Monday, December 22, 2008

Good News

Hey all, those of you who know my mom and have been there for us these last few weeks, I want you to know how very much it has meant.

The doctor was extremely pessimistic going in. We are not out of the woods yet, the next 24 to 48 hours are critical, but we've got the best news we could have hoped for.

Mom had 5 bypasses and a cryo procedure where they froze and heated parts of the heart to restore a healthy rhythm. I don't want to get my hopes up to high, as the surgery was only the first step, but it looks good.

Thanks everyone.

Sunday, December 21, 2008

Good Byes

My mom gave me the goodbye speech today. It was beautiful and so full of love. I didn't no what to do, but I gave one back. It was awkward and didn't say any of the things I wanted.

How do you say I love you to the person who brought you to the world? What words convey that? How do you say thank you to someone who's given all they have for you? How do you let them know you really want them to stick around, but if they can't, to go on and be OK with it?

God, I hate words. We know so many. They mean so little.

I'm sorry.

Who gives a fuck. Everyone is sorry.

You don't understand, I am SORRY.


I love you.

Heard it.

No, you don't understand. I LOVE YOU.

God, why don't words work? They work for baking a cake. They work for getting to Glen Burnie, but when we want them to work the most, they work the least.

Saturday, December 20, 2008

Top Ten Funniest Moments of 2008

I was asked by The Mobtown Shank to put a top ten list together for 2008 and here it is.

10. Billionaires Apparently Worlds Worst Panhandlers

In desperate need of billions to stay afloat until next year, the CEOs of the big three packed up their Louis Vuitton bindle sticks, hopped a ride on an east bound Learjet and started singing for their soup where congress greeted them with all the understanding of a three-toed drunken Pinkerton.

Apparently, not only do they not know how to make cars or run businesses, they have absolutely no idea how to illicit sympathy. They may as well have held signs that read, “Will continue to do exactly what we've been doing with no changes whatsoever to our life style for food.” They should have hired that dude who panhandles the corner of Pratt and President with no legs and no arms. That guy knows a thing or two about sympathy. He could hold up a sign saying, “God damn it I want crack!” and he’d make a decent living.

Of course, the timing could have been better. After giving billions to the banks only to watch AIG execs take a $400,000 spa retreat, the U.S. of A. was feeling a bit like it just caught the woman we’d given five bucks to for her nephew’s funeral coming out of the bar.

Bad timing big three, but even worse planning.

Desperate auto companies, you're number ten!

9. People All Over America Pretend to Give Two-Shits About Swimming

OK, he’s the greatest Olympian EVER! He’s more important than Bruce Jenner! Seriously, who gives a shit about swimming? The McDonalds commercials with the girls obsessing over Michael Phelps are the funniest things I’ve seen in a fortnight. What is it that drives you mad, ladies? Is it his freakish ears? The fact that his head is nearly as long as his torso? Maybe it’s how smooth he is on the mike? Man, that guy has the wit of a young George Bush.

I understand that we are all but drones no longer capable of independent thought, but swimming? Was there no bee keeper worthy of the celebrity? Perhaps a competitive eater who deserves such praise?

Don’t feel bad, America, we’re not the only ones. In India, Abhinav Bindra is almost as big as Shiva and curry after winning Olympic gold in the ten meter air rifle competition. That’s right BB gun master Abhinav Bindra is a house hold name in the second most populous nation on Earth.

OK, maybe I shouldn’t have narrowed this down to Phelps. Perhaps this should have gone to the Olympics in general. There are 5 categories for badminton, 4 in walking, 2 for trampolinists, 2 more for handball, and ten for BB guns, none of which were won wielding a Red Ryder.

29th Olympiad, you're number nine!

8. Spain Grants Rights to Great Apes, Average Apes Left Hanging

We’ve all heard about the plight of Spanish apes, one of the most downtrodden populations on Earth. The great ape population of Madrid, for instance, has been driven to almost nil thanks to random anti-ape violence, discriminatory hiring practices and the fact that apes have never lived there.

Mikel Garikoitz Aspiazu, jailed leader of the Basque separatist ETA, when asked about the new rights granted to Spain’s great apes said, “Huh? Seriously, what? No, I mean it, what the fuck! Apes? Where are these apes? And you wonder why we want to separate.”

Of course, some feel that these new laws protecting great apes don’t go far enough. Some hippy says, “That’s all well and good for great apes like King Kong, Mighty Joe Young and Koko, the signing gorilla, but what about Lancelot Link, Magilla Gorilla and Grape Ape, you know, the average apes? Who’s fighting for their rights?”
Spanish apes and your new rights, you're number eight!

7. Inspired by Jonny Depp, Piracy Makes Comeback

What could be funnier than thousands of men driven so far by poverty and starvation that they are willing to take to the high seas in rubber rafts and fiberglass skiffs with secondhand RPGs in defiance of every navy on Earth? Well, 6 more things, obviously, as we’re only at # 7 on this list. Why are you so impatient?

Seriously though, ignore all the geopolitical ramifications and try to imagine the swishy star of twenty-one jump street boarding a Croatian freighter, it’s kinda funny. It’s at least as entertaining as Pirates of the Caribbean 3 which became available on Blu-Ray in 08 and was snubbed by this list. I needed to give Piracy a nod since zombies seem to be on the decline.

Somali Pirates, you're number seven!

6. McCain Picks VP Using Ouija Board

Wow, this one writes itself. How could a woman who apparently reads every news paper on Earth know so little about so much.

Africa you ask? It’s a nice country. Russia? I can see it from here. Experience? I sold a plane on E-bay.

You’d think a woman used to staring down the Russian bear and tempered in the fires of the Q&A portion of the Miss. Alaska Pageant wouldn’t whither under the hardball questioning of Katie Couric (???), but you’d be wrong . We should have been scared when she claimed energy independence would be her baby. I’m sorry, but doesn’t your baby have down syndrome?

Sarah Palin, you're number six

5. Russia Invades Georgia, Americans Wonder How They Got Through Kentucky

So Georgia made a push into the disputed provinces of South Ossetia and Abkhazia. We can all agree, dick move. Russia decides they haven’t had a good war in months and invades Georgia. America freaks out even though none of us can find Georgia on a map. Either Georgia. I’d wager that several of you are still wondering if Georgia and Kentucky are next to each other.

Honestly, the Georgians never stood a chance in this one. Their army arrived for battle in blazing orange Dodge Chargers wielding bows and arrows and being followed at ten by Dallas.

The hilarious backdrop to all of this was Georgia’s floundering application to the North Atlantic Treaty Organization and the U.S.’s near impotence in foreign policy debates. What could Condoleezza Rice say? “Russia, You’d better get out or we’re gonna kick you out!”

“Oh yeah?" Replies Russia, "You and what army?”

Georgia-Russian Conflict, you're number five with a bullet!

4. Europe’s Science Fare Project Nearly Ends Universe

The European Organization for Nuclear Research, a group most certainly run by a bald man in a wheel chair stroking a cat, built an enormous underground particle collider designed to hurl particles at one another very near the speed of light and I don’t have cable.

I ask you, aren’t their better uses for all this bleeding edge technology? A more user friendly flowbee? Ducks that don’t fly south, but rather make tiny parkas and just chill? How about an FM Basset Hound?

Here’s the part that I don’t get. There were apparently some scientists who believed that this contraption would produce particles called strangelets, a hypothetical particle only a few fentometers across (I didn’t make up either of those words. If you are a scientist, and you wonder why normal people look down upon you, it’s because of words like strangelet and fentometer) with the power to destroy the world! Others believed iddy biddy black holes might form sucking us all into sub-par Disney Star Wars rip-offs.

Now clearly these scientists are not the best scientists. They may be closer to the worst scientists, but even so, if there’s like a one in fifty chance you’re going to destroy the world, don’t you maybe put it off until next week? Not if you’re the European Organization for Nuclear Research. Then you say fuck it, fire it up and pour me more schnapps. Fortunately the collider broke down delaying Armageddon until summer 09. Plan accordingly.

Couldn’t this money have been spent getting me cable?

Large Hadron Collider, you're number four!

3. Canadian Parliament Collapses

After a hard fought national campaign the conservative party narrowly edged out the liberals and the fur trappers to take slim control of parliament, the Canadian equivalent of Congress, named for the seminal 70s funk band. This gave the conservatives the right to anoint the new Prime Minister in a ceremony involving maple syrup, a golden toque and Pam Anderson. Apparently the honey moon was short lived, however, and early this month Parliament was poised to vote no confidence in Prime Minister Stephen Harper.

Now I’m not going to pretend to understand what all the hullabaloo is about. I’m not even going to pretend to care. To the best of my knowledge there were too many or too few moose, the skidoo wouldn’t start and they changed the theme song to Hockey Night in Canada. Naturally government was thrown into turmoil and dozens of Canadians took to their icy dog sled riddled streets.

Here’s where it becomes hilarious. The conservatives enlisted Governor General Michaëlle Jean who’s job is to speak for the Queen of England and, for some reason, holds the power to dissolve parliament which he did thus shutting down the Canadian government until next year. Oh Canada, even your constitutional crises are cute.

I get that this power is written in their national club bi-laws, but really, when dude shows up and says, “I speak for the Queen, you hosers go home, eh!” couldn’t someone have replied, “ Take off, eh! We aint goin,” and then hurled a Labatt’s at him? I joined the Kiss Army in 1979. Some where there is paper work, signed my seven year old self that has pledged my services to the Kiss Army (Rock’s first line of defense), but if Paul Stanley told me to take point storming the gates of the RATT compound, I would politely decline.

Oh Canada, you're number three.

2. Sleeping Dog Farts, Smell Wakes Dog, Dog Leaves Room

So we were in my basement watching the first Ravens Steelers game and my dog Loki was dead asleep on the floor. He farts and my buddy Jer swears he saw the fur ruffle. Loki’s nostrils start to flair, his eyes open and he leaves the room.
Maybe you had to be there for this one, but it was seriously funny.

Gassy Dog, you're number two!

1. Dude Hucks Second Shoe at President

OK, one shoe, and this still makes the list. One shoe and he tags GW in the schnozz, easy top 5, but the fact that he got off the second shoe takes this one to number one and will probably inspire an Oliver Stone movie down the line. Seriously, this guy gets off shoes quicker than Lee Harvey Oswald snaps off rounds and, having watched the video repeatedly, those ain’t loafers. Perhaps there was a second shoe-ter in the grassy knoll.

Clearly this guy spent time training in the East where shoe removal is an art form much like calligraphy and crushing the U.S. auto industry, but still, has the Secret Service just given up? I thought these guys were supposed to take bullets for the president, their contract doesn’t cover footwear?

Muntazer al-Zaidi, you and your shoes are number one.


The priest gave my mom the Anointing of the Sick. When my dad got it, it was called Last Rights. It's the final sacrament for Catholics and it's not a bad deal, really. The priest traces crosses of oil on your forehead and hands, gives you a shout out from the pope and absolves you of all sin.

I'm not sure what sorts of sins my mom has been committing lately. How much sinning can a four and a half foot seventy-six year old home body Dego do? Cheating at mahjong? Coveting her neighbors walker? She was probably good. Me on the other hand? I told the priest I was feeling a cold coming on, could I get a little of that sweet sweet absolution?

Apparently I'd have to do the full on confession. Who's got that kind of time?

So it's been a weird two months. Mom's been in and out of the hospital, not doing so well. I've been going a little crazy. I've been going to a shrink and, man, it's really depressing to find out how much of your neurosis come from your mom. You think of yourself as a pretty fascinating fella, out of the ordinary, dig? Then it turns out your brain is duller than disco. Why couldn't it be that I was groped by clowns? That I was raised by wolves? Maybe I've been a secret agent and the suppressed memories are starting to return. Nope, mad at mommy.

So I'm watching my mom get the right of the dead and looking at how I've been living my life, lashing out at everyone around. Pushing and pushing to drive off anyone who gave half a rats ass and seeing the one person that I could never push away, that was the one person I really wanted to push away fade away.

Being alone is a scary thing. I've got cousins, aunts and uncles, and a lot of very dear friends, but in the end, she's it for me and family. The last person that has to give a shit.

So I'm afraid. Terrified really.

The doctors think she'll make it through surgery. Eighty to ninety percent. That's pretty good odds in Vegas. If there was a one in ten chance you'd get hit by a bus if you walked down Hickory Street, would you maybe take Elm? In addition to the bypass they're going to freeze and burn parts of her heart. It's been arrhythmic, beating to the wrong tune, and this could correct it. They give that a 50/50 shot of working. She's got a decent chance of having another stroke during the procedure and the surgeon isn't convinced she's strong enough to make it through recovery.

No, she hasn't been a perfect mom, but she sure as hell has tried. She's an amazing little lady who doesn't give herself nearly enough credit. As much as I hate her at times, as much anger as I've tried to keep buried all these years, I love every bit of her with all of my heart. She's a beautiful woman with the tenderest heart ever placed on this Earth.

I don't have an ending. I love my mom. I want her to live, I'm not sure she's going to.

Friday, December 19, 2008


You’ll forgive me if I’m a bit bah humbugy this year (BTW, I learned to drive in a 1973 Humbugy, sweet ride, velour seats, power everything, there was this frustrating sound, not quite a buzz, anyway…) but I am god damned sick of Christmas. First off, I live a 3 blocks from The Miracle. For those of you not from the Greater Baltumular region, The Miracle is a block of row houses WHERE EVERY HOUSE HAS LIGHTS? CAN YOU FUCKING BELIEVE IT? IT’S A GOD DAMNED MIRACLE!

I must admit, I used to think it was pretty cool. Now there are sausage vendors and, to me, nothing says Christmas like kielbasa from the corner. There are people selling bendy plastic circus lights. Worst though are all the people between me and the bar. HOLY SHIT! IT’S LIGHTS DAMN IT! Why would you take a bus trip from PA to see a block of Hamdpen with a hubcap tree?

Spoiler alert, it’s not a real tree. It’s just hubcaps piled on top of one another. Real trees don’t rust.

I am not going to lie to you. The ball drop on New Year Eve is a blast. Reminds me of when my own balls dropped. Ahh Thursday. There is nothing quite like a surly, 52 year old hairy chubby baby new year making time with the New Years Robot. That borders on a miracle.

But people come from miles and miles and miles and yet more miles to drive down one block, gawk, and get in my way. Tour buses? Who signs up for this tour?

“Where does it go?” inquires the would be traveler.

“Umm,” stammers the travel agent who may have missed his/her calling, “Well, we’re going to go down I-83, then to Falls road where you’ll get a great view of actually $5 prostitutes (I wish I was making that up. Since I learned how much a blow job goes for on Falls Road, my entire mental economy has shifted. “Hmm,” mused I, “I’d like to buy a cheeseburger, but that’s one and a half blowjobs I won’t be getting.” Or “Christ, a new stove is a thousand dollars? Do you realize how much dick I’m going to have to suck? That’s my hole weekend!”), then, we’ll travel down 26th Street or, as the locals call it, “The Avenue!” where you’ll see 13 year olds pushing strollers while their boyfriends through beer bottles at the motor coach. But that’s not all! We’ll sit in traffic for about 40 minutes crawling the final two blocks to make a magical left onto 34th Street and THE MIRACLE! That’s right! an entire city block all decorated and shit! Over a dozen strings of Christmas lights were used in what is the greatest holiday display between York and Glen Burnie. Dazzle at the three dimensional tetris skills used to fit a thirty-five foot inflatable Christmas Raven into a nine-by-nine front yard. Oh, but that’s not all! Prepare to be thoroughly creeped out by the one house of born agains who blow the festive mood with all this Jesus stuff and a blasting sound track out of a Dominican monastery at the height of the inquisition.

Ahh, Christmas! It brings out the best in people. For instance we got a special envelope from our boss this year. In it was a note that assured us (more of those) that the company is doing great, but times are tough and so our Christmas bonus would be a bit light this year. Next was a $25 check stuffed into a tri-fold color glossy cartoon Christmas card with all of the great places the owner and his family have been this year! Oh yeah! Paris, Rome, Orlando (Yeah, they don’t know how to build to a climax, do they? I guess one thought is, Epcot Center is kinda like going to Paris and Rome AND Japan and not having to meet any foreigners.).

Tact. Gotta love it. “Hey, times are tough, so, um, sorry. Here’s a card we blew a few grand on and a cool twenty-five bones, buy yourself a half tank of gas. We’re off to Paree!”

I am going to spend an afternoon when I should be slaving over a hot spreadsheet making my own holiday card to send to the boss. It’s going to be a picture of me eating ramen noodles, boiling old boots into soup and skinning my dog to make an affordable yet stylish parka. (Note to any employers of mine. I’m not actually going to do that. I will actually slave over the hot spreadsheet and think, man, I should be making an awesome Christmas card.)

Merry Christmas!

Note to Market Researchers for Belt Companies

I’ve never seen it done, but if you were to market a belt that came with a free pair of pants, I would buy that shit. I mean, I’ll buy pants if they come with a belt, and that’s not that unusual. A belt that comes with pants? It’s the fucking golden goose, man. The golden goose.

My services are available for higher.

Note to Market Researchers for Pants Companies

If you are looking for new marketing strategies for your pants, include a belt. I am 70% more likely to buy pants that come belt included.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008


Monday morning my boss assured me that I am not in imminent danger of being fired.

That was a relief. Or, it would have been, if I'd thought I was going to be fired. Funny thing about assurances, if you didn't need reassuring, their a mite counter productive.

Today my dentist asked me if I was bothered by how grey my teeth were. No, well, not until right when you said that. I had no idea my teeth were grey, which made worrying about it difficult.


I think the worst reassurance I ever got was just before sex with a girl I picked up at the comedy club. We were about to make love so sweet Angels would put their own eyes out when she said, “I just want you to know I’m really clean.” Um, OK. Could you wait here while I grab second third and fourth condoms or maybe we just settle on a firm handshake. I'll even go so far as to tickle your palm with my middle finger.

My next post will be better, I assure you.

Friday, December 12, 2008

Hitler had A ball...

And apparently only A ball. Now, this might not seem like news to many of you, but there's been a one ball buzz building. I was chatting with a British friend the other night and she asked, "Did you hear Hitler only had one ball?" My response was no, but sing a few bars and I'll hum along.

That was the last words that ever passed between us.

I kid I kid!

So the conversation goes on, and apparently we Yanks don't take enough interest in dead potentate's lack of potency. It's all the buzz back in Europe. British news papers were all over the story.

Friends, keep this knowledge close to your heart. The next time one of your snooty friends says, "I don't read American news, in fact I think the American News should be spelled with a "Z" (which they would probably cal a "zed" which is limey for "zee"). Newz, like Cheez Whiz."

At this point, just remind them of this story. Oh your precious British journalism, always tackling the tough issues like how many testicles Hitler had. The one truly amazing thing I learned from this is that there is a word for the ball deprived. Monorchic. I think the "Celar Door" of sentences has got to be "He became monorchic through defenestration."

Getting past this, I tried to come to grips with this testicle fever (Many of you were nearly titillated by that last sentence. If you'd like, please read it again while picturing me and deleting the last word. I'll be here when you get back). My first thought was, why? The knowledge of an undercurrent of Hitler sack stories fascinates me because it seems so inherently un-fascinating. Do we need more reasons to make fun of Hitler? Is there a person out there who is on the fence about the guy?

"Hmm," thinks this random idiot, "I just don't know about this Hitler guy. I mean SURE the Holocaust was lame, but it takes balls to rock that mustache. What's that you say? It only takes ball to rock that mustache? Man, that guy is LAME! Thank you Daily Telegraph"

The next thing to rocket through my brain was how the hell did they prove that? The guy has been dead and incinerated for over 60 years. Did they save the ash? Has genetic engineering and the interwebs finally given us a way to distinguish ball ash from standard man ash? Did they sift out the ball ash, weigh it and come to the conclusion, "There is no way that this ash was produced by two testes." Was there a dissenting opinion that the ash was produced by two very small balls? Science doesn't happen in a vacuum (though some sort of scientific vacuum would be most useful in gathering the evidence) after all.

It turns out the evidence was a note from a priest who had a conversation with a doctor who treated Hitler after he'd been shot in the nuts during the battle of The Somme. The medics called Hitler "The Screamer" (which coincidentally is what I called my X-girlfriend [Hai-Oh!]). Now, I'm not trying to defend Hitler, but dude did get shot in the nards. I'm pretty sure my nickname would be "The Screamer" then later "The Weeper" and eventually, "That Dude With the Prosthetic Ball That Fools No One."

Which leads me to another point, balls are, generally speaking, unattractive things. I was blessed with beautiful, some would say angelic, testes. Sadly, they were marred in a freak shaving accident (or rather series of accidents, but that's a story for another time), but once upon a time I had the scrote of an Adonis. When your balls are horribly misshapen or mangled, do you attempt a comb over? Perhaps a particularly luxuriant merkin?

So, Hitler had but one nut. We've got conclusive evidence, a 45 year old second hand note. Now that we know that, so much makes sense.

What drove this man to rise to such dizzying and horrifying power?

Easy, compensating for one nut.

What fueled his hate, his genocidal rage?

Did you not hear? He had one nut.

Newz like this makes me realize that were all a little nuts.

If you'd like to learn more about Adolph Hitler and his lonesome ball (which is the title of the worst poem ever written)follow the link.

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Egg Science

I don't know if dogs make plans. I know dogs, especially my dog, and there are moments when I believe he's scheming, but I don't know. When I get home at night, the first thing I do is walk the mutt. The first thing Loki does is pee on the corner telephone pole but last night he skipped the pole.

Loki and I have a few routes we take, but they all pass the poodles. A block from my house live a pair of jet black standard poodles. The male looks about 70 pounds, the two of them see Loki, leap from their porch, sprint to the fence and launch a barrage of furiously barked insults through the chain link. Loki's a big guy and an old one. In his youth, he'd have been screaming back at the fence snapping his disgust and running the length end to end and end again just to prove how much he wanted things settled. These days, he ignores them.

Last night the poodles began their stream of canine curses as they launched their assault on the fence. Loki strolled up and waited. When the big male began his tirade, forcing his jaws through the fence, Lok just stood there for an pregnant second, turned his hips and pissed all over the poodle. Man did that dog look satisfied. You know that feeling when you've been holding it for so long it's almost orgasmic? The mutt had been holding this one all day and for the last year. He finished up, paused a moment, then shot me a look. I have not laughed that hard in a month of Sundays.

Mission accomplished we were on our way. Moments like this look to me like a sign that you're in for an evening and I was ready. I'd been at The Comedy Factory this weekend and I'd been facing demons. The last time I was there, I hit rock bottom with booze. A few weeks ago, I hit rock bottom without it. You ever read Paradise Lost? It starts with all these devils lying in the muck. They've fallen from heaven to hell and are wallowing in the refuse at the ass end of the universe.

Before even standing up and pulling their noses from the shit, they start on a plan, a plan to build a great capital right there at rock bottom. I've made plans like that, hell, I've lead a life like that. This go round's been different. I decided to stand up and build myself a jet pack. I'm not saying I haven't slipped in the shit, but I haven't gotten cozy and decided to catch up on a few Zs.

Thursdays at the Factory are tough. Radio in the morning, 9 hours at work to get nervous, then scramble home, walk the dog, clean up, change and try to force some food into myself. At this point, I'm shaky from hunger, but so nervous I can't eat.

The last time I had beers and a shot since that's a lot easier to get down then a sandwich and we all know alcohol sharpens the mind. At the club I had another beer and a shot and took a beer on stage. Perhaps I should have had a martini. The olive could at least pretend to be a meal. The show kicked off and here's the crazy thing, I destroyed! I had the set of my life. I stayed on stage because I knew what I was doing was way better than anything the headliner was going to bring. I had the crowd start sending me shots. I was up there for about 35 minutes and did 5 minutes of my act. The rest was just me in the moment and it was brilliant. Best show of my life.

I got off stage, I shit you not, to screaming fans and roaring applause. I walked out of the club, got on my motorcycle and headed to a romantic evening at my (now former) girlfriends house. At this point, you may be feeling a bit like a seer or a fortune teller, but things didn't go as planned. I stopped at a red light and fell over. After the show, collapsing in traffic was the highlight of the night.

There are a lot of opinions of what alcoholism is and how one should deal with it. My shrink gave me a book that resonated. For me, I didn't drink every day or even every week, but when certain things clicked, I'd drink like I was a one man stimulus package for less fortunate tequila growing regions in central Mexico. It wasn't about that night though, not completely anyway. It was about that next day, getting a fresh chance to kick myself in the head, to call everyone I may or may not have seen and offer up an apology for whatever I may or may not have done. So this book says you're not over alcoholism until you can go out, have a drink or two and not make it three. For me though, I realized comedy and booze mix like scotch and taffy.

So this past Thursday, I get home and that dread's been building. My heart was seizing, my arms and chest were aching, going on stage had the appeal of going to a dentist office run by clowns. A swig off the bottle was the best idea in my world, like building a city at the bottom of that pit. I didn't do it. I forced down a few PB&Js and went to work. It was the best weekend of comedy I have ever had.

Yeah, the crowds were tough, but I nailed everyone of them. The Friday late show I walked onto stage past midnight, the place was a third full, and the openers ate foot-long Subway shit sandwiches. The audience had the focus of an ADD riddled cocker spaniel puppy and I owned them. I did my thirty and maybe ten of it was jokes. The rest was the room and the audience and the absurdity of it all and it kept coming and going and rocking and it was the best god damned feeling in the world because it was as good a show as ANY I'd done in my life and there was no way no how no matter how hard I tried that I could blame it on booze.

Jose Cuervo aint funny but you can bet your ass that Jim Meyer is.

So seven shows, three nights and a six pack of O'douls later I think maybe there's hope in the jetpack. The next night I went out and had drinks with friends watching the game. The bartender asked me if I'd like another and I said no. I'm not saying I'm good now, that all is right with the world, but I'm working and working smart. After all the shit I did to myself to people around me, I'm feeling like an Obama sticker.

After the dog walk and dinner dishes, I put on a pot of eggs for the week and got a call from my buddy Chuck. Did you know that if you boil eggs til all the water is gone then boil them for another 20 minutes or so that they'll blow the fuck up? My kitchen looked like a chicken bukake. Laughter is supposed to be the opposite of despair. I never thought cleaning egg yolk off the ceiling fan could be so fuckin funny.

Currently reading:
Games People Play: The Basic Handbook of Transactional Analysis.
By Eric Berne