I learned something today. Something that surprised me after quite a few viewings live and up close at the Boston Marathon. Until today, I had not seen blood stains streaking down man chests at marathons.
Now I know that there is a need for a product such as this one.
Thankfully, M.’s nips appear unabraided and unmolested.
I appear to be living with a crazy man. At least that’s how I calculate the desire to run 26.2 miles.
M. ran his first marathon today. Thank god for the end of Dayligh Saving Time, which I hate. It gave us an extra hour’s sleep before the marathon start time of 7 a.m. Wonderful trooper girlfriend, partner, whatever that I am, I was right there at dawn heading into downtown San Jose with him.
We were off at sunrise and came home right at sunset, once we had a late lunch or early dinner. Since I had a whole lot of time to kill, while himself trotted throught the miles, I walked the 5K course. I listened to an audiobook and basically made little effort to strain myself. Nothing but time was my mantra.
I did not make the ultimate personal goal for which I was aiming. I half-heartedly strove to be last. I failed. There were others behind me, because, after all, we all dig running with a pack. If I couldn’t actually bring up the rear, I wanted to be last in my age group. Nope, failed that too. Overall for women (listed as “females,” which I hate when women and girls might do), I was 54 out of 57. For women of my vintage, I was 6 out of 8. You can look it up.
Since my time was directly proportional to my effort, or lack there of, speedwise, I felt quite douchey at the finish line. An event photographer took my picture while several young woman from a couple of local colleges cheered out, “Come on, you’re almost there, you can make it!” and other words of encouragement.
Um, yeah, I hope I can fucking make it. I was strolling. And, 3.1 miles isn’t that far. (Pretty often, M. and I walk up the street to the local mall-ish area for dinner. It’s about 2.5 miles up and 2.5 back.)
Not knowing this fact, the girls went wild cheering on my apparent first step away from a completely sedentary life.
With one hour (almost) down, I walked around a good chunk of downtown San Jose, peed at a couple of fine hotels, hit one Starbucks that had a mysterious shortage of chai latte, hit another to succeed in my chai quest, moved my car closer to the finish line and still had several hours to go. Back at the finish line, I made another spin around the vendors and sponsors with free samples and talked a good while to a buddy on the phone.
By then, marathoners were trickling in, but not my baby.
He did make it, though, and I kind of like the fact he’s looking a little mortal after the run. Until now, I have only seen him sweat, but never hurt. His knees took a pounding, and he’s resting in front of the TV with Ben-Gay.
Mortal, but successful. Now, in his weakened state, I stand a chance to bend him to my will.
I couldn’t sort out my feelings yesterday over Harriet Miers.
On the one hand, when she was nominated I loathed the cronyism and suspected her only qualification was taking GW’s secret to her lawyer’s grave. However, there was the chance that she would be more moderate than at first blush. Now, my happy dance of her withdrawal is marred by the thought the pressure came from seriously whacked hard-core right wingers who will not rest until every sperm and egg in the universe are given a chance to grow up and live in FEMA constructed trailer parks.
Meaning, Bush will do fucking anything to bend to that corner of the lunatic fringe. Oy.
Today, however, I rise to sunnier times and downright optimism. Poor little “Scooter” got caught.
The one glimmer of a brighter future that sustained me through the sad spectacle of the ’04 election ran in my head as, “Nixon got his second term, but then there was Watergate.” Surely, I hoped the lying, incompetent weasel of a second-term president, George Walker Bush, had that kind of malfeasance lurking in his power corridors. Hubris among the powerful being what it is, it was only a matter of time for things to unravel.
That was my dream and today I feel a dream coming true.
HAHAHAHAHAHAHA, motherfuckers.
The best headline had been on the NY Times online a little bit ago: “Prosecutor to Speak Soon; No Indictment for Rove Today.” I was digging the “today” aspect. As in, Karl Rove hasn’t gotten his turn yet.
If Karl Rove resigns this week and/or is indicted I may start believing in an intelligient designer.
Yeah, so big old Wednesday of “New Talent” goodness. New talent night is legit business type comedy club shorthand for “the night we let anyone who might invite 20 of their closest friends to perform.” Woo-fucking-hoo.
Generally, as in this club, there’s kind of a keeping it above the low water mark model instead of being a purely “bringer” show. In a purely bringer show it’s only about asses in the seats, so it favors totally crappy newcomers with indulgent friends over actual performers. No one who’s done a bit of work or already put in thousands of open mike hours wants to then separate their nearest and dearest from a 10 spot just to see them.
In the modified version, it’s a mix. Some folks who bring a ton of people with some people who can actually cause some laughter. Tonight it was a mix, so the audience likely didn’t walk away completely hating comedy as they would in the purely bringer market. (A $10 open mike line up is tough with a few experienced people tossed in, it’s downright razor-blade across your eyelid painful with ALL new people.)
The upside for yours truly is I got more than a couple of laughs. Sometimes I think it’s just that people are so fucking relieved to actually hear something joke-like and funny that they laugh twice as hard.
I’m sure M. wishes my callling was more in the lines of quilt-making. Then, at least, at the end of a night he would have something of use. He really is a sweet guy.
On an unrelated note, thanks to everyone who has upped my website hits via Andy’s link from the Naked Comedy Showcase site. Please keep coming on back and checking out my complete and utter bullshit writing and maybe I’ll show you some nipple.
Maybe, like me, you hate the name, but I’ll be there performing my little heart out:
Rooster T. Feathers
157 W. El Camino Real
Sunnyvale, CA
408.736.0921
$10 Cover and two item minimum “Open Mic Showcase” (2 for 1 Internet coupon available at http://www.roostertfeathers.com/internet_special.htm)
Fucking hell, have I been exhausted or what? The work retreat to Mexico kicked my lily white, suburban ass. Man, just surviving in a place without words that can be understood tires me.
Actually, it was pretty fun, and the new boss sure can squeeze a lot out of folks in mere 24-hour day. There was very little down time and very much together time. Fabulously for me, I sharpened no spoon into a shiv and refrained from going to town in a claustrophic (or whatever the fuck it would be) tremor of too much contact with humanity.
Nope, I made nice and mostly played nice, and who the fuck would believe it, mostly enjoyed the folk with whom I was in stir, incarcerated for the life of knocking the kinks out of a strategic plan. (Although my note to self before leaving was not to liken the remote location and total immersion into work to a hostage crisis to my boss, I did. But, I also assured her that Stockholm syndrome was kicking in, so that evens it out right?)
Everything is A-OK here in the Left Coast.
But I was thrilled to my marrow to be back home, in our cute place with my cute man. Kindly, he picked me right up, carried my bag and took me to brunch. I even got the impression he missed my face around the place called home.
My theory on the possibilty that I was missed is based on the plan hatching done whilst I was detained. My boy-o wants to take a long, long, fucking long overdue trip to his homeland, where he can now go triumphantly under the auspices of the red, white and blue. I sense that while I was traveling far and wide, he was thinking WE should be traveling far and wide.
I fully admit, however, it was difficult to embrace the prospect initially, at least while my entire body was still concrete-heavy with post-Mexico fatigue. Today, I’m close to recovery and warming up very nicely to a longish vacation and exotic voyage.
I wonder, if I skip my western holiday schedule, which would involve a trip east, and go for the Chinese New Year celebration a bit later, which would be a trip so east I would need to head west, I wonder if my family would notice?
Perhaps the notice-taking would be in the form of a relief sigh.
By the way, on the life imitates reality TV scene, the new boss made us eat bugs.
While I am so digging the third world vibe of remote Mexico, I can’t fucking wait to get home!
Here I am in Mexico City. So far, nothing scary, even if I fear work and work functions.
I’m in the hotel room. Hotel rooms are always such a weird combo of oasis, like, yeah, time enough to think, read, whatever and enjoy myself, and horrible, horrible alienation. I whiplash back and forth from peace to loneliness to peace to loneliness. Like in the internal head soundtrack (made famous by Allie McBeal), one minute it’s Aretha (all R&B anthemy) and the next Bessie Smith (feeling all the shit that done bring you the fuck down).
Part of me is just getting used to the old domestic routine. I don’t know how to use the hotel phone and call Cali, and I am too tired to figure it out. No boyo, reassuring me it’ll be fine and probably this job is OK, and the evil is likely behind me (and I guess, um, not curing cancer).
Must sleep, big exciting day just jampacked with meetings tomorrow. (The other thing that kind of sucks about work travel, apart from say hotel-room alienation, is they fucking make you work.)
On vacation, I swell with the pleasure of a hotel room and room service and foreign lands and exciting adventures. At work, I just get exhausted.
And, GODDAMN IT, someone explain the water to me. I’m deathly afraid of the water.
So there’s an expression about how the other half lives. I ain’t got nothing on how that might be, but I seen books and stories and all that about living large.
Looks like, though, I might find out a bit about it.
Given that I don’t know how the rich live first hand, I had the regular people issue of how am I getting to the airport for our big retreat. While figuring if M. needed to tell his boss that he’d have to be a little late in order to cart me off to my flight, I had a brainstorm. I remembered that (a) duh, it’s like a work trip and like that meant they’d be paying expenses and (b) three other people on the team live south of the airport (and work) just like me. Ding, ding, ding, car pool.
I mention it to my boss. She thinks it’s a swell idea if I rally the people from my direction together, and I can hire a car service on the company dime. We talk about asking other folks what car service they use, and I should do likewise, which I do.
Last Friday, I called the place that was recommended to me, because they are prompt and comfortable and reliable. I didn’t think of either conveyance or cost, because the car company had been vetted by use. Got the number, placed the call and discussed what I needed.
“Oh, OK, four people and luggage, yeah, so you’ll need a stretch.” A fucking prom-ready, stretch limousine.
Retard, simple-living, Pat-channeling me panicked. I clumsily got off the phone, saying I had to check out costs at some other places and would get back to them, blah fucking blah.
In my head was Pat, loud and clear, “You can’t do that, you can’t do that, you can’t do that.” What was I thinking? Who did I think I was? A stretch limo?
Reality check is that, um, what was I thinking they would offer? It’s a car service to the airport from one of the country’s more expensive neighborhoods. I work in the bosom of venture capitalist country. I work at a rather wealthy place. The car service has done business there before and they know that.
Somehow, however, I envisioned a station wagon (with me sitting in the wayback, bumping along with the luggage) or a minivan. I hadn’t really thought through the limo concept.
I checked the price with my boss, and economically, it’s fine and dandy. What’s the difference between four people paying for a cab, parking, mileage or whatever to the airport separately versus sharing a car, right? It’s cheaper in the prom mobile.
My mother’s voice in my head aside, much is just an economy I ain’t used to living. Take the hotels, where we’ll be sojourning. My boss ragged on the dumpiness of one of them, saying it was a cut below the usual. I looked it up on the Interrnet. I guarantee it’s about 2-3 cuts above where I would be staying on my own.
If I’m not too lazy when M. goes to run 20 miles, I might upload my set from last night. It wasn’t a bad set. No notes, a few new things and overall I was gladly lowkey and relaxed.
Apart from getting laughs in the right places and playing for a pretty good-sized audience, I was gratified by my favorite schaudenfraude-ish comedy experience. Right before the show there was one comic with whom I had worked before (and who M. fucking hates, partially for her leaning heavy on the Asian thing, of which she’s half, and partially for her “edgy” yelling), and she was chatting with another dude. She was asking if he was performing, apparently he was a comic, but his name wasn’t on the night’s show flyer.
His reply, “Yeah, well, I’m up, but, you know, I’m like the best kept secret in SF comedy. They don’t always put my name on the sign, but I do them a favor and perform.” Or something to that affect. Your basic poor me, I’m misunderstood, but watch me blow the doors off this dump, comedy braggadacio that always, always, always is a portent of nothing pretty.
I made a mental note to watch this guy’s set, because clearly he was going to play like a rockstar.
I was fully and thoroughly rewarded for my judgmental cynicism. He blew the doors off alright, in the sense that he totally blew. He sucked so hard, you could feel the pressure change in the room. My personal favorite two moments were (1) his homeless rap with the big punch of seeing a guy with a sign “Will work for drugs,” rim shot, which he presented in classic, vaudevillian “Ta Da” outstretched arms to chilling silence and (2) his big closer with a 20-year-old street joke (personalized, though, which was nice).
The street joke is the one about walking up to a punk with multi-colored hair and something about thinking it was your son, because once you got drunk and fucked a parrot. Ha ha ha ha, like in 1979, when crayon-colored hair technology was new and punks were unusual and life was fresh and pure and clean.
But, a wacky punk reference in late 2005? By a guy with shoulder-length a straggly, aging biker/hippie ‘do, beard and mustache? In fucking San Francisco? Yeah, right, ’cause in the fabled streets of SF, where people go way the fuck out the way to appear creatively bohemian, a punk is noticeable?
I get way too much pleasure hating on that kind of comic and their irrepressible arrogance. M. spent the whole of this guy’s set watching me wince and laughing his ass off.
My other favorite bit was the poor guy’s opener about his appearance and, “Yeah, I know, you’re wondering if I ride with the Hell’s Angels.” Actually I wasn’t thinking that because, um, you look about as edgy as a triangle of pumpkin pie, and anyway, when was the last time anyone ever worried about the Angels? Altamont Speedway, maybe?
Honestly, though, I swear, I actually reserve my comedy bitterness and excessive bile for the jokers who you overhear bragging on their badass comedy selves. For any potential audience members, there is always an inverse relation to funny, if you overhear someone touting his greatness before a show.
Other than that, it was a fun show with a lot of interesting, funny and original folks. I wish I had talked with Sherry Sirof, if only because she had the best abortion reference I have ever heard.