I’ve started editing a new animation. The sound will be based on a series of sketches I did for my last Cambridge comedy show. The sketch, in turn, is based on my experience in my last Boston job.
I hope the true talent of Dorothy Dwyer comes through in the vocals.
I should add to the post below, I had a rather mediocre set at the beginning of what turned out to be a rather mediocre show. Sigh.
Meanwhile, here’s a few more nature shots. I’m Ms. Wilderness Safari, hiking everywhere.
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Ahh, nostalgia.
It’s been awhile since I had gastrointestinal distress before a comedy show. But, last night, for old time’s sake, my colon processed a treat.
Perhaps my organs in spite for insisting last week we not go to the cheap Chinese victualers that I swear made me a wee bit ill one time conspired against me. For the week I was what you might call irregular, and you would mean constipated. No big deal, makes for quicker mornings anyway.
But at dinner before the show, my time had come. Again, no big deal, I thought, because better than at the comedy club.
I hadn’t performed in a while, though, so I hadn’t taken into account getting nervous. During dinner I kind of had that butterfly, appetite-losing experience. No big deal, I had a good-sized lunch.
Then, at the club, I went into the empty green room and went into the “comics only” bathroom. Suddenly, well, lets just say “shit happens.” A lot. I hadn’t felt like that since wrist-slitting nights at open mikes in the neighborhood Howard Johnson’s lounge now years in the past. There was a lot to make me sick then. Not the least of which was some pretty terrible comedy, some of it my own.
My mortification was that as I was in the tiny bathroom, the crowd of other comics on the show had filtered into the green room. No one really noted whether I had come through the door or out of the bathroom. At least I hope they didn’t, because a couple of beats later after joining them, one of the other comics started commenting on someone having dropped a bomb in there and shut the bathroom door.
I was the only chick on the bill that show. So much for the often referred to, completely unoriginal, horribly cliched (and wonderfully redundant, like this sentence) jokes I’ve heard that start, “My wife/girlfriend/broad I’m banging never farts…”
Crushing stereotypes, by any means necessary.
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Come on out to tonight’s show!
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Listened to a bit of Howard Stern on Sirius today. It was positively a balm to my soul. OK, not positively and not my soul. Whatever, it felt good.
Not scary good, like a ride on the Stern-fabled Sybian.
Artie Lang declared Jay Leno a pussy. (I know it’s heretical to anyone who came from Boston comedy, where Leno is an accomplished legend from Andover, but I can’t fucking stand him and the shitty, syncophantic, whiney crapfest the “Tonight Show” has become under his name. Once upon a time he was apparently an amazing, original comedian. But, what is the statute of limitations on once good now unwatchable?)
Artie and I both watched Jay Leno last night, anticipating a showdown from old and old-school liberal George Carlin and fucking twat, Anne Coulter. Carlin was silent, while Jay just fucking glossed over her venom.
I’m paraphrasing:
Jay:Â “Um, ah, don’t you think that you were nasty in your book?”
Anne: “Not really.”
Jay:Â “Uh, OK.”
Carlin: ” Â Â “Â while examining lint on his sweater or calculating by when exactly he could get home and relax.
I know I’m obsessed with Coulter these days, but it’s just such an indefensibly cruel statement from which she’s trying to play victim (unconvincingly). Hearing Stern and the gang deconstructing a tape from Leno just helped remind me that actually a whole slew of people in the middle aren’t buying the shit.
Stern and Artie Lang are not at all particularly liberal, and they will say almost anything in the name of comedy, reveling in tastelessness and all the sorts of fun things that made Howard famous. But, hearing them say there’s just some stuff that no one says (not shouldn’t say, more like “who the fuck does that?”) was awesome.
One of my work colleagues was a teenage actor on a not unknown sitcom in the ’80s. Another co-worker mentioned traveling, being in a hotel room and hearing this guy’s voice as she got out of the shower.
Ew.
This let to a conversation about “Googling” at work. Which instantly led someone to jump to their keyboard and search out yours truly. In order to fix one thing in my new design, I had turned off my banning of the workplace ‘puters.
MAJOR BREATH-SUCKING FEAR AND TREPIDATION ENSUED.
Cleverly, there is no mention of my actual name on this front page. Although, a bit of digging could have uncovered me. She got to this very page, did a page search for my name and got nada, a goose egg, nought but text and pretty pictures.
Sigh. I survived. She moved on, concluding it was an aged item in Google land.
Thank fucking Christ in heaven or Texas, wherever he lives. Either place, your average web looker has a nano gnat-sized attention span, and my secret identity is safe.
I get a tad obsessive when I dig into shit like my website. But, the world continues to turn unabated while I twiddle, as it were.
So, here are a few things I should have mentioned.
Zarqawi is dead. That’s good, right. No wait, it’s bad, because according to the pundits on the right I want soldiers to die, right? No, wait, it actually is bad, because who the fuck knows who’s next in line while we (the U.S.) metaphorically keep jamming the short stick into a wasps’ nest. No wait, it’s good, because he was a fucker of a guy afterall.
I feel saddest for Daniel Pearl’s dad. I get his frustration. Just like I get Cindy Sheehan’s. The whole thing just sucks so hard and long and horribly chockful of lying world leaders. And, down on the bottom of the food chain of people making shit up to go to war was their kids.
In other words, Ann Coulter should shut the fuck up forever and just go away. I don’t want her banned or harmed or otherwise done to so she can shrilly claim everyone is proving her point. Nope, just want her 15 minutes to be the fuck up already.
Here’s where her logic will always break down, but it relies on humanity, so she will never get it:
(1) The little people are allowed to say whatever petty little insults they can come up with against the mighty and powerful. The mighty and powerful have the might and power, so they can basically hum “sticks and stones will break my bones…” while doing whatever the fuck they want.
(2) You never know anyone else’s grief in the face of tragedy. You might know your own similar experience, you might have vast resources of empathy, but in the end we all have our own shit to deal with and no shit pile is quite alike. You never can walk exactly in someone else’s skin.
(3) If the little people are the victims of said grief, even if you’ve moved on already and don’t get it, you give them some slack as they shake fists at authorities against which they are trying to regain some potency in an impotent situation.
(4) At no time are the ones in power allowed to name-call the little guy. At best, it’s poor sportsmanship, at worst it’s tyranny. See “Let them eat cake,” as moment in bad PR.
(5) Roll ’em all together and you get want Ann can’t or won’t comprehend, a world where it’s just weird and painful for her to slag off on people who have a shittier life than hers.
I think in her world, if you call the President “stupid,” he should retort with “Oh, yeah? You’re a fat cow.” While all non-first graders would think not.
In short, and paraphrasing Abbie Hoffman, just fucking steal her book. If we all did take one, imagine the world.
Nah, not really. I fixed some stuff in the backend, behind the curtain, leading to some cool shit, like being able to throw photos up easier. Of course, fixing a little thing, meant looking at the thing next to it and declaring it shit. Looking some more, blah fucking blah, until my eyes are crossed, my back is sore, my relationship has gone to shit, a victim of my obsession, and if I had a dog, it would go unwalked.
But, it’s getting closer to something.
For now, I’ve slipped on one of my self-imposed website rules, but that will likely change. This layout of the columns and the colors are more somebody else’s idea than my own design. The rule being that everything here is the product of dee-rob’s brain.
The banner is all mine. And the content, of course.
Other than that, check out the shows that I got off my ass (and just stayed on my ass for a couple) to get on. Yup, live and in person and likely with just boring, babbling unamusing shit about web sites. Really not funny. Yay me.
There might be a few more changes. Or not. I’ll miss this picture, mostly for the largest cross erected in the Western Hemisphere, like seeing Jesus pass me by on the road.
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Other banner contenders:
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This restaurant in Mountain View caters to a little bit of everything.
