination.

In the end, the timing of the Gore interview airing couldn't have been better. It fell on the same weekend as the first "Earth Hour," when the world supposedly came together to turn our attention to climate change by shutting the lights off for an hour. The imagery of monuments like the Sears Tower in Chicago, Illinois, going dark was plastered over newscasts everywhere.

But those pictures highlighted the global warming movement and the congressional attacks on energy companies in an entirely unintended way.

Behind the darkened Sears Tower was the city of Chicago, with lights shining brightly as far as the eye could see. For one hour the Sears Tower knew what it was like to be Al Gore: A larger than life symbol, blocking our view of reality.

It's a poor metaphor. A blacked out Sears Tower with the rest of the city still lit up bellow does not block reality, it only serves to demonstrate that more education is needed. Maybe 300 million in commercials is a good place to start. To put how little that is into perspective, it took Gore 8 years to raise that money. Chevron, one oil company, made 40 Billion dollars in 4 months. No new refinery has been even considered with that profit. No one at the company is considering lowering the price at the pump so they would only earn 30 billion in the next quarter. No. Instead, it's business as usual. Oil companies fight the clean air requirements they have to put on their factories telling us it will cut into profits and they will be forced to raise the price at the pumps. If every Chevron, today put the most up to date filtering systems on everyone of their refiners, it would cost them about 100 million dollars. I think they can afford that and I know we would all literally breathe easier. Literally. Study after study cites the rise of respiratory illness the closer a person lives to an oil refinery. Profits over people? You tell me, Mr. Beck. Careful tap dancing around these truths. You might fall off the edge of the world.

...and then I am in Davis,CA at a little place named, City Hall Comedy club. It's really part of a restaurant that has comedy one night a week, but it has become on of the best one nighters around.
I filled in for a last minute cancellation. Seemed only fair. I had to cancel on this Booker last month for Last Comic Standing. No word yet about how much face time I will have. I am told that if any of us appear for more than two minuets, we get a check. You just know a producer is going to be watching people with a stop watch. "One minuet and fifty eight seconds. Klocek gets nothing!"
What makes this gig Blog worthy is it's lack of drama before, during or after the show. You have to love that. Not only that, but a young hot girl in the front row too!
Nice.
So, every once in awhile everything comes together in your favor. I didn't even mind the drive home. I have traveled that stretch of I80 so many times for gigs, that I firmly believe I could drive it with my eyes closed avoiding every pot hole and telling you where we are with out opening them. "Were passing the Nut Tree. Look out for a large crater in the center lane."
I put my iPod headphones in and blast my way down the asphalt screaming along to hits that haven't graced the radio waves since that girl in the front row was born.
Thanks universe. You did me a solid.

Follow That!

Last night. I performed at Cobb's for a benefit against the Death penalty. I thought it hilarious that when everyone wished us good luck, they said it like this. "Go out there and kil...break a leg!"
Here was the order of the line up.
Sandy Stec, as host and MC for the night.
Aundre the Wonder Woman. She also sits on the board and works with project innocence. They take another look at people convicted and sentenced to death. As we continue to learn, a lot of the people sentenced to death turn out to be innocent of the crime they were convicted of.
Then it was Brian Copeland. A local celebrity who gained fame with his one man show, not a genuine black man.
Paula Poundstone, icon and huge supporter of this cause.
Then, me.
No one wanted to go last, Brian didn't want to follow Paula, who wanted to leave early anyway, so that left me as the headliner. But will get to that.
I use to work Cobb's a lot more. Seems like the only times I am at that club now is when I am auditioning for a soulless TV show, or it's a benefit. The big name acts they book bring their own opening and middles, so us local guys have been cut out of the mix. I don't blame Cobb's for this. It's the trend with comedy clubs everywhere. Anyway, it was nice to be back on that stage again.
I got there a half hour before the show. Sandy was nervous she would mess up the more than three pages of announcements they wanted her to say. She did great.
Benefit or not, the one thing all comics have in common is our ego's. In a week, I went from being first up on the bill, to the headliner. Not because I wanted to, but because I had the least amount of clout to say where I wanted to be in the line up. I will admit that the idea of following an icon like Paula, especially because she is a master riffer, made me more than a little nervous. But a glance at the evenings program left me with something else to be worried about. After Paula, there was an award ceremony I had to follow.
It's not exactly the raffle at a room in Modesto, but it's this crowds equivalent.
Paula, who said she didn't want to close because she had to leave early, ended up doing 35 minuets instead of the allotted 20. I don't really care. I go long all the time too. But I do it when I am last, not when there is an award and another comic after me. They give her the light once, then once more and when people on the board of this event start coming back stage nervously running their hands through their hair, I started to get nervous. Every time we thought she was about to end, she would look at someone in the crowd and ask, "What do you do for a living?"
Not only is she going long, but she is doing what I do. Shit!
finally, she gets off the stage to thunderous applause.
James Cromwell, from 6 feet under, L.A. Confidential and a thousand other movies gets on stage.
James Cromwell!
All I can think when I see him is, "You shot Kevin Spacey in L.A. Confidential!"
This isn't just an award they are presenting to Aundre for all her service, it's a reminder to everyone exactly what this is a benefit for. In a very dramatic, professionally trained voice, Mr. Cromwell reads a long dissertation on the horrors of the death penalty and Aundre's impressive list of accomplishments. The room is utterly silent with respect for her and disgust for the death penalty. A few people wipe tears from their eyes. When Mr. Cromwell finally comes to end and presents this award to her, the room explodes in not only a resounding wave of applause, but they rise to their feet!
While everyone else is smiling broadly, I am back stage shitting!
Great! I have to follow Paula and now an award for fighting evil. Maybe Robin Williams can show up, do 45 and then Jesus can return and pass out more wine!
When Sandy asks the crowd, "Are you ready for your headliner?" I can see programs open in laps around the room. Everyone is thinking the same thought when they see my name following the award presentation, who?
Paula had opened her set by telling the crowd that people on the board had taken her out to a fancy restaurant, Milano's. She was amazed that the owners had worked out a deal with the owner of a driveway across the street from the place. They could park there, and simply walked into the restaurant. In San Francisco, that truly is an amazing thing. She went on about this, appropriately blown away by being able to park in view of their target. That never happens in this town.
When I went up on stage, I told the crowd it had already been an amazing show. I didn't want to be the headliner but I got here late because someone parked in my driveway by Millano's.
Applause break!
Sweet.
There are moments on stage when you take a risk and get instant reward. As soon as they laughed at that, I knew I was OK. I knew I had them. I stuck to jokes, kept the "fucks" to a handful, and did almost no riffing.
Thank God I didn't die up there on the death penalty benefit show. That would of been just too much irony to handle.

Roast This!

Roasts.
They are fun to watch on TV but you have to remember everyone is being paid to be there. They know what they have signed up for and they have some understanding of what's coming.
Throwing a surprise party for your boyfriends 50th Birthday party is a good idea.
Throwing a surprise comedy show where you want him to be roasted and no one else at the party knows this is going to happen; bad.
Bad because this hipster San Francisco set would never be caught dead in a comedy club. It is beneath them. There body language alone displays their contempt for this intrusion on their Saturday night of conversation and wine. Bad because we are the outsiders coming into a group. People tend to rally behind their own when they see strangers making fun of their friend in his own home.
This was also one of those, if it could go wrong, it will go wrong gig's too.
I meet John, who will be opening on this gig. We drive down to the location, a photography studio in a back alley at 9th & Mission. When I say back alley, I mean back alley. The directions for how to get into the place sound like code for spy's exchanging information in the cold war. Go around to the back of the place. Walk down the alley till you find the green door by the chain link fence. Enter this code into the door and you should be let in.
Should be.
We get there early and sit down at the All-star Cafe on the corner. By the way, that doesn't describe anyone in the nearly vacant place. An old man sits by the ATM machine in the corner periodically getting up to press random buttons in some hope of the machine finally saying, what they hell here you go! We look for a clean table to sit at before realizing that here at the All-star, it's more about finding the least dirty table. I like John. He is almost exactly 10 years younger than I am and shares all the frustrations of a single man in stand-up. It always help to share these adventures with someone you like.
On the corner of 9th & Mission is an out of business bed store with mattress still in the window. Outside, homeless sleep on cement. How's that for San Francisco? A quarter inch of glass separates these guys from a bed.
We walk down the tiny alley and are overpowered by the stench of urine. In sleeping bags by a dumpster, two men sleep. John, ever positive, notices newly built condos with terraces. "You never see terraces like that in the city." He says in admiration.
"John, what do they have a view of, the worse that man can do to himself and drug deals?"
They go for a million five by the way.
We find the blue door and enter the code. After several rings, we get a message machine. We try again with the same result. Another guy shows up and does the same thing after I explain we already tried that. He immediately starts calling numbers of people he thinks are already in there. I call the Booker.
He gives me a number of a person he thinks is also in there. I call, get a message and leave a voice mail.
Now what?
We go back to my car parked down the block from the corner and just sit in it. We look like were on a stake-out now. We decide to give them till 7:15, try again and if no answer, fuck it. At this point, I hope no one is answering because of some gas leak.
Now we get another call from who is essentially the Booker's boss.
"Where are you guys?"
"Were right out front the door to the gig."
"OK, I am going to call back this guy, give you his number and he will take you upstairs to the gig."
You build up an energy for a gig. When shit like this starts to happen, you start to loose the desire to even do it. It's blue balling. Well hell, here we go again down crack alley. Sure enough, there is the other guy we saw trying to get in earlier waving his hand from the now open door.
"Are you guys the comics?"
"Yes."
We are taken up the stairs to the third floor where a petite woman and an older gentleman shake our hands, apologize for the communication problem and ask us if we want anything.
"No, were good."
In about 5 minuets, they start to get people to sit down on rented plastic chairs as they hold their wine in plastic glasses. It's a loft. Half work space, half living space. With high beam ceilings and a hard wood floor, it looks exactly like the sort of place every episode of Law & Order starts in. Minus the dead body of course.
But it's early.
There is a bounty of vegetarian party treats. Asparagus has been laid out next to cheese that probably costs more than I am making on this gig in a meticulous kitchen with sleek shinny appliances. The people are aging hipsters and various cool people who hang out at cafes and complain what has happened to the city.
They have money and care about politics and the environment, but homeless guys sleep less than a hundred feet from where they sip drinks complaining about the conservatives lack of compassion.
Plastic rented chairs are hastily set up once the surprise of stand-up comedy has been announced. It doesn't go over very well with half the room. In the back, people stand with the same look on their faces that you see on the student body when the speaker comes to give the commencement speech.
With in five minuets of being there, John is introduced. They have set up a Mic, but sitting on a directors chair next to John sits the Birthday boy. Never a good idea. Not only have we entered a private domain, we have now singled out the nights leader and placed him apart from his friends to be mocked.
How can this go wrong? Here's how.
I am about 15 minuets in. It's going well actually. The Birthday boy, uncomfortable and unsure how to respond, is not being very forthcoming to my questions. It makes it harder on me to come up with stuff on the fly, but I am getting some good laughs and start to relax into this show. That's when a tall guy wearing a turtle neck and the unofficial tweed jacket of a PBS pledge break, walks right up to me. He is about 6'8, so it's not like you don't notice the guy. In my mind I am thinking, This guy is walking toward me. Is this guy walking directly up to me?
He holds a beer in one hand and with his free hand, grabs the Microphone. I smile, but don't let go. He doesn't either. I say, "This is awkward."
In classic lame fashion he says back to me, "Your awkward? I thought you were Joe."
The room has gone silent.
That is never a good sign. These people know this guy and if they are going silent, something truly unexpected is going on.
"I don't like you making fun of my friend." He says in a drunk tone now holding the Mic.
"It's a roast." I attempt to explain. "has anyone explained to you how these work?"
"Are you a professional? Why aren't you funny" He asks.
There is that same electric tension in the room you feel before the first lightening strike in a storm. I truly believe I am about to be hit and none of these uber liberals is saying anything to avert the disaster!
Finally, someone says to the guy, "It's OK. Sit down."
They say it in such a way that leads me to think it's not the first time they have had to explain a situation to their tall drunk ass friend who is dressed and looks like the guy on PBS who use to have that learn to paint show.
I would of been the biggest pussy if I had gotten my ass kicked by a guy in a turtle neck.
He hands the Microphone back to me and walks off. I turn to the crowd and say, "What the fuck!"
I am just angry at this point. Angry that it was such a pain in the ass to get inside this vault of cool, angry that half the room squints at us in disbelief that anyone would find what were saying funny, angry that these people can't even comprehend how incredibly lame they are, angry that I almost got my ass kicked by some idiot who is unclear on what the fuck a roast is, angry that any question I ask is responded to with a defensive trying to be funny reply, angry that these are exactly the sort of people I make fun of all the time when I am at a club.
But I am a professional. I don't loose it and go off on the rant that I want to. Instead, I take a breath and press on for another ten minuets before saying good night and run for the door.
And I mean run. A few people come up and say the usual things after these gigs, "Tough crowd, good job, you handled that well." I just smile and reserve judgement till were back in the pee stained street.
Once we get out of the place I just sigh and check my pocket for the check. Good. I look at it and think to myself, this is why comics charge what they do. Not because they might be so good, but because the crowd might be this bad.
This dude was a photographer. I think about that. No one ever sees his bad shots. He only displays the finished product to the public. Stand-Up comedy is a much more transparent art. The crowd sees it all. The good parts, the awkward parts, the unfunny parts, the stumble over words parts, the drunk guy entering the picture parts; it's all right there in the moment. No take backs or try again with better lighting. It's all laid bare in front of people who don't even want to see it sometimes.
A photo journalist may risk his life in a war zone, but I almost got beat up in a San Francisco loft by a drunk liberal.
It would make a hell of an episode of Law & Order.

This is not a conspiracy. This is the future.

This is the future.

Flying drones, like the military predators used in Iraq, fly silently overhead snapping photos and feeding video footage to a central command center for the area. Kid’s are not only fingerprinted in the first grade, but a sample of their DNA is taken if a teacher feels they display anti-social behavior that could lead to criminal mischief latter in life. Cheap disposable easy to use phone/e-mail/uplink chips are glued to your thumbs fingernail allowing you access to the communication web, banking accounts and information anywhere on the planet. It also works as a passport in and out of zones the government has set up. Denial or entry depends on factors such as your weight, income and level of crime in the particular zone. Companies operate blimps that display giant city block sized advertisements as they also scan entire neighborhoods. The sensors on board the blimp pick up the RDF chips embedded in the packaging of everything you buy. This information is correlated against your regular purchases and a list of possible items you might want to pick up is e-mailed to you on your thumb chip.

This is now.

San Francisco thinks about putting up more cameras in high crime areas. Why? While crime dropped around the cameras, it rose almost 30% just one hundred feet from the cameras. Solution? More cameras.
England has purposed taking samples of Children's DNA that display behaviour some sociologist claim are indicators that they will grow up to be criminals. Beside bringing up major questions regarding privacy and the whole notion of stigmatizing someone, who keeps these records? RDF chips already exist and every time you use your club card at any supermarket, a record of your likes and dislikes is placed in your account record. Coupons that are tailored to your purchases are mailed to you. All new passports carry inside them a chip. All someone has to do is press a button somewhere and when you walk through an airport anywhere in the world, you can be denied entry. Miami, FL has recently announced they are going to experiment with flying drones that will fly over high crime areas and send live video streams to a controller at the local police station.

This is not a conspiracy. This is the future.

During the last election, protests were so common against Bush, that the Secret Service came up with the idea of setting up "free speech zones." These were small areas usually a mile or more away from where Bush was speaking that were enclosed with fences 10 feet high. Protesters were herded into them and then allowed to "demonstrate" inside them. Funny, I thought the entire country was a free speech zone.

Diebolt, the biggest maker of computer voting machines refuses to share it's source code with the government. Never mind that in trial after test, hackers have been able to tap into the machines in less than 30 seconds, but a private company now controls the actual tool of democracy. Also, they say it is too difficult to create a machine that would issue the voter a paper receipt giving the voter a hard copy. This is odd considering Diebolt is also the biggest maker of ATM's in the world and those dispense a receipt every time. The company is currently fighting off a hostile take over bid from a military contractor company. Several of the people who sit on the board at this company also work for John McCain and Hilary Clinton. Should a military contractor have control over the very piece of equipment that decides who becomes President and by extension our military policies?

The U.S. Government has tried and in some cases convicted people of terrorist crimes, they thought of committing. A group thought of blowing up the Sears Tower in Chicago. They asked a FBI undercover informant for guns and uniforms. The FBI informant made them swear an oath to Al Queda and suggested they attempt to blow up the Sears Tower. Note, the group never requested explosives or training in their use even after the government informant pushed them in this direction. 7 men still wait for their trial.
This is the legal version of our justification for the Iraq war; a preemptive attack. In this case, arrest for thinking of a criminal act is considered just as bad as if the act had occurred. The government now asserts the right to hold people for thinking what might be terrorist plots. While no one can deny that blowing up a building in a large metropolitan city is undoubtedly a terrorist act, arresting them for conspiracy to do so only after the FBI informant has lead then to the idea with a trail of bred crumbs, is more entrapment than crime. Another way to describe it could also be thought crime.

There now exists tools to control human populations in a way never before seen in the history of man. The Internet has democratized information in a way never imagined before. However, nothing is ever really erased once it enters the data stream. For all the good at checking the powers of government that it does, the powers of government have already proven it's ability to check on you with it. Remember, the Internet was invented by the department of defense as a way of communicating after a devastating nuclear attack. Control, real control, is not about using tanks in the streets or flame throwers on protesters. It is about erasing the ability for anyone to question. It's about removing the very idea of questioning. In America, the richest empire on the face of the planet, we surrender ourselves daily to the onslaught of commercials that tell us we could be happier if only we tried brand x over brand y. We buy into a system of beliefs with money and all the strings that come with it. We spread ourselves thin in a never ending quest to get the new toy, the new car, the new gadget, the new thing. All the energy expended on updates over American Idol and reruns of Lost available on demand never produce a population that asks questions in any meaningful way. The system, society, the government, the wealthy and the power brokers like it that way. There are no thought police because in essence, we have all been deputized thought police by the social mechanism of peer pressure. "Why would you ask that? Are you some conspiracy nut?" Drugs are knowingly sold on the Internet that can be delivered to your door. Reality TV fascinates us as it plays to the worst of our curious emotions. CSI, Law & Order, Cold Case-all regularly show you dead bodies and horrible characters who do increasingly evil things because we have become desensitized to what was once confined to R rated horror movies. The news puts information of a pop starts downfall alongside word of wars. Companies produce segments that are slipped into the broadcast and never revealed for what they are; commercials that have been legitimized by running them on the "news." All this while half the country believes we are living in the end times and Dinosaurs lived along side humans when the Earth was created some 6,000 years ago. What is the solution? What is the way to fight the grip of continuing domination over the human heart with digital indignities and ignorant truths? How do you raise your voice in frustration when most people are just trying to keep their head down and not make eye contact with those around them out of some vague unknown fear? This is our future. This is it right now. Everything that is good and bad in the human spirit has manifested in our time with the wonders of technology and the plight of crushing poverty living side by side. Is it enough to simply ask these questions? What action, if any can be taken? We live in strange and interesting times. The world moans under the weight of 6 billion souls who all want the same thing and yet we live in a system that must deny the majority of them dignity in order to survive. Is it worth saving? Is it worth wondering what we should be doing instead of being on this merry-go-round of commerce and soul killing entertainment? This is not a conspiracy. This is not a rant. This is the future if we allow it to be so. This is our gift or curse to the next generation growing up in a plastic wasteland. Control is the only thing that matters and whatever means deemed necessary by those who have it will be used to keep it. The space inside your self has been colonized by corporate slogans and the me driven spirituality of self help gurus getting rich on your desire to feel better. There is no counter movement. There is no cause to join. There is no group or project or place to send a check. There is only you and I and anyone who cares to name the nameless sensations inside themselves that cannot be treated with the drugs sold on TV next to cars and detergents. Giving a shit and waking up at midnight in cold sweats are not side effects; it is being human.

Open Mic's

Open Mics
I have been back at them. It's so hard to stand on a stage in a room as silent as a tomb in-front of 3 or 4 audience members who are wondering the same thing you are; why are we here? The microphone is almost unnecessary. The room is dark and the lights seem brighter than when a crowd fills it. All you have is a notebook of ideas and the balls to say it out loud. In the back of the room, sitting, staring watching and judging are other comics. Comics outnumber audience 10 to 1. You will never know how long five minuets really is until your up there. It's brutal. It's darwinian in it's ability to reduce the many to the few. This is the first step in the process of becoming something more than the sum of your experiences. This is what every comic ever went through on the way to packing out a theater.
Once upon a tine, I was watching Louie C.K. perform at the Melrose Improv. It was Saturday night. The place was packed. Already a stand-up star in his own right, this was about a month before his hyped show on HBO came out. These were fans. About 20 minuets in, he got the light. You could tell from the expression on his face he was confused, but ever the pro, he wrapped up and got off stage. Chris Rocked was introduced. Chris Rock! The place goes crazy with adulation and energy. The first words out of his mouth were, "Lower your expectations."
It turned out, it was to be his biggest laugh for the next 20 minuets.
When I try out new stuff, I have to wait in line at an open mic and once I get on stage, I open my notebook. This was his open Mic. Instead of a handful of people on stage he got a packed saturday night audience. Instead of a little black book, he opened his black berry. Instead of being the next guy, he was Chris Rock. He bombed. Utterly and completely by any standard comics have, he died. It was a awesome thing to behold for a comic. It was like watching Jesus being handed a jug of water and a fish and all he could do with it was hand back a jug full of water and a single fish. The power in this was not how bad he did. The power in this is seeing how hard the job it is at taking an idea and making it funny. You think of Chris Rock and you think of him strutting across the stage with a thousand watt smile dropping punch line on top of punch line to an adoring crowd. Those killer lines have to have an origin. This night, we got to see just how hard a job it is to take ideas and craft them into an act. There are no short cuts. There are no easy paths. It is night after night of sacraficing your self esteem for that one good line. That's how it's been done for ever.

A friend of mine, a 41 year old women, was complaining about the state of her love life. She is having a "relationship" with a man over the Internet. I put it in quotation marks because what sort of a relationship can anyone have over the Internet?
"Were having some problems lately." She tells me.
Looks like it's like any other relationship after all.
"I wish there was some 1-800 number you could call like tech support but for relationships."
Million dollar idea, I think. Really, what would you have to say most of the time?
"Did you try turning him on? Turn him on. Now just play with it a little."
At 41, she is concerned about never getting married and having a family.
"If I can't reproduce," she tells me. "Then I will just expand."
Here here!

Misspoke

In a new Rolling Stone interview, Chris Rock sums up Hillary Clinton like this. "I didn't like her until she started running for President."
Amen.
Like running for student body president, it's not the issues or your platform on anything that really matters to people, it is your personality and the way you communicate. Hilary's latest mess in her campaign is the landing in Bosnia under fire story. At a press conference, she told reporters that the plane had to make evasive moves while landing. They were also told to sit on their bullet proof helmets and when they did land on the short runway, everyone had to run for the buildings. She was clear that there was no time for any greeting ceremony either.
Then the news footage comes out.
Not only does she walk of the plane at a leisurely pace, Chelsea Clinton is all smiles beside her! No one is running. An interview with the pilot of the plane is making it's rounds on the Internet. He contradicts almost everything she says about the landing. Not only that, but he points out that there would be no way in hell the Secret Service would of allowed a plane carrying the first lady and her daughter to land under snippier fire.
Oh, and they did stop to listen to a little girl waiting for them to read a poem.
Hilary's response, "I misspoke."
No shit you misspoke. There was a little girl waiting to read a poem! Do you think they would of sent her out there with bullets flying around.
"Keep waiting little girl. The first lady will be running toward you any moment now!"
This is the classic mistake all politicians make. They embellish something that actually occurred. Someone calls them on it. Then they tell us, I misspoke.
You were the first lady of the United States of America. Didn't you see cameras following you around everywhere you went? Apparently she didn't learn the lesson that anyone who has ever watched or been on a reality TV shows learns very quick; every move is filmed.
That's why it has become a big deal.
The funniest part about all of this is that the entire problem started because Sinbad, who was on tour with her, contradicted her.
Her first response about this to the press was, "You know he is a comedian?"
You have to love that. Because he is a comedian his word is beneath hers?
Only the truth is funny Hillary. And only comics seem to be the ones telling it these days. You got caught in a big ass lie. A big ass lie that was on tape! It was on tape. No bullets or running, just a little girl waiting to read you poem. No evasive maneuvers or sitting on helmets, just a stroll out the back of the plane with your daughter.

The Last Remains of Someday

Last weekend I worked at Rooster T. Feathers. Not just a cool little club to work at, but it also comes with an amazing perk; the Grand hotel. The Grand is one of those silicon Valley Boutique hotels I could never afford to stay in unless the comedy club I was working at put me up in it. It was like a mini vacation for the Easter weekend. Like a lot of things in my life however, it has a connection to the X. In fact, it's odd how much of a connection it has to Sam. It was the last place in Northern California we stayed at before we climbed into a U-Haul after a weekend of shows and headed down to L.A. for our life together years ago.
You know the rest of that story.
After we got back together, it was the place where we found Sam her ring. Allow me to explain. After we got back together and she agreed to move to San Francisco, it suddenly became very important to her that she have a ring. I had no problem with this other than I wanted it to be a surprise; not something that was a necessity. We looked everywhere for a ring that was suitably unique. We searched art fairs down by the Fairy Building on the weekends and even went to the jewelry counter at such stores as Macy's in a mall. No matter where we looked, nothing either fit her slender fingers or they just looked like a million other cookie cutter variations we had already seen. Then, one day she went to a thrift store a block from the Grand Hotel while I worked Roosters. The disheveled place seemed out of place in Sunnyvale, but sure enough in a separate room in a beat up glass case sat a tiny gold ring. It was a simple gold band. The plan was, I buy it, take it to an expert and have them make it unique in some way.
Long story painful, the ring has remained on my window sill in my room for more than a year now. I don't know what to do with the damn thing. Then it occurred to me; I will be in the same place this weekend; return it to it's source. Insert whatever Lord of the Rings joke you have here.
But it made sense. Just bring the thing back and get whatever money I can for it so I can just be done with this chapter of my life once and for all.
Short story mildly painful.
I couldn't do it.
I walked around the block a few times fingering the ring in my pocket amazed at my inability to walk in the shabby little store and sell this haunted piece of gold back to them. Closure, it turns out, is never that simple. That's when I also realized that I still had her number in my phone. With my phone in my hand and a few more trips around the block, I managed to hit delete. In the digital age, this constitutes moving on.
The ring came home with me for the second time since I have owned it. Looking around my room I also realized how much crap accumulates when your not paying attention to being in the now. My heart is somewhere on a 2004 calendar and my head is dreaming of that eventual fame. But now; now I have a room that is more museum than bedroom.
I got some garbage bags and shoe boxes and started doing the difficult work of separating out what stays and what goes.
The ring and photos of us now sits in a shoe box. I wish there was a way to put the anger in there too, but no such luck. I already tried filling the bottles of vodka I emptied with it too, but it doesn't work.

Once, when we were living together, I was looking for space in the bedroom closet. On the shelf, I found three or four plastic boxes. Inside were cards and photos of Sam's previous boyfriends. Sealed away and preserved like specimen's in formaldehyde, this is what became of those times spent in other lives. Undoubtedly, that's where any trace of me is now. Course, I have done the same thing too. In the tiny confines of a card board shoe box sits a life. I don't know, maybe I should just take it all down to the beach and burn it. Every time I move, I drag another chunk of what was suppose to be along for the ride. At 39, most of what I own now is boxes I will never open anyway. It's not just the remains of relationships, it's movies I will never watch again, clothing that is out of style or no longer fit's, notebooks and journals I can barely bring myself to read- all just stuff that takes up space. Space that was meant to be the someday we were reaching for. That's what those boxes hold-the last remains of someday.

Adopted an American

I did a benefit show for Kiva.org at the Punch Line. Check them out. The whole idea is founded on the concept of micro loans. You know how you always say you want to help but you don't know how? Maybe you want to donate money but not with a religious charity. This is the way to go.
You lend a little bit of money to an entrepreneur in the third world to expand or start a business. You help them out with a little that goes a long way for them. But it got me thinking, I drink a lot of coffee, why can't a coffee farmer in Yemen pay off some of my old student loans? They could even check on my career status by checking my web site.
"Look at him. I bought him that X-box!"
Imagine their pride at seeing a struggling American reach for the plastic ring of mediocrity.
"You see that bong? I paid for that! I am so proud."
Each month I could send an e-mail detailing what I need to be a regular American. Ever try to just be a regular American? It's not cheap! Hey, third world people make most of the stuff we buy, it's about time they give back a little to keep this engine going.
The idea is what America is all about. A small business person gets a loan and grows their business. They hire more people who make money and spend it in the community. Capitalism on a small scale. It doesn't seem so scary or out of control on this scale does it? It actually makes sense. If I get my money back, great. If I don't, I just bought good karma for $50.00.
That's what I gave to a woman in India for a small cotton loom, fifty bucks. That's nothing. It's a shirt at the Gap, that she will probably make, or a date at the movies. Fifty bucks is nothing to me if I never see it again. So if their business gets going, why not pay off a parking ticket or two of mine?
"San Francisco is so expensive to live in. I send him what I can so he doesn't have to go round the block when he comes home late at night."
That's right world, I am setting up the first ever, adopted an American program. People are curious about us no matter how much they might hate us. What better way for them to learn about America than to help shoulder the financial cost of being an American. We don't accept dollars though, only Euros please.
Eventually, I will put together a heart warming video of third world people with their stories of lending a helping hand to us.
"I bought my American a Domino's Pizza!"
"Thanks Dude."
"I bought my American a net flix membership and cable TV for a month!"
"Your the best Hajji!"
"I bought my American Solar panels to put on their roof!"
"What?"
So come on world! Help pull an American out of the unacceptable pool of middle class. Feed a college student just what he needs, pot and alcohol. Do you have idea what a difference just a few Euros can make on a cell phone bill? Most families of four in this country still can't afford a TiVo.
Is this how you want to see an American living; above the poverty line but embarrassed by their neighbors possessions? I don't think so!

The Latest Indignities.

Comedy.
It's everything that goes on off stage that bugs the shit out of me. From petty people to scandalous Booker's, it just grinds you into the ground.
I got a call from a Booker I had worked for a few months back asking if I would like to return. However this time, he wants me to Co-headline for less money.
Oh Comedy!
Co-Headlining is a bullshit term invented by Booker's to get a high quality show for less money. Here's the idea; you book two headliner's and split the pay among them. Here's the thing, someone always has to go last, so there is a headliner. The person who goes last has to go up latter and this, as any comic will tell you, requires more skill. That's why a headliner is a headliner-they have more skill. Your not just paying for a guy to go up last-your paying for the person who is going to bring it.
This was the conversation:
"Joe, would you like to come back up next month? I am doing a Co-headline show. Is $200 fine?" He asks.
"Doing the same room for less money is not the direction I want to go in with a room." I say.
There is a pause. Then he asks, "Well how much time do you have?"
I have to take a breath before I answer. Not to be arrogant, but when I was there, the first two acts didn't do so well and I did an hour plus in front of drunk people. This is typical hold you down till you agree to less money bullshit that drives me crazy. Before I respond though, his memory must come back and he says, "I mean, I know you can do it with talking to the crowd and everything."
I turn the gig down.
Here is a realization I should of had years ago but is just hitting me now. If I drive 5 hours to and back from a gig, it's $100 in gas. Period. I am spending 100 bucks to make a hundred and fifty bucks, put more miles on my car and play to a bunch of red necks in a barn. Is that really the direction I want to go in with anything?

A comic kept asking me why I decided to Book someone on my game show. In their not so humble opinion, it is not only a mistake for me to Book this person, but they will not do well. Besides, they explain at length in their e-mail, there are far more people who are ahead in line.
What line?
There is no master list of who started when and who deserves stage time over other people. What amazes me is that anyone would be so small in character as to list off reasons why a person will not do well. How petty do you have to be to take the time to compose an e-mail against someone getting free stage time that doesn't effect you in anyway?
Wow!
Here is how I book my game show.
There are only 3 slots open per month. I book two people who are Punch Line comedy scene regulars. The other spot I leave open to give back. When I was new, there were not a lot of people who thought that much of me. I was painfully shy and suffered from the usual low self-esteem most comics have. But a few people in a position to help gave me stage time. They gave me opportunity. Now it's my turn to give back. I can give stage time to people who deserve it because I see something in them that don't yet see in themselves.

At a show, a guy in the crowd holds up his cell phone camera and starts recording. When I look over he says, "I'm gonna get you on youtube."
Great. I finally have management.
I am pretty sure that I can get myself on youtube. I am also pretty sure that taping me without my consent is theft of intellectual property. Also, if your going to do this, don't sit directly up front and pull your camera out in front of everyone, retard. It's bad enough that Booker's and Managers sell you the idea of getting exposure instead of getting paid all the time, now the audience is contributing to it. You know what, you could visit my site for clips too.
Same club different night.
A girl sits in almost the same place as the joker with the cell phone. She is a sweet young girl who has a laugh that is unavoidable and unique. Not just for it's dolphin like quality, but for when she laughs. There are set up's and there are punch lines. 99% of the audience is laughing after the punch line. This girl laughs directly after the set up. She is ten feet away from me too. After awhile, it starts to throw my timing on jokes. I set up a line, she laughs her unique giddy laugh, I laugh and the punch line now gets lost. This goes on for a while before I talk to her. If your out there darling, I'm not mad. We did have a lot of fun with it it didn't we?
It occurs to me that if this was done on purpose to a comic, it would be the most brilliant heckling technique in history. Think about it. She is not screaming anything drunk or yelling get off the stage, she is laughing. It's just where she is laughing that is throwing things. There is no response for this in comedy! That's what would make it so diabolical if it was done to someone on purposes. She is a sweet charming young lady who looks about as Innocent as Innocent can get. All she is doing is laughing. What kind of an ass hole would call her out for laughing?
OK, I did. But it made for a fun show. I can't wait to get the audio up on my site for just this reason alone.
Ah Comedy. These are my latest indignities.

Don't Smile At The Baby

When I visited my sister a few years ago in Las Vegas, I apparently said the word Sweet so much around my 7 year old Niece, that she referrers to me as Uncle Sweet. It's sweet until you consider that it sounds like the perfect name for a pimp. The last time I saw her, my niece shouted across the airport, "Uncle Sweet! Uncle Sweet! What did you bring me Uncle Sweet?"
see the problem?
On my next visit I am going to try and use the phrase, "Where's Uncle Sweets cash, little girl?" as much as possible to see what happens.
My poor niece. My poor sister. I am a corrupting influence as an uncle I guess. What do you think, should I show up with a giant hat and fur coat at the airport this time?
"What does Uncle Sweet always say?"
"Wheres my money little girl!"
"Good girl."
"Thanks Uncle Sweet! Did you bring me some sugar?"
Kid's. They say the darnedest things.
My niece was born September 12th, 2001.
That's right, the day after 9/11. It was a powerful reminder that no matter how much grief and hate is poured into the world, life will go on. She is smart, energetic and wants her own way. In short, she is a 7 year old girl growing up. I doubt she has any real idea yet of her birthday's significance. Someday she will though. After all, it's really her world now. Her generation will inherit all of this. All the trouble in the middle east, the fears of global warming, the arguments between philosophy, science and religions- it will all be hers in a future world that frightens and amazes me when I think about it. We have lost the ability to relate to each other on the most fundamental levels. It's all plastic and isolation.

I was sitting at a Borders cafe in Sunnyvale yesterday afternoon surfing the web and drinking coffee. A few tables away a mother and child sat down. The little girl looked at me over the chair and I smiled back. She smiled and ducked her head behind her mothers shoulder. Over the course of a few minuets we played the time honored game of peek-a-boo. Eventually, the mom turned around and smiled at me too.
"Do you have any kid's of your own?" She asked.
"No. Just nieces and nephews."
"Oh." She responded and turned away.
OK. I know I can be very Larry David in these situations and for some reason I always seem to get into some sort of trouble in cafes. But it felt like as soon as I said I didn't have any children of my own, the Mom just tuned me out. Not just that, but I was now someone to be avoided.
Kid's don't carry the baggage of parents at that age. That comes a few years latter. The little girl continued to play peek-a-boo and since I wasn't really doing anything but killing time, I continued too. The mom became more agitated. She turned around and looked at me.
"Could you not do that with her anymore please?"
Alright. God knows I have had enough strange shit go down in public. I simply smiled and said "Sure. No problem."
She turned back around abruptly. Well, that didn't stop the little girl. She and I were in the dark as to what the problem was, but I attempted to become very interested in CNN's top stories-a Illinois shaped corn flake sold for $1,300 on Ebay!-the little girl became upset. She starts crawling on her mom and crying. People look over in that way that says, do you really have to bring a baby in here, sort of way. I try to block it out and just as I am shutting down my lap top to leave, the mom turns around again and says to me, "Would you stop encouraging my daughter?"
"Lady. I am not doing anything. I am leaving and the only reason she is crying is because I stopped smiling and playing peek-a-boo with her."
The Mother now bounces her daughter on her knee and in a shrill voice says to her, "It's alright Ashley, the strange man is leaving. Calm down honey."
What the fuck?
Am I living in a parallel world now? How did I become the bad guy in this situation? What the hell is wrong with this woman?
Of course, this is now being over heard by other people. All they have heard is a baby crying and a woman asking me to stop. Who do you think the scornful eyes fell on?

In a night club once, a fellow comic was standing next to me. When the music paused for an instant before resuming it's normal crushing sensation on our senses, he yelled into the silence, "I'm not gay!"
As the music started up again, people looked at me like I had just made some improper pass at a straight man.
That is the worse feeling, thinking everyone now thinks your a republican.

This was a similar situation. Everyone is looking at me like an Amber Alert had just been issued. I deliberately slow down so I don't look guilty rushing to get out of there. That's my thinking anyway. The little girl is just becoming more agitated while the mother bounces her on her knee with all the warmth one might have with a hacky sack.
"Sorry I offended you somehow?" I say as I pull my bags strap over my shoulder.
The Mother, digging around in her baby bag of bottles, diapers and whatever else you require when you take an infant out, retrieves a pacifier and like a plumber removing a clog from a sink, shoves it in the kids mouth.
Silence.
Here's what happens in the blink of an eye.
The baby bag strap some how becomes entangles in my iPod head phones that are dangling from my bag. I don't notice until I feel the resistance. The Mother doesn't notice until she feels a tugging on the delicately balanced bag of stuff and the baby on her lap. She opens her mouth and says, "We don't want to encourage her to be friendly with male strangers."
That seems like the saddest thing I have ever heard and turn to respond so when my iPod comes out of my bag, hits the floor and comes apart. It pulls her bag of her lap and it too falls to the floor as the baby spits the pacifier out and starts to cry again. The mother and I both reach down at the same time and smash our heads into each other. Wincing in pain, horrified and in shock, we both pull back. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the purposeful strides of an overweight middle manager who is already fed up with whatever it is middle managers always seem to be fed up with, rounding a stack of books and making a beeline toward us.
Shit. Fuck. Damn. Why does this always happen to me?
Why do I even go to cafes anymore?
We don't want to encourage her to talk to male strangers?
What a sad sad world kid's must be growing up in when everyone is eyed as a possible kidnapper or pervert. The baby is in her Mom's lap. She is sitting in a crowded cafe in Sunnyvale. I'm not saying strange shit can't happen, the news is filled with it everyday, but teaching your kid from an early age to not trust seems incredibly wrong to me. It might just be the origin of all the wars and all the misunderstandings society deals with daily.

My mother was the same way. For years it was something of an inside family joke. Anytime we ever went anywhere, mom always had knowledge of something terrible that had happened there.
"Mom, were going to the park."
"Be careful. A girl was raped there not too long ago."
Nice.
Luckily, all of us in the family took it with a grain of salt. It just seemed like such a horrible way to go through life thinking of all the bad stuff that could happen to us. I understand it was coming from a place of concern, but when your 8 and your brother is 9, you really don't need to have rape explained to you and to be on guard against it when your go to the park to hit some balls with a bat. Do you?
This went on for years in our family until even my Mother realized how ridiculous it had become. We are now all adults, but she still reminds us of what unspeakable crime was committed at whatever location we all might be headed too. On the last family Christmas that we all went to church, Mom once again looked out the window of the car and mentioned that a young girl had been the victim of something horrible at the corner. I went into my mothers falsetto voice and said out loud to my brother and sisters, "be careful in the church. A young boy was recently molested by a priest there."
They laughed.
Mom pursed her lips in that way that says she is not inviting anymore conversation on this subject.
My poor Mom. She is not an idiot, but her kid's were always thinking too fast for her to win any of these battles of wit. It only pissed her off more when my father would laugh at something we had said in response. These events always took place in the family car. The four of us kid's would be crammed into the back seat. It was the 70's, so it was a huge couch back there with seat belt buckles that were never used and tucked into the cushion. When Dad would laugh, Mom would just turn to him and give him the look.
The look is also something of a Klocek family inside joke. We can all do an impression of my Mom's look. It lost power on us after about the age of 10. Even dad seemed immune if the joke was funny enough, but it didn't stop her from still using it still.

This manager Dude is doing an almost dead on impression of mom's deeply displeased look.
I am rubbing my head where contact occurred, annoyed pissed off and not giving a shit about how this mess resolves it's self now. The woman is crying, rubbing her head too, and the baby is waling in that way that only a baby can. A woman stands up and comes over to attempt to offer help as the manager reaches us.
"Mam. We are going to have to ask you to leave if you can't keep your baby quiet."
Well here's a turn of events I didn't see coming!
The woman who came over to help, me and the crazy lady who wants to seal her daughter in a jar till she's 18, all look up at the same time.
Yeah. I'm not the bad guy for a change but I sure as hell can't get behind being mad a woman with a baby. As I rub my hand over my forehead, I say, "What?"
"We have had a few people already complain. This is a book store and we like to maintain quiet."
The woman is just a mess now. I feel sorry for her on so many different levels. The helpful bystander has the baby in her arms and is cooing her back into calmness.
"I am sorry." He says to me, "but we do have a policy just like a movie theater."
The woman, her chin quivering, nods her head in understanding and starts to pick up her bag.
Sitting in a chair, I say to the guy, "Don't you think that's a pretty anti-family policy of kicking crying babies out of a store?"
He shrugs his shoulders. In that moment I can see the full weight of abiding by the company line this man has done for years in hopes that someday he will be made store manager. All you need to know about him is contained in that shrug. No questions or allowances for human behaviour, just a strict interpretation of corporate policy.
"You would of made a fine Nazi." I say to him.
Big mistake.
"Alright, your out too. For your information I am Jewish and that deeply offends me!"
What is he going to do? Whip the keys on his key chain at me? Sit on me with the girth that has accumulated over the years of take out food in the break room as eyes the young girls primping in the mirror?
"That's not the intended nature of my insult." I lamely say.
"I don't care what the insult is, but I am not going to have Nazi's brought up to me as I am trying to enforce the rules of our store!"
Do you see the irony, dear reader?
"That's why you would make a good Nazi, you idiot. You are enforcing a rule that has no allowances for the simplest human behaviour like a fucking baby crying!"
By this time security, or an old guy almost as heavy as Mr. Nazi middle management, enters the scene. He has a limp. He has a limp! What kind of security are you getting when your guard is overweight and walks with a limp?
This is truly amazing now. It is at this point that I laugh. I have this habit I suppose of laughing at what seems to be the worst possible moment. But that's why I laugh. This whole fucking mess is so preposterous. From the woman who is raising her new born daughter to not trust, to the manager who can't see past the letter of the law and understand the context of why I am referring to Nazi's, and now a carnival worker with a walki-talki and a limp to escort me and the woman off the premises!
What else can you do but laugh at the universes grand practical jokes?
Course, laughing in the middle of public embarrassment only makes you look more crazy. But at this point, I have abandoned all hope of anyone with reason popping up.
You know how you can pause anything on TV now? Digital recorders and TiVo has made pausing real time shows possible. God how I wish I had that for life's little moments like this so I could explain everything.
Pause-
Alright. Now that I have your attention please listen careful and thoughtfully as I explain to you how you each person misinterpreted, took offense or was just plain wrong about what is happening.
Lady with the baby, I was playing peek-a-boo with your adorable daughter in a friendly non threatening manor the way people do with a smiling bright baby. I was not planing to steal her or fill her head with beliefs that are different from the ones you will spend a life time stuffing down her throat only to come to a realization somewhere in your life that she is her own person and can be trusted to do the right thing.
Manager, first of all, loose some weight. You we feel better about yourself and probably find that once you can see your toes and dick again, you won't feel the need to exert yourself in petty displays of power. I have nothing against Jewish people or their beliefs, but when I said you would make a good Nazi, perhaps I went to far with the analogy, but simply following orders doesn't make for a better world-it makes for a world of less compassion. Babies cry Dude! Deal with it. And if your not gonna loose weight, don't tuck your shirt in. Your belt has to follow the laws of physics, but you don't have to follow the rules when it means giving up a piece of your humanity.
Strangers sitting here pretending like your not loving the hell out of this, your all dicks! This is why the world is such a fucked up place-you people! You people are the vast majority. Your the reason Jerry Springer became a huge hit and Rock of Love has an audience in the millions while PBS has to have fund raising months. You like to watch and take a perverse pleasure in others embarrassment and pain. You could step in and say something. You could come over and say-he was just smiling at your baby lady. Relax- but you don't because that would require effort, interaction, soul, compassion, understanding, and switching off your gee whiz iPhone that you bought right before they dropped the price. Last but not least, where do all these security guards come from? The people at malls and parking lots and campuses who wear a bulked up coat with a badge and drive around in golf carts, look like the very people we want security from! Besides, shouldn't a security guard be in shape if something goes down? What is a 55 year old 200 pound man with a limp going to do? Move out of your moms basement and get back on methadone my friend.
Pause off-
Me, the woman and the baby are walked to the front door. We have to go slowly, otherwise the guard would fall behind. When we get to the door, the lady looks at me and attempts a smile. I smile back and step out into the bright blue sky of suburbia America. Everything is orderly and in it's place.
The neatly parked cars shine with fresh wax between the yellow lines of the smooth blacktop parking lot. Young girls showing off slightly sun browned shoulders stride in and out of the yogurt shop. People confidently walk into the air conditioned confines of a Starbucks. Everything is perfect and everyone is right.
Plastic and isolation.

The Scale of Things

A friend and fellow blogger wondered why I didn't post anything on the anniversary of the war. Since I am so political, he thought it odd I had not posted something.
I forgot.
I have been so busy with everything going on in my life that I simply forgot. Just like a few million other people in this country.
The truth is, it's not so hard to forget about something that has essentially become wallpaper. Getting to work, paying bills and dealing with the drama of just being alive is enough. A war that has waged on starts to fade into the background as a million kid's ask their mothers, "What's for dinner?"
A bomb went off and killed 23 people in downtown Bagdad. 4 more American soldiers died today. A helicopter was shot down. Grenades were launched into the green zone. 12 Iraqi children were killed in an accidental bombing. A convoy of American trucks was blown up.
It all happens a million miles away a million times a day. But it doesn't happen to you. It doesn't happen to us. It doesn't happen here.
When you start to contemplate it all, it's just depressing. That's what it is to millions of people in this country; something that is simply depressing. A subject to be avoided in conversation. A radio update to turn the dial on. The perfect time to go to the bathroom during the news.

In the 80's, we grew up against the back drop of nuclear annihilation. It was in our music, movies and news papers constantly. Like a noise, it wouldn't go away. But then, it just did. Most of those bombs haven't gone anywhere. Sure, we disassembled a symbolic few. Russia did too. But there are still enough Nuclear warheads in existence to destroy the world 20 times over.
What happened?
9/11 happened.
It's terrorism now. This is our national boogieman. However you want to define it, terrorism's physical destruction is nothing compared to what two nations devoted 50 years of resources toward. All that machinery has been turned in the direction of an enemy that can never kill millions of people with the turn of a few keys and the press of a button.
Of course, that is the fear now isn't it- that a terrorist will detonate a nuclear bomb.
We have gone from being terrified of complete destruction with thousand of bombs, to becoming paranoid patriotic warriors looking into peoples carry on luggage for that one bomb.
The scale of destruction has diminished as the fear has increased ten fold.
Why?
How?
Where did the last 5 years go?
What are we doing in Iraq?
Has it made us safer?
These are questions far larger than any one persons thoughts or any one groups beliefs. But think about that for a moment- the scale of damage to people and property has gone down while the scale of terror has gone up. It has gone up because our leaders have not only allowed it to go up, they have actively encouraged it as a means to achieve their agenda.
The agenda is control.
Their agenda and the enemy's agenda is about control.
Religion is control, oil is control, FEAR IS CONTROL.

America, the nation that defined what progress and strength was since it's birth invaded the wrong country for something they didn't do. Ever seriously mediate on that? Put it in personal terms for a second. A guy that didn't have a gun came up to us. Us. The big bad bully on the world wide playground with abb's of steel and strapping' a bad ass hand gun we wave around like a drunk on New Year's. This little guy comes up to us while were standing on a bar stool telling everyone how cool we are and breaks a bottle over our head. It's one guy with one bottle. The room goes quiet in shock and horror while the sound of one laugh rings out in the air.
We turn around and Saddam is the only one laughing.
You know what happened next.
It happens everyday a million times a day all over the world.

The war happened on the world stage though. It happened for a million of those reasons we will never completely understand. What makes a man decide the only way to make a difference in the world is to devote his soul to flying a plane into a building igniting fear and war among two vastly different ways of belief?
I don't know.
We do know that Iraq, has been devastated on the scale of a Nuclear blast. We know that fear rules our lives in a way it didn't seem too during the cold war. Maybe that's the difference, the scale of things. The idea of a Nuclear holocaust was so beyond the scope of our comprehension that we could only imagine it in the movies. Maybe that's why on 9/11 the thing I heard people say the most was, "it's like something out of a movie."
5 years ago, America invaded Iraq on a lie. I doubt anyone said to themselves, "This is like a movie."
It's all about the scale and distance of things. Iraq is a disaster on a scale Americans have just never really had to face. It is as far away as the button on the remote, yet a hemisphere away. It has gone on longer than anyone ever thought it would and it never had to happen. It has been 5 years since the invasion. You cannot measure it or define it on any scale that means anything. The only scale that really matters is the human one. It's the kid filled with red white & blue that returns after three tours missing a limb and wondering what was won. It's the kid blown up in a suicide bombers fire. It's not the trillions of dollars yet to be printed that actually matter, it's those human beings on each side of this who have been living it for 5 years.

Race, Obama & 9/11

Here is what White Christian leaders believe was the cause of 9/11. It's funny how once these clips started making the rounds again that people didn't care what Obama's Minister said about 9/11. Now, it's just about race.
It's also interesting how they blame America for not being religious enough when the "enemy" that came to our shores that day had been created by a steady diet of nothing but religion.



This is what Obama's Minister's said. The line I love the most comes at the end and says it all. "Hilary has never been called by her own people, not white enough." Like it or not, America has a long way to go on race relations.



If were not going to vote for a guy because of the people around him, lets remember that John McCaine has a guy on his reelection committee who is involved with the aerospace company attempting to take over the maker of voting machines; Diebolt.

A Rant

Enough!
Mediocrity leaves an after taste. What we get is what we deserve. No more forgiveness for the ass holes we are besieged by. Everyone wants understanding but no one knows how to give it. The human heart is under attack in a way so complete and so vicious that it is unmatched by any other other time in history. Love is a hoax played on us by the angeles. Regret is just fine as long as you don't let it solidify into the waxy ghosts that slow your blood. That girl, the one you want will make you happy for one year, two months and a day before whatever it is that brought you together fades. Do what you love and the money will go down that hole. Realistic is a club they use to beat you down. Fuck spelling and grammar -you know what I mean. Sleeping pills and strong coffee give you a life lived like a badly edited movie.
Helicopters are too loud. Old people really do remember an easier time. What will you do when everything around you changes and all the music on the radio is sung in the accent of youth. I once was a man that cast two shadows, one for me and one for the girl I still thought was beside me. Anarchy, like democracy is messy. How about Zen-achy? People who flush the toilet before their done are always in a hurry at everything they do. The real miracle about Jesus was that a white guy with perfect abb's was born in an Arab country. Gold seldom makes a man silent. Why does that metaphor work in the other direction? Show me all the ink blots you want doc, I am still going to say you need a pen that doesn't leak. Love is all you need. Really? Fake it till you make it. In the end, she did to me what her parents did to her. It doesn't comfort me in anyway, but I know it must stay with her like a nail in the head and for that I smile even though it does nothing for my karma. Politics should not be played as a sport. Mac's are better than PC's. If I had the money I would build a light house somewhere in Kansas just to have people come by and ask why. Everything screams at you to conform. There are some notes played on a piano that feel like damp splinters being pulled from the ripe flesh of a first broken heart. She was neither young or foolish, she was cruel. When I was drinking, everything seemed so God Damn poignant. pain is like shit, things you never thought will grow from it. Nosterdomus and Duran Duran were both big in their day. No one dates anymore. Where ever light comes through in slanted shafts, that's a church. Money only buys paper work, a little more security and the fear that something will happen to it. God so loved us that he sent his only child to die. You ever really think about how fucked up that is? My father once sent me out in a snow storm to get coffee for the neighbors and I never forgave him for that. oblivion is the perfect vacation. I once was in love with a girl whose skin was the color of an approaching thunder storm. It was smooth like the petals of a rose too. I never thought was for real when I read it. Just a finger tip run along her arm sent an electric thrill all over my body. I once had a girlfriend who got angry at me every two months because I didn't tell her I loved her. I once had a girlfriend who I pledged everything too. It was easier than you think when the most precious thing in your life was her. I once broke up with a girlfriend in a cafe thinking it would minimize the drama factor. I was wrong about that. She stood up from the table and shouted, "I don't want to date you either! and ran out like a scene in a movie. It was so quiet. Not even a fork on a plate or ice moving in a glass could be heard. The waiter came over and in a combination of pity and genuine enjoyment raised his eye brows and simply asked, "Check?"
I once did nothing but ecstasy for weekends at a time in hotel rooms with a girl who was part Korean and part French. It sounds like a novel you might read in an airport because your bored. After awhile even the most amazing sex got boring. I saw her again on one of the most awkward gig's I ever did. She was over weight and engaged so everything felt fair in a fucked up way. All of this is bullshit on some level. If a train leaves Chicago at midnight traveling at 60 MPH and has to get to Denver in less than 15 hours, should it wait for time travel to be invented or just trudge upon those shinny rails like everyone else? Someone told me my name is part of a sign for a show on busses around town. Wow! Do you know what that means? Everyday thousands of people look at my name and go, "Who?" I keep my pain from her. I want to let it go. Not because it's all I have left to remember her by, but because it requires a tremendous amount of work to get rid of it. All great comedy comes from the same place.
Scientist say there are traces of pharmaceutical in our drinking water. That's great. Most of America can't afford prescription drugs anyway, so now we can all get medicine. I have never understood why there are high altitude baking instructions.