Monday, December 28, 2009

(un)Friendly drunken X-mas tips

I've heard two different comedians comment on something in the past few days, and have heard SHITLOADS of "normal" people also mention this over the past years. I normally don't correct this sort of thing, (hahahahhahaha yes, this is the one thing I'm not a pedantic twat about) but I figured since he's the reason for the season, we should talk about Constantinople Jesus.

Dear Dumb Shit Christians* Who Complain About X-Mas taking the "Christ" out of Christmas - It is called X-Mas because X is the greek symbol "Chi" which is the first Greek letter of Christ.
It's not us atheists pissing on your pagan holiday substitution for Saturnalia.
Constantine is fucking with you, yo.

I'm very tired of the majority religion (Christianity) attempting to adopt a persecution complex in this country. You Are Not Persecuted. I've never worked for a company since graduating college that required me to work on Christmas.
I've only had Yom Kippur off if I've requested it myself**.
I'm not spending my money on political organizations to prevent Shar'iah law; I'm giving money to the ACLU*** to protect gay rights and a woman's right to choose. These battles are fought because Christians have defined the battleground.
And fuck you for doing so.
In your quest to prevent gays from happiness, you've forgotten what agape means. We're all worms according to your God; fruit of the knowledge of good and evil assure us of that.
But no, you're fucking better than the gays.

Cry about the war on Christmas. Whine about the secular takeover of America.
And do it all married up, because some animals are more equal than others, piggies.

In vino, veritas.

*Not all Christians are dumb shits. Even if most of you are, you're on par with the secular/other religious community. Dumb shititude is found aplenty in all races and creeds***.

** Never took it off to atone. FYI.

*** Admittedly, it's been a while since I gave them money. Sort of a hypocrite right now. Alcohol!

****Look at this blog for multiple examples of what an atheist Irish know-it-all prick dumb-shit looks like

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Thursday Night's All Right

Last night I made some headway on a couple of bits.
Still frustrated that my holiday-inspired Santa bit (ok technically it's about the Egyptian plagues but the punchline has the word Santa in it) is not working at all.
Well, the punchline's not working. The theoretical payoff.
The exposition to get us there is filled with little quips that seem to work, but the whole thing's ending not with a bang, but a whimper.

The sets this week have been good. Been in the moment more than I have been in a while, and it's allowed some stinkers but also some goodness.
I'll start recording soon; I hate hate hate watching myself (even the Comcast Open Mic where I killed) so it's going to be a real exercise in pain.

Cindy Cornelsen said something wonderful last night that I have to remind myself of nowadays: Open Mics aren't supposed to be fun, they're work. They're the dues/whatever that you're paying to get better.

I keep forgetting that. It's work. If I want to do this I should treat it as a job, not a dalliance. Otherwise I'm just shitting on the mic and not taking it seriously.

Tonight is also work, but it will be entertaining. Stop on by.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Simple Math

Some simple math here.
16 comics * 5 minutes each + 5 minutes for a hostess for a show that starts at 9 means I'll be getting up around 10:30, in time to go home with my wife still awake.

Lineup shifts a bit and suddenly the math is 20 * 5 + 5 = 10:50 PM which is really damn close to when I turn into a pumpkin. But doable, so I stuck around.

When I was put up around 11:20 to a shit room, joy filled my heart. This must be the dues I've been hearing about, and I'm happy to pay them.

I'd say NEVER AGAIN but they have $2 Bell's drafts so I may end up there just for the ridiculously cheap beer.

Monday, December 14, 2009

My favorite passage in Infinite Jest

I've been thinking about this book a fair amount lately; its affect on me is akin to the Wire's. . . . things stir memories, and I mull over the details.

IJ was probably the hardest book I've ever read; it required an attentiveness I rarely lend to fiction. Labyrinthine multi-paged footnotes.
A chronology that doesn't make sense until 2/3 of the way through the book - is the Year of the Depends Adult Undergarment before or after the Year of the Whopper?
Tough reading.
Very powerful. Most of the book hits me on some level or another, and recommend it to anyone who's got the fortitude to plow through 900+ pages of meandering genius.

This was one of the passages that blew me away. It's between the tennis coach (a wonderful character in his own right) and one of the boys at Enfield Tennis Academy, LaMont Chu.
The tennis coach speaks first.
“You burn to have your photograph in a tennis magazine.”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Why again exactly, now?”

“I guess to be felt about as I feel about those players with their pictures in magazines.”


“Why? I guess to give my life some sort of meaning, Lyle.”

“And how would this do this again?”

“Lyle, I don’t know. I do not know. It just does. Would. Why else would I burn like this, clip secret pictures, not take risks, not sleep or pee?”

“You feel these men with their photographs in magazines care deeply about having their photographs in magazines. Derive immense meaning.”

“I do. They must. I would. Else why would I burn like this to feel as they feel?”

“The meaning they feel, you mean. From the fame.”

“Lyle, don’t they?”

“LaMont, perhaps they did at first. The first photograph, the first magazine, the gratified surge, the seeing themselves as others see them, the hagiography of image, perhaps. Perhaps the first time: enjoyment. After that, do you trust me, trust me: they do not feel what you burn for. After the first surge, they care only that their photographs seem awkward or unflattering, or untrue, or that their privacy, this thing you burn to escape, what they call their privacy is being violated. Something changes. After the first photograph has been in a magazine, the famous men do not enjoy their photographs in magazines so much as they fear that their photographs will cease to appear in magazines. They are trapped, just as you are.”

“Is this supposed to be good news? This is awful news.”

“LaMont, are you willing to listen to a Remark about what is true?”


“The truth will set you free. But not until it is finished with you.”

“Maybe I ought to be getting back.”

“LaMont, the world is very old. You have been snared by something untrue. You are deluded. But this is good news. You have been snared by the delusion that envy has a reciprocal. You assume that there is a flip-side to your painful envy of Michael Chang: namely Michael Chang’s enjoyable feeling of being-envied-by-LaMont-Chu. No such animal.”


“You burn with hunger for food that does not exist.”

“This is good news?”

“It is the truth. To be envied, admired, is not a feeling. Nor is fame a feeling. There are feelings associated with fame, but few of them are any more enjoyable than the feelings associated with envy of fame.”

“The burning doesn’t go away?”

“What fire dies when you feed it? It is not fame itself they wish to deny you here. Trust them. There is much fear in fame. Terrible and heavy fear to be pulled and held, carried. Perhaps they want only to keep it off you until you weigh enough to pull toward yourself.”

“Would I sound ungrateful if I said this doesn’t make me feel very much better at all?”

“LaMont, the truth is that the world is incredibly, incredibly, unbelievably old. You suffer with the stunted desire caused by one of its oldest lies. Do not believe the photographs. Fame is not the exit from any cage.”

“So I’m stuck in the cage from either side. Fame or tortured envy of fame. There’s no way out.”

“You might consider how escape from a cage must surely require, foremost, awareness of the fact of the cage.”

Friday, December 11, 2009

Sunday, December 6, 2009

Living With A Monster, part 1

Most drives were innocent enough; a family going out to run errands. Shopping, or dropping one of us off at an after-school activity. Karate, soccer. Things parents send their kids to hoping to teach self discipline and teamwork.
This day was warm, spring giving way to summer.
The car windows slid up smoothly, thumping home to seal us in.
It just played at the back of our heads first; a skunk on the road? The sickly sweet smell of decay from far away? Had our father protected us from something with his superior sense of smell?

Dad grinned, and flicked the windows-lock shut.

The smell worsened. Rotten eggs, sulfur. Budweiser and hotdogs with onions, 2 days later. Bits of them hanging on inside a small intestine as bacteria feasted, emitting their own wastes that were taken up by our father's own waste management system and hurled forth from his buttocks into the hermetically sealed cabin of our Ford Taurus.

It's the laughter that hurt the most. We choked and mashed our window open buttons uselessly; that route of escape was shut off from us by the fart monster.

Long road trips were drives of inevitabilty; the excitement of "hey we're going to visit family in New York!" was tempered with the knowledge that by 8 hours into the road trip, one of us will have passed out from methane poisoining at least once.

Years later, my brother and I lived together. He lived in the basement, I upstairs.
Early morning, and I go to the shared bathroom.
The smell hit me as soon as I opened the door to the basement.
I'd read about septic tank leaks killing whole families; I'd obviously caught the beginning. "Steve?" I yelled down into the basement, fearing he'd succumbed to the biohazard.
"Are you ok? It smells like a sewage leak."
Low laughter greeted me.
Like father, like son.