Every Kind of People

    Ever have a person accuse you of thinking that all people of their race look alike?  It happened to me a few years ago, and it bothered me.  Up at the club, I confused the dude on stage with someone else.  I'd seen both people only once before.  I said, "Is that Kevin?"  The guy standing next to me said, "Oh man, I can't believe you..."  Actually I couldn't quite understand what he was saying, and I had to say, "What's that?" a couple times.  (This is going from bad to worse: not only can I not tell them apart, but apparently I also can't understand what they're saying.  Hey, it was loud in there.)

    For the record, I think everybody looks alike.  I thought the Progressive Insurance lady was Maggie Gyllenhaal.  About four years ago, I couldn't tell Hilary Duff from Hannah Montana.  (That's a whole other issue.)  I've seen pictures of Sandra Bullock in sunglasses where she looks just like Michael Jackson. These days Natasha Henstridge is looking quite Lolita Davidovich-ish.  Ryan Gosling looks like a cleaned-up version of the guy in Fargo who put Steve Buscemi in the wood chipper.

    When Laura Bush is really lipsticked up, she bears a striking resemblance to Cesar Romero's version of The Joker.  What is it about Republicans and Batman characters?  Dick Cheney: The Penguin.  Dan Quayle: Robin.  Mitt Romney: Two Face.

    Lots of white people look the same.  Don't believe me?  Stand in front of a Wal-Mart in, oh, Ohio.  Or Oklahoma.  Or any other state  that begins and ends with a vowel.  (Or vowel sound.  Thought you were getting off, didn't you, Arkansas?)

    See what I mean?  Every pasty white slob who goes through the door looks the same.  Could happen to anyone.

I Can Feel Bad All By Myself

Q

uestion to my at-the-time girlfriend:  “Ever get into a foggy funk, and for just a moment, you have to question  whether you actually exist?  (Am I actually in my car driving along a rainy two-lane stretch of road on my way to…where was I going…the Post Office?)  You know what I mean?   

    

    Answer:  “Yeah… but not during sex.  Jesus.”

    I’m a spacy person.  If I push myself physically when the viscera aren’t right, strange things can happen.  Once, in a tennis tournament, foam began to appear around my mouth.  (That’s as good a time as any to stop.)  And when you’re still sweating 90 minutes after the match is over, something’s not quite right.  I like to exercise, and I like to sweat, but the latter without the former?  

    Growing up in the ‘70s  and early ‘80s I naturally tried some substances, but my physical make-up has always prevented me from turning  any one of them into a habit, at least for any extended period of time.  The stomach trouble acts as a governor, a safety valve, so  becoming addicted to anything just doesn’t happen.  I simply have too many days where I don’t feel like partaking.  “I’m good, thanks.” 

    Which is not to say that I haven’t still gotten carried away at times and had my brushes with disaster.    The combination of a little alcohol, a little weed and very little oxygen causes me to check out.  You know, theaters and concert halls tend to have low oxygen levels.  One minute I’m taking in the music, and the next thing I know my underwear is wet and people are yelling down, “You missed ‘Every Breath You Take.’”  “Damn.  Did I miss ‘Canary in a Coalmine’?”  “Dude, you are the canary in the coalmine.” 

           

    Call me the anti-Artie Lange.  Apparently I’m not cut out for high times down front at the show.  “One pill makes you nauseous, and one pill makes you fall…”

    Breaking SAG news:  In the category of Best Documentary Film, strong support for The Tennis Whisperer, in which Roger Federer teaches  Sharapova and Azarenka how to strike the ball without shrieking.  It will tug at your heartstrings as the ball comes off the racquet strings.  And we learn that Maria's favorite band is (what else?) Shriekback.

    

Never Fails

   Anyone can do stand-up.  If you can make noodles, then you can do stand-up.

        1. bring to a boil    (you have to get a little upset first.)
        2. stir in contents    (you have to have something to say, some material.) 
        3. let stand about 5 minutes    (you need some stage time.)

   The only real difference between doing stand-up and making noodles is that you can live on noodles.

    Anyone can do it.  If you are particularly sensitive or anxious, not to worry:  skin will thicken upon standing. The more you do it, the more you can roll with the punches.

   And if people don’t laugh, there are plenty of things you can say to break the tension. 

   You can use “line savers”:  little comments,  almost always self-deprecating, about how the show is going.  Some well-known comedians who do (did) this well are Johnny Carson,  Jim Gaffigan, and Mitch Hedberg.

   One time when I was losing the audience I employed  the following tack.  “TV sucks.  Take NBC.  They used to have a thing called Third Rock.  It sucked.  Then it was 30 Rock.  Sucked.  They could have 300 rocks.  Don't look now, but here comes Rock Center.  NBC sounds like a Charlie Brown trick or treat.  Ever notice as soon as you tell someone about a great show, that’s when it starts to suck?!  Never fails.  As soon as you say, “Oh man, you gotta check out this show; it’s really funny.  That’s when it starts to suck.  (Long pause)  Okay, who told someone about my show?”

   It works because it lets everyone know that you are on top of the situation; and that you can take a joke.  [Disclosure:  I’ve never actually seen any of those NBC shows, other than a few clips of 30 Rock, and I am a Tina fan.  In fact, one time I dreamt that I was a contestant in a spelling bee, and Tina was the moderator.   The word I had to spell was my name.  “Could you use my name in a sentence, Tina?  May I have the derivation of my name?”  Tina’s answers, of course, were brilliant.  I awoke quickly enough to evaluate part of what was actually said, and of course it was merely gibberish.   This dream was a dream of admiration, not sex.  She wasn’t naked or anything.  Neither was I, fortunately.]

Stay-At-Home Bachelor

                                                               

   My mother told me before she died, “Honey, you have no idea how miserable a wife can make you feel.”  And one time my sister-in-law Kathy said to me, “Never have children!”  Right in front of her kids.  Just before she died.

 

   My mom and sister-in-law are still hanging in there, but the rest is true.  There have been times when Kathy looks like she’s going to have a nervous breakdown.  And my brother has told me that he “feels like a human pinball.”

   Today, however, I suspect that Kathy wouldn’t characterize parenthood in such severe terms.  My nieces and nephews have turned out cooler and more wonderful than I ever imagined.  I help my 13-year old niece with her homework.  Sometimes she has to show me what to do, but I catch on quick.  Her little sister plays piano and soccer, has a great sense of humor, and loves life.  Their 16 year old  brother volunteers at the Nature Center, and knows more about computers than I ever will.  He set up this blog for me.  (With his brains and my gut...)  He has agreed not to read it, and based on preliminary stats from blogger, apparently so has everyone else.

   When I was a baby, I reportedly didn’t like to be held.  I would arch my back and try to get away.  As a child I had severe eczema, athsma and the occasional rickit.  I have always been claustrophobic, and often have dreams that I’m mired in a swamp or otherwise constrained.  Recurring health issues have interfered with my work.  It’s a struggle, but today I manage to balance the demands of my social discomfort with my lack of defined career path: I’m a stay-at-home bachelor.

    

    The weather has been unusually warm the past couple days, and a noisy bird has been hanging around my bedroom window at like 4:30 in the morning.  The thing about birds is that they make a lot of noise, but they don't have much to say.  This petulant little bastard acts like he owns the neighborhood.  He won't be waking me up anymore, though.  I took care of that.  Fitted him with a tiny shock collar, so every time he tweets, he gets a nice shock.  Maybe somebody can put one on Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian.