A couple of good things have come out of M.’s move to Cali already, although they aren’t obvious.

One is that, yeah, it looks like we each miss each other. And, that must mean something, right?

The second thing is I’ve realized that maybe there are a couple of people around more than willing to have that beer or watch my back or just make me feel like I’m not totally alone. Actually, since doing comedy I’m made a lot of friends and that’s pretty cool. It’s entirely possible that the experience of comedy and meeting people through it, especially post a bad relationship in which I let myself get sucked into Solomon’s shit too much, changed me enough that I was open to a better thing with M. Overall, I feel like I have more faith in folks. (Well, except for the shitheads, but what are you going to do?)

Totally unrelated to that treacley, feel-good segment is this ultimate rule of comedy: The more you hear a comic name drop, the shittier the “comic” is. Ran into someone tonight who slipped in the names of about 15 comics in like, maybe, about 15 minutes. Yup, about a name a minute, including some people who I know and am pretty sure wouldn’t give him 15 minutes. Once heard the guy not just do a “street” joke (i.e., one that is well-worn and fallen into public domain, which is incredibly taboo on most stages), but it was an incredibly old, racist, dirty joke about a farmer and his daughter. Unbelievably bad.

However, I guess I make a separate place in my classifications for people who are less apt to comprehend (Note bene, I just changed that from “too stupid”) that everyone around them is actually writing their jokes. There are the guys who surely crack up the boys on the job who always remember the latest joke, who will never ultimately succeed. It’s really hard (or just karmically devoid) to hate someone for not knowing that the pretty paint by number kitty, where he colored inside the lines, doesn’t put his portfolio in the same universe as Jackson Pollock, even if Pollock missed. Life’s too short to try to raise the brain dead.

I actually hate that kind of comic a little less than the smarmy clever bastards, who act like there sole responsibility is to justify their oh-so-clever post-college wacky outlook in it’s myriad of shades all colored as “clever.”

At least a joke about a farmer’s daughter seems ot have a point.