a show for the ages

Pendleton, Oregon. One man show. Which isn't to say that my MC wasn't a big part of the production, but ultimately the show is mine to make or break based on my performance.

In entertainment, there are different levels of venues and their meanings indicate where you are in entertainment: There is film and television, which will bring you money and fame on a level that I have never known. There is grand theaters, opera houses and both the Broadway and London stages. Each of these will bring you fame but only in the minds of gay men, overly dramatic women and old rich people that habitually go to the theater. I'm not knocking these groups, indeed it's these three groups are the majority of the system that sets the tone for all entertainment in the world. If these three groups don't like it, then it's garbage and most likely something that a NASCAR fan would love or staring Sly Stallone. There is the outdoor ampitheater and old legion halls, these are nice, mid-level, middle of the road stages. There are bars, clubs, juke joints, roadhouses, dives and slashes(restaurant slash bar, bingo hall slash roller rink, etc) these are making a living, but not really serious about it stages. And then there is the grandest of all venues - the hotel lobby bar. It's a cliche in entertainment and it's meant to describe the end of your career: "After ten years on television and I end up in this shitty hotel lobby bar." You get the idea. The only lower form is the coffeehouse, but this is self imposed by novices that don't know better or people who are desperate for attention and will go anywhere to be seen and heard, even a laundry mat.

My one man opus was in a hotel lobby bar and I made magic. The jokes came fast and furious. The laughter was deep and meaningful. The faces of those in attendence were contorted and looked to be in pain from all the belly laughter. The stage was smoking under a star filled sky. The booze was slick and the women were... Heard.

It seems that one woman was in NO mood for me, A feeling I have felt for other people from time to time and I have inspired in others before. In fact, I would say that most people feel this "mood" when they meet me. I have that aura about me. I dont' know what it is. This woman was really in a new space with this mood and she was taking it further than any other mood aflicted person that I had ever met before. I guess she just didn't want to sit there and take it and seeing as there was no coffeehouse nearby for her to go and let it all out, she decided to speak up. Not something that is very healthy for the weaker sex to do when they are sauced up.

In the middle of my bit called, "Why women are never going to be equal to men" - which is hysterical - I heard a voice from the darkness of her heart cry out, "How can you disrespect women. You come from a woman." Of course, the latter comment is debatable, but I will give her the benefit of the doubt and assume that she doesn't know my mother and was just generalizing. (Those that know me, know that I was raised by wolves and a big bear named, Blue) She went on to say, "Women are all powerful and we create life. Men have little to nothing to do with the creation of the world, just destruction."

In part, she is absolutely correct. However, her attitude about her lot in life needs some adjusting. Men are bad, and women are good. And it's cute when women say stuff, but it should be pretty and not ugly stuff that comes out of their mouths. Her family must hide their faces a lot. Poor thing.

Yes, women are pretty involved with the rearing of babies, but that doesn't quite make them the creators of the universe. I am willing to see them half way, but I am not willing to let them have more than that. Sadly, they do get shafted and they have to do all the carrying the baby around part. But that's the job of the female in most species. That's why we have women in the first place. Their crock pots. If there was another way to make babies, women would have a real hard time finding any equality at all. In fact, without the pregnancy thing, women would be pets or collectibles for men.

The fact that they do all the mindless "baby stuff" after it's born has more to do with the fact that they are so emotionally bonded to the little shit after having carried it around for so long. Again, a sad side effect of being a woman. I do know of cases were women are nothing but thrilled when the child is out and they never want to get close to it again. They hope instead that others will do that for them - nannies, au pairs, governornesses, their parents, babysitters. These women will grapple the child like a trophy if others are around to show it off too. So, there are kinks in the DNA sequence in some women. What should we do with these women?

If men are really not a part of the child bearing, or rearing process, then why do we have child support cases? I wish this lady would show up in every court room where a man is being raped for child support and tell the court how she feels. Perhaps she could show the mother in the case, "the light" and save the legal system a lot of time and money. If the world could only see that men have nothing to do with children and let the world evolve into peace and harmony. Alas, it is not meant to be, so I guess we men should go out and shoot at deer or foreigners.

Here are some things to think about that a former teacher gave me...

Stats:
Number of criminals from one parent(mother only) families - 1:3
Number of criminals from one parent(father only) families - 1:150
Cost of prosecuting crimes in America (one parent, mother only families) 650 million a year.
Cost of housing criminals in America (one parent, mother only families) 3 Billion a year.
Cost of the average marriage in America - $4000.00
Cost of the average divorce in America - $7000.00
Cost to delivery a baby in America - $6000.00
Cost of a box of condoms (12 pack) - $8.00
Cost spent to promote abstinence by the US government - 120 million a year.
Cost spent to prosecute "dead beat dads" - 94 million a year.
Cost spent to prosecute "dead beat mothers" - No known statistic available.
Cost spent by family services to mediate visitations - 230 million a year.
Cost for adoption - $11,000
Cost for abortion(national average) - $400.00
Cost to raise one child for 18 years in America (average) - $267,000 1999 stat)


Men do play a part in the birthing process as I tried to pointedly comment to this poor woman. Men, as I recall, Do have to take part in order for the whole process to begin. She said, "No they don't!" Now, she could have been referring to the whole "raising" process, I don't know. She's a woman, and she was talking in circles like "they" do. I was talking about the "conception" part, I don't think she understood me, poor thing.

It's true that women can make babies without men, but not without the secret special sauce that men carry around within them( If a woman does figure out a way to reproduce without a man, she's a lizard, an alien, or an amoeba). I like to call what men have the 13 original herbs and spices. A blend of goodies that make women go crazy and make men want to fight wars, kill deer and watch Sly Stallone movies. These little herbs and spices keep the world spinning and keep women down. As it should be. There is a delicate balance to the universe and trying to mess with man's good works will only bring everything crashing down and then where would women get their lipsticks? I guess she wasn't thinking about that.

The petty little female continued (where her husband was, I don't know. But I bet he is very embarrassed and ashamed. He should beat her). "Women are bitches. We are all powerful. Being a bitch is a good thing. Women are better than men. Don't mess with me or I will kick your ass in the parking lot."

I love a good ass beating as much as the next man. There is nothing cuter than watching a woman try to beat up a man with those weak little arms and that face filled with tears and frustration. OOOH!!! There is nothing more adorable than a woman scorned. Sadly, her comments were empty and she didn't dance with me in the parking lot after the show and the reason we didn't tango can be found in the point that I was making in the joke I was telling that set off her diatribe - Women are not equal to men because you can't beat a woman. Until it's okay to beat women, they will always earn two dollars less an hour. This will never happen.

I think that she knew that. I think women are both disgusted and pleased by the rules that are set before them. Most of them, they created: Treat me equal, but treat me like a woman. Treat me like a lady, but don't mess with me, I'm a bitch. Make love to me slowly and softly, or fuck me on the countertop in the kitchen and call me a cum slut. I look pretty in my tight dress that shows off my figure, why do men look at my tits when they talk to me? This lack of consistency can only mean one thing - Prozac diet on the horizon.

I have never heard a 14 year old boy say, "I want to raise this child, I think I'm mature enough." It's sad that men walk away from accidental parenthood, but most of the time, so should women. Sadly, too many people try to stick it out and then the bitterness grows. Eventually, one night in a hotel lobby bar, a comic makes a statement and all that growing rage comes out.

The rest of the show was stellar. People loved it and I loved it and we loved it together. The lady finally saw the error of her ways after an extensive, "You made the choices, now live with it" speech. I hope she is at home right now raising her three children in silence with a smile on her face. Remember, you choose parenthood and you can't bitch after the fact and if you are on kid three, you REALLY have no room, AT ALL, to bitch. I was making an ironic point for humor's sake and she was taking it too personally. Women - can't live with them, can't trade them in for a better one when you want too. One day women will see how good they have it and how good they could have it if they could just keep it to themselves. If they can't handle it, we have medications for you.

The next tour is all in Oregon and it's all hotel lobby bars.

reading coffee grinds

I am not a quick-to-rise fella. I like my sleep time and it takes a very serious or major event to convince me that I need to get out of bed each and every morning. Think of it; Each day, something has to happen that I deem worthy enough of getting out of bed for, otherwise, I don't move. I won't do it. NOW, wrap your head around the fact that this momentous occasion has to occur around the same time each and every day. What are the odds of that happening? (I slept through the day they taught odds in school. I also slept through the days when modern art history, economics, civics, basic hygiene and english were taught - that's a lot of uninterrupted sleep)

There are rare occasions when I can rise from the depths of my slumber for no reason whatsoever. These moments frighten me as I dislike it when my body does things without my brain's permission. These kinds of ill-advised acts are not good for anyone's body, unless getting up unexpectedly coincides with getting out of a burning building that you're sleeping in. Then we chalk up the experience to our body's sixth sense and we feel pretty good about ourselves.

One of the few known tricks for getting me out of a bed and thrusting me deep into conscienceness is to brew coffee. It doesn't matter what coffee brand or what country the beans were grown in, just get that morning mud going. As soon as the aroma hits my sleeping body, the nerves in my body snap to life and the wheels start turning.

Coffee, is good. Coffee is one of my last vices. Actually, it's my only daily vice and sadly I am down to one cup of that vice per day. The fact that I am down to just one cup brings up a rather perplexing situation - I can't justify making a full pot of coffee for just one cup. It's a waste of water, a waste of coffee and I can't do either. What is a brother supposed to do?

I am fighting this, but I know that water is a more serious issue now than it has ever been. If you think I'm kidding, I ask you this: How many of you are drinking your tap water without a filter on it? How many of you would be willing to drink the water out of your toilet?(It's the same water as from your tap) So as you can see, good water, much like a good woman, is hard to find. So included with all of the fussing about gas prices, there should be some fussing about the price of water.

If you have trained your body for distilled, filtered, spring water, then you are robbing your body of one it's main talents - fighting off diseases. There are germs in that tap water that your body would love the chance to fight off. It won't feel good at first, but eventually you will get used to it. However, the more bottled water you drink, the more reliant you are on it and the harder it will be for your body to fight off infections when the bottled water dries up. And it will dry up. So either get used to it now or get used to it then.

NOW, if you are dumping 8 cups of water into your coffee machine every morning for just one cup and then you are dumping out the rest of the coffee, then you are wasting 6.5 cups of water (a half cup is lost in the production of coffee). If you only want to brew two cups of coffee then you are wasting three scoops of valuable hand picked coffee. Coffee, for those of you who don't know, is about $10 a pound. (this will triple this summer due to transport costs due to the oil situation)

Now I am writing this post in a roundabout way. There is a deeper message here and I hope you are able to see it. I love coffee. I love water. I love the ability to make coffee every morning. That time of pause is coming and soon you will see everything that we take for granted.

People... Get ready.

i don't live there anymore

The final two days of my stay in the valley are here and I am practically gone already. My belongings have already taken up residence in the new perch along the oceanside and I only have three more days before I join them. From the new perch, which I shall keep secret from everyone, I have a lovely view of both Puget Sound and Mt. Rainer. Each day I can wake up and if the sky is feeling generous, I will be able to see the most cranky volcano in America through my windows. It's large against the sky and I can see all the way up it's foothills which makes it seem much closer than it really is. It's gorgeous and I recommend everyone live next to a tempermental mountain if they can. If it blows, I'm toast. But up to that moment, everything looks pretty rosy and picturesque.

There is a coffee house a block away. The denizens of said establishment are all goth, punk coffee addicts and I look forward to their company. Not to mention the free wireless internet which will keep you all in reading material from me as often as I can. Forgive me if the next week or so is a little rusty, it will take some time to get adjusted.

A block closer to my perch is the bakery and a movie theater. The theater is where all the art house movies play for the city, so I will be able to keep up on my latest Wim Wenders and Robert Altman fare. Both of whom I could live without, but it's culture and I like culture. And, "art house" is not code for porn, but I wish it was. The bakery seems pretty yummy and I love pastries and pastries love me so this should be a good working relationship. Movies and I get along all the time, so no worries there.

Half a block from my window is a large city park with flowers and healthy people in it, so I look forward to balancing my punk/goth intake from the coffee house and the snotty veggan art freaks from the theater with sneaker clad health nazis. We shall all get along. I shall represent the video game, solitary, why-is-that-guy-looking-at-me-that-way guy. I plan on getting to that park a lot. It's a two mile jog all the way around the exterior of the park, so look for me with new shiny calf muscles come July.

Further down the way is an independently owned video rental store and a used book store, so I will really have no reason to visit any other part of the city whilst here. Even the comedy club is only 9 blocks from my stoop. So ultimately, I am sitting very, very pretty. The place isn't as quiet or as calming, but it's all mine and I share it only with me. The words and the moments that were inspired by the majestic forgottens will stay within me, and they will be joined by the mean streets of Oz and it's local gentry. It's a new chapter in the walking history of my life and I am thoroughly jazzed to be making the jump.

If it doesn't work out, I move to Canada.

If the world should see a massive crisis this summer, this is where I choose to make my stand. Next to an ocean, an angry volcano and a bunch of city folk that are prone to rioting. I say my chances are 1:10 that I see the end of my lease without jail time.

i am mocked and hacked by society

That asshole!! My best new joke!! And that dumb motherfucker stole my idea and made it a reality and now I can't do the joke, ever again!!

In a growing trend of taking Daniel Rock's greatest hits and turning them into real stories in the news (just so he can ever use them again on stage) a man was arrested recently, for trying to SELL HIS KIDS! THUS, destroying the "Gee, I would have never thought of that" aspect of my joke and making it worthless. It's getting so that a decent man like me can't make a living coming up with new forms of evil anymore. Someone always has to top me.

And, of course now we have the THANK YOU FOR SMOKING movie (which is hilarious by the way, and you should see it... Right NOW) which is stomping on all of my smoking material and eliminating that ten minutes of material from my show. Thankfully, the racial jokes and the anti-love jokes are still entact. I guess that my only salvation will come in the form of becoming a nasty racist and the high priest of hatred on stage, just to keep ahead of the game. Comedy just ain't what it used to be. Damn youngsters!

I try really hard to come up with original material that has never ever been touched on before by another comic. True, the smoking material isn't new, but the angle I took on it was. But with the new movie out and doing well, my material will seem borrowed or cheap and a lot of my insightful charm will be lost. I guess I am just doomed to be another sub-standard comic making a living singing parody songs and ranting and raving about how much "rules" suck. I guess this is what they are talking about when they say that they will never let you be yourself. This saddens me... I believed those posters on the wall in elementary school. You know, the ones with kittens and monkeys that said, "You can do it!".. I guess I was just another sucker.

I would just like to take this moment to thank all wife killers out there and I would also like to thank Hallmark cards for making the rest of my career possible. Without the two polar extremes in the dynamic world of love expression that aide me in my quest to raise funds, I would be lost. A good thirty minutes of my act was lost in one month. I'm crushed. Thankfully, no matter what happens in the world in regards to L-O-V-E, I will always have an act. Thank you crazy people. Thank you.

I still can't believe that some asshole out there tried to sell his daughter for $7,000 and he got caught. It was my idea first, damn it! I have it on tape from my shows in Spokane. I can prove that this slimy motherfucker stole my idea. Of course, I did say that you should seek $100,000 and he only tried to sell his kid for $7,000, but still... The genius is mine. There needs to be a patent on great evil ideas. For example; Today I devised a way to gas a large population of people in a small amount of time, using nothing but exhaust fumes from a school bus. I will keep the details secret because I don't want you all to run off and start stealing my idea, but I'll say this about it - Pure genius. Look for it in the next month. I'm sure some bus will run off the side of a mountain somewhere, killing everyone. All because of my great joke/idea.

I heard a commercial somewhere, where this guy said that if you have the next great idea send in ten bucks, the idea and his company will get you the patent for it. You own the idea, and you become rich watching everyone pay a fee to use it. Donald Trump did it with "You're fired." Paris Hilton did it with "That's hot." and Bill O'Reilly tried to sue Al Franken for using, "The Factor" on his show. So it is possible to own ideas and such. Of course, I can see this guy from the commercial fucking me over too. Next time I need to have an idea stolen, I don't need to pay ten bucks to have it done, I can just go on stage and give it away for free. Evil, it would seem, is a growth industry and I am just a "mom and pop" in this field.

You might be asking yourself; Well why isn't Daniel coming up with peaceful, useful ideas that would help the world. And I would say this; Shut up, you loser! I am. Now get on the bus and keep the windows up. Nice just doesn't pay the bills. There is not that goes by where I don't.... where any of us doesn't showcase our sick potential for evil. Evil is what we are, nice is a choice.

Everytime I suggest a peaceful easy feelin', no one listens. No one wants to hear peaceful easy feelin's anymore. They're boring and they usually come from the mouth of someone that is to peaceful and easy. Good ideas are born out of harsh realities, for example: Boats - idea that came after too many people that couldn't swim drowned or were eaten by sharks. Skillets - ever cooked an egg in your hand? Give it a try and see what you come up with. Murder - HEY, it's only murder if it sees a courtroom. Until then, it's a solution to a personal problem.

My act will live on in the recordings that I have in my possession and that will soon be on the web site. It's hard to listen to the material after the fact, as I tend to get carried away in shows and that gets lost in the retelling of the story. Now when I listen to the jokes about smoking being a good health choice and selling your kids to pay off loans, I will no longer smile and the cheer in my heart will be gone. No, there will be nothing but sadness and a deep dark sense that I have me some revenge brewing.

If, in the next three weeks, someone drowns in a vat of trucker diarrhea to show the depth of their love for their prom date, I'm going to crawl into a fetal position and cry. People, leave my evil alone.

bum fights

In this place, where all things are opinion and rarely based in provable fact, I offer this....

At this time, I would like to talk about the hilarious nature of watching video footage of homeless drunks fighting each other for the amusement of well-fed, very bored, voyeur-sadists such as myself. I cry, FOUL! Not that the tapes exist, or that such a brutal incident occured, it's that there is a faction of our society that has worked very, very hard and spent millions and millions of dollars and countless legal months, trying to put an end to these films. While we sit and enjoy the brutality in the comfort of our homes, there are those among us that cry out, "Enough! This is wrong and it should be stopped!" Of course, these people are the same people that do little to nothing towards the improvement of the habitat in which our gladiators hail from. Can we wave our fingers at the perpetrators, and not have to have the finger waved at us for our own neglectful nature? Dare I ask, which is more sadistic in it's nature? The person paying a homeless person to fight, thus giving them employment OR the person that denies the homeless person a dollar when asked for it on the street?

The Bum fight organization is the brain-child of a fairly young group of amateur fighting enthusiasts and film makers. It came to them, much like the Reece's Peanut Butter Cup people, that they loved watching people fight and they loved bums just as much and, wouldn't it be neat if we could mix the two together somehow and enjoy them both together. The problem, it seemed, was how to find two bums that were willing to fight each other without knowing the bums, their history or their attitude toward violence. How does one convince a bum to fight another bum without a reason? Hmmmmmm..... I GOT IT! We'll offer them money.

This plan worked like gang busters and the fights were on. All the young fight and film lovers had to do was find homeless people that would put up their dukes and smile for the camera. Enter: the mean streets of your town, USA. It took less than two hours to find a massive group of would-be star brawlers for their films. The carnage of the first night was legendary in the fight-film world.

The fights were brutal. Not in the average way in which a sober, emotional person might fight. No, these fights had an edge. These gladiators had something else... You could call it... a hunger. Something that drove these extraordinary men beyond the limits of any normal man and it made for great cinema.

Drunks when sober, are meaner people, which is why they drink. They are doing their part to keep the peace in our society. Some sober people are meaner drunks and so the drunks do what they can to drink all available booze to prevent the onslaught of unneeded violence from the violent drunks. Drunks, it would seem, are modern day saints. And we spit on them and cast them aside. We never give them money when they ask us for it and we are always disgusted by their presence in our world. They are a blueberry stain on the wedding dress of our lives. They are a reminder to us that our perfect "vision" of the world, is just a lie. They remind us that there is something wrong with our own madness.

Bumfights brings value back to vagrancy and allows you to keep the perception of your world as perfect. If these bums are working, then the world IS perfect.

"Even the homeless play a part in our perfectly balanced world" YES, I said it!!! Now let the words ring out in the valley for all to hear.

Bums can fight. They fight for money which brings them what they so desperately want: Booze. They have cast aside all the common illusions that everyone carries with them of being famous, rich, healthy, sexy or "of being a part of something" or "making a difference". They know they are just another monkey in the zoo and all they want from life is their simple bliss - fermented anything. They know better than any of us that death finds us all and their death will be just as traumatic as any you will find in a sanitary home a few miles down the road. They know that it's money that will pay for the things that make them happy until they die, and they are not interested in a complicated list of "happinesses". Your list is long, conflicting, unorganized, stressful and a burden. (take a moment to think of all the things that make you happy and how easy that list is to achieve on a daily basis) Their list is short. They don't need four hundred rolls of toilet paper stored in a new hand made oak cabinet. They don't need salad dressing on the side, or all twenty seven ESPN channels, or memory foam pillows. They don't need everything to be perfect on a family holiday get together. They just need booze. And if some kid walks up to them and says, "twenty bucks to fight that guy" then you had better believe that the bum is going to throw down. They know at the end of that fight is the sweet nectar of life that will erase the pain in their jaw.

Bum fights is under investigation and the web site is gone. You can find the tapes of the fights here and there, but they are mostly memory. Today, the new trend is for groups of bored, disillusioned teens that used to pay bums to fight, to go out, find a homeless person and beat them to death. Not a very square deal for the bum in my estimation. But that's the price we pay when we start to strip down the rawness of life. We act appalled at the sociopathic tendency of these kids but fail to realize that our own treatment of the bums is just as cruel, if not more so. At least the pack of wolves ended it quickly. Had we left the kids alone, the bums would be alive, sauced and you wouldn't be bothered by them on the news or on the street, thus allowing you to live in your vision of happiness and perfection without being reminded of its darker side.

jar of jellybeans

There are many things that spring brings that allow us to enjoy it: Flowers, warm weather, longer days, good art house films, a sense of "frolic", outdoor BBQing, coatless afternoons and the return of iced coffee drinks. But for all that joy, there is a side of spring that lingers heavy in the air like the body odor of a 75 year old wino...

Religion.

There is just something about Spring that makes everyone start asking some real serious questions about the world. Perhaps it's the return to optimism that spring brings with it. (keep in mind that optimism will be gone when the temps hit 103 in May) Perhaps it's the return of childhood smells like grass and wet cement that trigger our sentimental side and that pulls on deeper parts of our soul that are attached to the "why are we here" questions. Or, it could be that spring officially begins with a holiday that is super duper religious in context.

Easter.

Easter: when we celebrate the death of our lord and savior - the Easter bunny - who was crucified so that we sinners could go to heaven. If you were not aware of the history of the holiday I shall share it with you now - When dying on the cross, the holy bunny shat himself. Why? Cause being executed is scary and he had to go!!! Well, the "egg like" shat, rolled down Calvary hill and landed behind some rocks. The apostles sought out the holy shit and gathered it in baskets filled with grass.( The shat was delicate and it needed to be treated with care) Why gather shat? To sell it to raise money for ministries abroad. A tradition that continues to this very day. It's only after they found the last of the holy crap, that our lord and savior, Easter T. Bunny, died. There was much sadness. Everyone went home and felt very self-destructive. Being Jews, they choose the simplest and least damaging self-destructive behavior they could think of - they ate pig. A tradition we continue to this day. To really stick it to ourselves, we glaze that sucker and add clove. Cause we were naughty.

It was decided that this event in history should be recreated every year in commemoration of the mighty bunny's ultimate sacrifice. The eggs and marshmallow bunnies are all very, very holy in the eyes of Christians all over the world. In fact, it's even rumored that St. Peter will not let you into heaven until you have found a minimum number of eggs. Not enough and you're sent to hell to seek out holy eggs there, which is ridiculous, cause they're chocolate and would have melted by now and there are so many other people down there looking, they have found every egg there, so by the time you get there, your shit out of luck.

Even the holy baskets carried by the apostles are considered a sign of devotion. If you ever wondered why the baskets are made from such cheap material, well, the apostles didn't have baskets handy at the time and had to make some quick dried reed baskets, which we try to recreate down to the very texture, each year.

The pastel colors are a part of the ceremony as well - they represent the visions that the apostles saw when they got a little "buzzed" from drinking the dead bunny savior's blood. Drinking someone's blood is considered a religious rite that only the holiest members of the church can participate in. Only high priests can drink it and still do. Apostle Dracula is rarely spoken of, but he's still around.

Anyway. It would seem that 1st John dared 2nd Matthew that he couldn't eat one of the holy eggs. And Matthew, not wanting to look cowardly in front of the 1st Mark and 1st Luke, gave it. And WOO, did Matt see some shit! This tradition is also reserved for only the highest in the church.

Back to Matt...

He wrote down what he saw and the others were so jealous of 2nd Matthew's visions that they ate an egg or two and they saw some shit too. Crazy shit! Weird shit! Holy shit! That's some good shit!

Everyone wrote down what they saw and somehow, Mary got a hold of these stories and told some of her friends, who told their friends, who told others. It got to the point that everyone wanted to hear what was in those stories, so copies were made and handed out. Some people lived way, way out in the suburbs and letters had to be written to them. Suburbs like Corinthia, Ephesia, Galatia, Phillipia, and Fox Run.

Today, Christians celebrate their most sacred holiday almost exactly, but not quite, the same way it happened in a spring, 1,973 years ago. It's that "not quite" part that gets to me and it's the reason that I said Religion was such a dark spot on the spring time.

Religions are a complex systems of rules and regulations that affect a given outcome depending on what factors and variables are used. However, unlike MATH(the ultimate religion in the universe) you can alter your variables to accommodate your needs and not affect the outcome. You can redefine the rules and regulations at any time. Religious zealots look just like amateur lawyers that love to argue the wording of a contract to find little loopholes, that, when found, outrageously exploit them for their own good.

Religion is just a jar of jellybeans to most people. You want one, or two, or a whole bunch at a time! If you have jelly bean knowledge, you know that you can only enjoy them, one flavor at a time, so you pick your favorite flavor and eat just those. If you don't know this, you'll find out real quick. Grab what you like, THAT DAY, exclude the rest from your booty and only eat the ones you want. The sugar high will make you think you see pastels.

It's spring time, the bunnies are doing what bunnies do. Blessed by the gods for their earlier sacrifice, they were given one wish. Guess what they asked to be able to do all the time? They do it without shame, rules, porn, make-up or courtships. They simply do it. In the meantime, we, the master species jog through the park nearby so we can do what they are doing... hopefully.

Thank you Easter Bunny.

swan song for sirius

Heidi hurt her leg. Tore her ACL and the damage looks pretty bad. She is extremely fat and isn't doing the "three legged dog" trick very well. She didn't do the four legged dog trick all that well. She has spent a better part of the last week laying on her side, moving as little as possible. She eats on her side, drinks on her side and only moves to pee outside and that takes some effort. She has to basically drag herself outside, down the steps. When she's done, the process gets harder as she has to climb the steps. It's heart-breaking. Time seems to be running out for dear Heidi.

How she hurt herself no one knows but the injury is pretty serious. It's the same type of injury that ends the career of a lot of professional athletes. And those people are in great shape when they get the injury. In Heidi's case; she was pushing maximum density and no where near top form. If could have told you, she was in the best form of her life, but the last year has seen a sharp decline in her activity and spirit. Her size was only growing exponentially and it was affecting her "spunk". She had, quite literally, become a black hole. She had grown as large as a dog star can get before she collapsed in on herself. Perhaps that's the true nature of her injury - her weight had crushed her ACL. Whatever the reason; she is a decision a way from a painful last hike into the hills from which she will not return.

The doctors say that a surgery that would cost well over a grand might help a bit. It's a lot of money to slow the aging process and give Heidi even more arthritis in her already pain riddled joints. I don't know. To keep her around would be a selfish human act. There would be no mercy in keeping her around. It's an emotional gesture but not a wise one. Heidi has seen her better days and only darker ones lay ahead. Perhaps a kinder, less selfish decision needs to be made. Hard to believe that you can think that the worst thing that can happen is the best thing to do.

Of course, if you ask Heidi, I think she would tell you that she is all for the final hike. As much as she likes life, animals know when their time comes. They don't argue or fight about it. They feel the sadness, but they embrace it and go out like a hero. Thankfully, Heidi doesn't know how to read or use the internet, so I don't have to worry about her seeing this. If she did, perhaps she might have a different view of the whole issue. I'm sure she's ready for a surgery and a few more food ladden months of life. Rarely has she shown true animal behavior in anything she's done in life. Even her food consumtion is more human. I'm sure that if she read this she might be a little pissed with me. I'm not sure anyone has told her what powers are working against her at the moment. Would she growl at me when I brought her food if she knew what is in play in regards to her future?

It's the end of Heidi's professional dog-athlete career. She goes out as the record holder in longest owned pet in family history. Longest owned dog. Fattest dog. Fattest animal. Quietest dog. Quietest animal. Least photogenic dog. Least photogenic animal. And the six time winner of the "Miss congeniality of the year" award for our family. I think she can hang up her skates with a harmonious heart.

The day it happens, don't expect much from me. My own personal attachment to this great dog is well documented on the pages of this blog. She has been an ever faithful companion for years and her decline does not set well with me. With my present move to the big city, perhaps this is best. Just one less thing.

For those of you that don't remember- George Graham Vest, Senator from Missouri, gave a speech called, "Man's best friend" and it's where we get the phrase. He gave the speech in a court battle. One man had killed another man's dog and the man sued. This speech has torn hearts out ever since. I suggest you Google it.

the danists

Dear Readers,

Here are the much anticipated answers to the week long riddle. First, let me start by saying - No one came close. There were shadows of the right answer, but they were out of context. Second, your responses to each post altered the next. The first post, you were all caught up by the symbolizism and you forgot the little things like, "the laughing man". So in the next post, I pared it down to just statistics. I left out all the "color" from the second post and just went with "facts". That post screwed with your heads so much that I just went to a normal style post for the last one. I tried to keep it on the level, but the final post was almost universally misunderstood as a "dating" post and I began to think I was going to have write another installment that would specifically address that issue and clear up all the confusion.

I enjoyed this process immensely. It told me a lot about my readers and what you generally see in my posts and what type of people you are. I liked reading your emails about what you thought about each post. I was shocked that, again, so many of you thought these posts had something to do with you personally. There was a lot of maniacal laughter on my part. I secretly enjoyed all the confusion that was created and I really enjoyed the massive amounts of anticipation that you expressed. Although, a few of your guesses had me questioning my sanity as well as the condition of yours.

Here are the answers, which I'm sure will meet with just as much scrutiny as the original posts....


The doors:

This post represented the DECISION MAKING PROCESS of what I write about. The laughing man is me, the person making the decisions is "the process". The voices behind each door are the inspirations for a varying types of posts. Gold door - family/home. Mirror door - friends/honesty. Velvet door - sexual partners/fantasy. Iron door - the unknown/courage.
When you choose a subject, you can play it safe or you can take the harder path. Your choice either sits well with you or it mocks you. What lies beyond your decision can never be known until unknown elements decide that for you.

The diners:

This post represented the READERS. This post is YOU. The types of readers I have. It's a percentages game. Women to men. People with a sense of humor to those that have none. The ones that comment and ones that never comment. Etc. The chairs was a stretch but it was meant to show education levels. The drinking comment was a nod to illiterates. The clustered table is to show that there is no organization to the writing, the reading or the comprehension.

The relevence of me joining the diners and asking the question: I don't get to share in the experience the same way the readers do. As the creator, I know "who dunit" and if the good guy wins or if the bad guy dies. So joining in would only ruin the surprise.

The departed:

This post represented the POSTS. How I feel about each one when they get posted and are on their way out into the world. The posts are written and they leave "me". And as soon as I have created them, they are gone. Sometimes I cheat them and I give up on one because it's too hard to finish. That's when I leave them.

I hope that what you take from this experience is a better understanding of the type of reader you are and what kind of bastard, devilish imp I am. Please send all the "Oh, I knew it all along" emails to someone else.

the departed

You can watch them walk away for only so long before you have to find something else to do with your time. A hard lesson for some to learn. It's very gratifying to indulge in those moments. Beyond the obvious pains and anxiousness that accompany this even, you still feel a strange feeling of excitement.

The last one to leave really hurt your feelings. It was a long, hard fought battle to get your point across and their departure seemed premature. This only added to the feelings of sorrow as you watched them slowly disappear in front of you. You really wanted to make it end more smoothly than it had and it bothers you to this day that you didn't get it quite right.

The time before, you were able to watch them leave with a great deal of satisfaction. If everytime it had to happen it happened this way, life would be perfect. The time had come with them and it was in everyone's best interest to walk away from it - cold and clean. There was something very empowering in sending them away like that.

You left the time before that. You had to. It was your planning that sent everything hurtling in that direction. Sometimes walking away can be the greatest way to cover up the errors and forget about them. It would seem that the farther you get away, the less likely you are to run into them ever again. Anyway, you left and there was no sensation of watching anyone go.

You can't remember the details of the rest. You know there are more, but the more time passes, the easier it has become to misplace their memory. They slip away like the memory of your favorite pair of shoes from your last year in high school - There for so long and loved so much, but gone even longer and that love has now been given to another.

In the moment of all this departure, you know that something new will soon be arriving. Ultimately, every time something ends, something new begins. Sometimes is can be something fresh and exciting, and other times it can just be old stuff with a new twist.

The next steps are new for you. The next steps will be the last steps.

the diners

At a table for six, there are only five sitting down. Two of the people are talking. Two of people are laughing, and one person is sitting quietly.

The table seems larger as there are serving bowls, platters, plates, silver ware and napkins everywhere. There is no organization to their presentation; they are just collected on the table.

You notice that the two people talking are not talking to each other and the two laughing are not laughing at the same thing. The quiet one is the only one with something to say, but no one would listen to them if they did say something.

Three of the people are women and two are men. One person smiles a lot. One person is crying for some reason. One person is trying to hurt one of the other people One person is pleading for their life and one person is trying to leave the table.

One person didn’t finish their meal. One person cleaned their plate. One person gave away their meal. One person is still waiting for their meal and one person didn’t touch their meal.

Two of the people are sitting in high back chairs. Two people are sitting in chairs with armrests and one person is sitting on a stool.

Three people are overweight. One is very skinny. One is very lean and muscular.

One of the people is old. Two of the people are children and two of the people are middle aged.

No one is drinking.

You are not invited to this meal but there is a place ready for you. You notice that your chair has armrests and you sit down without anyone noticing or saying a thing.

You have no idea who these people are but you know you must find out. You are trying to think of a good question that will help you figure this all out and introduce you to the others.

You ask a simple question and everyone stops and looks at you. You’re not sure what their thinking, but what you asked seemed to work.

The silent one motions to the other and they get up and walk away, carrying with them the items at the table, except for your place setting.

This makes you…..

the doors

A soft and silent walk on a slippery floor. With each step comes another painful beat of your heart. You don't know where you are, but you're scared and so you keep moving.

A brilliant light ahead of you divides a thick grey fog that is settling around you. The closer to the light you get, the more shapes in the fog come into focus. You're in a room with more doors than you can count. Each door is unique in size, shape and function. Above each door seems to be a sign that might indicate what is behind it, but you can't make out what is written on each sign.

You're so busy looking at all the doors that you don't see a stranger standing behind a podium in front of the doors. He's staring at you from the tops of his eyes and his smile seems devious and untrustworthy. There is the slightest crooked smile on his face. He has one blue eye and one brown eye.

You don't say anything to him and he says nothing to you. You keep walking around, exploring, examining the doors. They are all so different. The four that seem to catch your eye and captivate you the most are four dynamic doors; One made of gold, one made of mirrors, one made of velvet and one that is made of iron.

You're very nervous and the smiling man is patiently staring and waiting for you to decide.

You're not sure what to do and it's not until you stop moving that the smiling man raps his knuckles on the podium. When you look over, he waves his hand behind him in a "please choose one" suggestive way.

Take a good look at the doors and pick one. He doesn't say, it but you can tell it's implied. You just know that you only get one choice. As soon as you turn to look at the doors, all but the four you noticed earlier are gone.

The closest door to where you stand is the biggest door of them all. It's made of solid gold that shines like the sun on a clear day. The door itself is transparent and you can see a comfortable path on the other side. The door frame is decorated with elaborate symbols, images, shapes and faces. All of which seem friendly and pleasing. You step closer to the door to examine it and you can hear the faintest noise coming from the other side.

It's people speaking. You have no idea what they are saying but their tone is pleasing and their dialogue is only interrupted with soft bouts of laughter. Behind the voices are simple noises that sound like music that has no beat.

The choice pleases you.

You are about to reach for the doorknob when the smiling man raps his knuckles on the podium. When you acknowledge him, his smile gets more sinister and frightening. He again waves his hand behind him to point out that you have not looked at the other doors.

You walk to the next door and you see that it is not one big mirror, but millions of tiny little mirrors. The door has no definitive edge and you can't tell where the door ends and the door frame begins. You don't like this door as much, but the closer you get to the door, the more familiar you feel with what lies behind it. You can't see through it but you can hear something coming from the other side of the door.

It's the sound of your friends. They are talking to someone. You can hear them and make out which words they are using but you don't understand their organization. There is music behind their voices, but it's hidden behind the speech pattern and is lost to you.

You're excited and you want to reach out for the doorknob, but you can't find it.

The familiar sound of knuckles rapping.

You turn and you see the sinister man smiling and this time he is laughing without making a single sound. He, again, waves his hand at the remaining doors.

You're not as excited now. You're frustrated and confused. You just want to open a door and go. You're uncomfortable in this place and it's time to go.

The next door is made of red velvet and is barely big enough for you to crawl through.

You get closer to the door and you hear wonderful noises coming from the other side. They sound like moaning, and people in ecstasy. It's the sound of pleasure. Of exhilaration. There is music behind their moans and sighs. It's driving and hypnotic. It calls to you like a siren and you scramble to open the door...

Rap, rap, rapping...

The sinister man has finally shown his nature and his laugh is booming and unescapable. You try to cover your ears, but it does little to stop the echo. He laughs louder with each passing second. The louder the chuckle, the worse you feel inside. He, again, waves his hand behind him and this time he points at the remaining door...

It's a heavy door. Solid Iron. Rusty, cold grey iron. You can't hear anything behind the door. It just stands there like a truth that never gets spoken. Instead of a doorknob there is just a key hole.

You peer through the door knob and you can't see anything, or hear anybody. It's uninviting and screams, "go away".

You back away from the door and your breathing gets heavier. Your heart feels compressed to half it's size. Your stomach is twisted and knotted. Your legs seem void of strength or support.

You turn to run back to one of the other doors. When you turn, you see the man at the podium. He is no longer laughing. He is no longer smiling. His hands are gracefully crossed behind his back. He seems to ease your pain and calm your mind. He sees your pain and softly bows in front of you.

Your heart slows, your legs regain their strength, you begin to breath normally again.

You look down and see the key in your hand.

You place the key in the keyhole.

You turn the key.

The door opens without a sound and on the other side is.....

brown-green envy

The spring rain has swollen the mountain streams past their capacity. The normally calm waters are raging down so quickly that they are reshaping the contours of the valley floor. Usually these streams are as picturesque as you could ever ask for. They are crystal blue and they refract the light like a diamond. The soft sound of water passing by is so soothing that people spend hours on the sides of the streams, sleeping, reading and mediating. (other things happen, but they require another person) To give you some idea of what it's like to be next to a mountain stream and just listen to it remember this... People come to these streams and record their sounds and then sell those recordings to you. It's some good shit. (I hear that if you listen to one of the tapes, you'll even quit smoking. Some people have learned Italian... JUST LISTENING TO THESE TAPES!!!)

Driving through the spring mountains is wonderful. Spring comes slowly to the mountains and as much as you want to admit that you're happy with the coming warmer weather, you're not. Because dotting the sides of the mountains in small, weather resistant pockets, are small plots of stubborn snow. It just hangs on, refusing to melt. All winter long you have cursed the snow, especially when you have to drive in it, but now you somehow want the last reminants of winter to survive.

surrounding the small patches of snow are barren hillsides that are anxious to sprout some vegetation. Small sprouts of green that haven't quite sprawled out completely, make the mountain sides look as if they have day old green stubble on them.

As I drive through the mountains I should be filled with my own romantic notions of nature, but instead I am furious. I have comedy on the brain and it's not positive. I am headed to Boise for an audition and I should be filled with new ideas that will land me the job, instead I am stewing over the fact that a former friend and fellow comic has been given a big break and will be on the next season of Last Comic Standing. He was a comic that I used to coach and helped bring into the industry back in my Kansas City days. Back then, he was innocent, young, bright eyed and not very funny. Then there was a blow up at the club and I was forced out. He talked some shit about me and we never spoke again. Then he found weed and sex and somehow found his comedy voice and has become a popular headliner around the country. I should be happy for him, but I'm steamed. And I have no reason to be.

Instead, I am driving to Boise, Idaho.

The rain has been falling for four weeks and the normally quiet, crystal blue waters of the Forgotten Mountains have turned into an ugly brown-green color and are screaming down the valley, reclaiming what riverside real estate it can. Where was this rain last year when the fires threatened my home? Where was this rain when the farmers lost their crops to drought? And will this rain be here this year when the summer sun threatens to dry out another harvest?

My veins are filled with a brown-green blood. I am furious and I am angry and I am jealous and I am sad. I have no reason to feel this way....

I will confess to needing other comics to further my own comedy need. To reveal a nasty secret, I get my passion for this job by watching other comics. I have long contested that I am the 37th funniest comic that has ever graced a stage. I base my findings on the following criteria: Humor. Presence and Relevance. Most comics have one or maybe two of these, but rarely all three and then, not as much as I do. So when I see other, lesser comics, I get excited. It makes me want to kill them. People ask me what my preshow warm up is. If there is a "bubble" that I need to get into before I go on stage. My bubble is this: I watch the opener, get pissed at their ineptitude and that inspires me to give the audience something better. It usually works. Even when the opener is funny, I know I'm funnier or have more presence or have more relevance, so I could care less how loud the audience is laughing. I know I am doing more.

I have a lot of time in cars that I spend all alone. I guess it's this time where my emotions can float between the romantic vistas of mountain rain to the more dramatic, self-destructive imagery of career envy. Alone I am god. I am the creator of all that is beautiful and I want to share it. And alone I am god, a jealous and angry god, that will have no false idols before me. When I think of my foolishness, I am humbled and I am reminded that I am JUST a comic. And that entertainment is the domain of the audience and not it's beer-pimping stage dwellers. A fellow comic has a chance to better his life and I am truly proud of him. I do hope he makes it and wins the competition.

The more successful he is, the funnier and more necessary I become. Just like the angry, screaming brown-green water of the spring and the part it plays in the shaping of my beautiful and unforgettable, Forgotten Mountains.

my space, which means, stay away from me

Irony. It's slowly becoming my favorite form of entertainment.

- A 10 year old girl crosses her fingers before she walks into a dark room. She enters the room hastily and runs into the door jam, breaking the two crossed fingers.

- A semi-famous actor, who is a member of PETA, freed two dozen lobsters from a grocery store water tank. Of course, the grocery store was in Kentucky(1034 miles to the nearest ocean) and eight of the lobsters died before they could be captured and returned to the tank.

- A Seattle man, that worked for Boeing aircraft as a safety inspector ( He is actually a redundancy inspector, he is the third person to check for errors) dies in an airplane crash. The plane was a Boeing aircraft and the accident was caused by a failure in a part he is supposed to have inspected.

- The man that lives with bears and films their activity to show the world what gentle creatures they are, is mauled to death and eaten by the very bears he is filming.

- A man who teaches gun safety to children is accidently shot to death by his own 9 year old son.

As you can see, I love me some irony. There is just too much joy in life's little simple twists of fate. You can not tell me you are not a little entertained by Bushie the kid pounding his fist and stating, "We will find who ever leaked this information and they will be brought to justice" only to have his investigation lead back to him. He now claims that he has the right to "declassify" any information he wishes. You can't tell me that you are not amused by that. With us or against us... Make up your mind...

Irony, that's my new favorite form of passing the time. In my sickening quest to be further amused by the painful and accidental end of those that began on the safest of footings, I have come across many a great website listing just such events. Here are some things I have discovered

- It turns out that almost all irony is painful. There are rarely any ironic stories that don't have a death or massive amounts of bodily harm attached to the "ironic" part of the story.

- In some cases irony has been about the loser, winning - The underdog. The cinderella story. David defeating Goliath. That sort of thing. I think this is a case of the Gods trying to cope with their guilt. I think that occasionally the depth of the pain caused by all this irony gets too much and a little magic needs to get sprinkled on a "feel good" story. Disney has made a fortune making movies about these magically moments. (they even have one called - Miracle) Of course, even when the little man wins, the big man loses, which is really the irony in the tale, sor perhaps all irony is painful.

SO, it's not too surprising that sitting here trying to entertain myself about the painful ends of others that I myself am slowly killing myself by SITTING HERE DOING NOTHING. That's right, I have become a sad irony. Somewhere in my search for great ironic web sites it occured to me what was happening and I began to laugh hysterically. Then, for some reason, in all that ironic laughter, a simple thought ran through my head that seemed to be the answer I was looking for in this quest, "My space". The greatest monument to conscience irony that has ever been concieved. It's a site dedicated to being ironic in every way.

For those of you that don't know, My Space is a site dedicated to.... to... justifying not going out side and meeting people in person. It's a web site that is promoted as a place where you "can meet others just like yourself and let people know what you are all about." It's a site that allows you to create a profile of YOU with photos of YOU and yours, a catalog of your personal interests - favorite movies, etc, a personal calendar, a diary and a history. It allows you to post a blog AND probably the greatest My Space offering, "online friends". That's right, friends. Not real friends. These are people you either barely know or you don't know at all, so thank the gods that you both share the only quality that matters online, they are on My Space too. They share your shame.

There are profiles on My Space with 4000 friends. 4000!!!! I'm sure these are the great friends that will bail you out of jail, attend your wedding and buy you a ticket to a show and surprise you with it. These are those kinds of friends aren't they? No. These are people that you have either heard of, think are cute, or have done something that means they are REAL friends... They added you to their friends list. That's right, they contacted... You. They wanted to be YOUR friend. Which makes them the greatest friend you have out of your 4000.

4000!!!! And that's nothing. I'm sure if you spent hours sifting through the 10 plus million people that are on the site, you will find others with friends numbering in the 100,000's or in the millions. Why not, if you spend enough people inviting people to your birthday party, at some point you are going to find some that are going to say yes.

So, this site is dedicated to "making friends" without ever having to leave your house. These friends, most of whom you will never talk to in person, These friends that share your interest in meeting "real people" are unfortunately, like you, busy at the moment surfing My Space, looking for friends... Just like them.

One day the My Space community will have a meet and great and all ten million people will show up in a field in Northern Manitoba( the only place large enough to hold ten million people with stiff achey knees and cronic carpal tunnel) and they will get a chance to talk face to face for the first time. Hopefully, it will help these people get out into the sun. Hopefully they can relearn how to mix and mingle with other humans without using a keyboard. It will be lovely. They will finally be able to ask questions about those favorite songs and to finally see what "Jumpy Jenny" from North Carolina really looks like. Is she really the southern beauty that you thought she was when you added her to your "friends" list? No, Jumpy Jenny looks just a little tired and a few years, a few pounds, past that profile photo. I doubt she does much jumping at all these days.

One day, when the fad of My Space has faded into Tickle Me Elmo-land, we are all going to hear a lot of people claiming that they, "Were never on the My Space. I have always made friends the old fashion way." No one will own up to having been on my space. I will. I was on it for a while because other comics told me that it was a good marketing tool. So far, one comic has made it work for them, the rest of the comics that I know on the site have nothing to show for it. However, I, personally, did get in touch with some old friends because of the site. I prefer my friends in real time, with no gliches in their streaming video as we talk.

You can never tell when you are setting yourself up for another one of life's juicy little ironic tales. When the Gods are going to amuse themselves with your life, the best you can hope for is that it won't be a death that they want to see from you that day. No matter what you do with your day, there is bound to be a dash of irony involved with it somewhere. Just hope that to as you sit there for nine hours, filling out a profile that tells the world how much you like to "take long walks, swim in the ocean and stay active", that your heart doesn't stop due to a blood clot that was formed in your leg from sitting too long.

updates for all of you

1. Dizziness. Whatever it is, it's manageable. I don't mind it and it seems to be less of an issue every day. Thank you all for your emails and phone calls of concern but I am okay.

2. Home. It's been a close one. And it came down to Calgary, Montreal and Seattle. Seattle won. Sorry Calgary. Sorry Montreal. You'll have to wait your turn. The good news is that I do plan on being in Montreal this summer and I will someday call both Montreal and Calgary home, just not this year. Sorry. I move this week.

3. Immigration. For some reason the Mexicans are rioting. The only reason this is newsworthy, itsn't the rioting, but the actual real time visualization of just how many latinos have made it across safely. I think this is the first time in history that anyone, including the Latinos, have had any idea just how many are really here. Sadly, their numbers overshadowed the smaller, less well known Canadian demonstration. All 104 illegal Canadians, mostly entertainers, got together and showed their displeasure with the new proposed law. I think they gathered at a Pub and watched the Montreal - Ottawa game and to mark their protest, they watched it without the volume up. My take on immigrants - who cares. America is defined in this dynamic way.. Either you're screwing the system or the system is screwing you. There is no middle ground. Think of your own American life. What are you doing to screw the system and how many times has the system screwed you?

4. Books. Their coming.

5. Tours. Please refer to the danielrock.com web site for all things Daniel Rock comedy related. I will say that next week in Spokane, the club has actually billed me correctly as an Edgy, hysterical and a can't miss. FINALLY!!!! The audiences have been forewarned.

6. Friends. I will call you back or text you or email you... Very, very soon. I am spending too much time on the phone with bookers and scanning Craigslist.com for apartments to get back to anyone. I will do it. Starting Monday I will get on the contact.

7. No, there will be no QUESTIONS OF THE WEAK for Europe. I am trying to answer all your questions privately, however some of the questions have been pretty good and would be fun to answer.

8. From now on the blog will no longer be "color commentary from the forgotten mountains" it will now be "color commentary from oz".

horse apples

It's a horrible world and it's filled with horrible people. All men are assholes and all they want is one thing. Why is it so hard to find a good man? Whatever happened to Prince Charming on his white horse? Where have all the good men gone?

This is the sad refrain of the single woman trying to find a decent man. I'm not sure what she wants from the decent man, but she seems to whine about not having one all the time. What's so special about a decent man? And what makes you sure you deserve one? Do you feel bad about letting indecent men hump you all the time? Is it that you're mad at yourself for lifting your skirt up for men that - YOU KNEW - in the beginning were pieces of shit? Are you mad at yourself for getting suckered again? Do you think that men come in several catagories of decency and that you just find the ones on the wrong end of the spectrum?

I don't know what the ladies are really whining about, but I do know that they really, really want this Prince Charming dude and they want him BAD! With that in mind, I would like to address this issue. Ladies, let's take a break from your daily daydreaming to fantasize with me a bit. This isn't hard to do, just take a deep breath and read on....

PRINCE CHARMING.

You're in a horrible world. You have to slave all day for what little creature comforts you have. You work in bile and shit and you smell awful. Your body aches from all the manual labor that is required of you. You have been beaten down emotionally so many times that you are just a shell of what you used to be. You are so unsatisfied with your world that you don't even know what to think about when you're alone in your cell, laying in your cot, covered in filth and bugs, trying to dream about a better life.

But somewhere in all that misery IS a dream. There's a man. A real man. Unlike any man you have ever seen. This man is clean. And he smells good. And he's a prince. And he's charming. And he's kind and gentle and thoughtful and cares about you and all those memories and thoughts you have. This Prince will TAKE YOU AWAY from all this misery and strife. He will make your world a better place to live. He will give you the comfort and the pleasure that you deserve. He will shower you with praise. It will be perfect.

He will ride into your prison on his white stallion and he will be dressed in white that is so pure it will radiate goodness. He will have his sword drawn and he will slay all those men that tricked you and lied to you. Then, still perfectly clean from all of the carnage, he will stretch out his hand and pull you up on his horse and the two of you will ride away into your perfect future. He will smell delicious.

That's the dream. (sort of)

SO... Let's address some key components of this dream.

One. If you're a woman that is slaving away in shit all day, then you smell like shit and look like shit and that is rarely attractive to men. Especially rich ones that are concerned with their cleanliness.

Two. Have you ever ridden on the back of a horse? It's not the most comfy spot to sit for hours. It's like sitting on pointy rock. And if the horse is running at all, then you're in for some serious anxiety. HOLD ON TIGHT! And, if this is Prince Charming, he doesn't live in your neighborhood and that is a loooooong ride to his house. The good news, your legs will be naturally spread apart for later.

Three. Why does he ride a horse???? What kind of weirdo rides a horse in this day and age? Sounds like a cowboy thing to me. Isn't he worried about a car or truck hitting his horse? I hope you like "git er done" jokes...

Four. Who do you think is going to shovel all that horse shit? Well, you do have the experience. You didn't think he really wanted to hear about your friends and your childhood dance lessons, did you? (no guy wants to hear about that, please stop)

Five. Did I mention that he killed a lot of people with a sword? He's a madman. A killer. And you want to simply ride away with this man. He's trying to flee the scene of a crime, ON A HORSE, and you're on the back of that horse, hugging him like he's a walking orgasm machine. Did you ever stop to think that he just took you hostage? Do you think the cops are really going to buy your story? Look at you, you're a stinky mess. And what if the cop that stops you is that married guy you were seeing, who stalked you when it was over? You're screwed.

Six. Who wears all white? Popes. And they ride in Jeeps, don't hump at all, and as far as I can tell... Have other people do their killing for them. SO this Prince of yours is a wanna be Pope. A Pope impersonator. ON A HORSE, no less. He has a weird religious thing and that can only mean blood sacrfice.

Seven. Prince of where? Of what? Does this mean you want to be a Princess and then be responsible for the well being of an entire country? You can't take care of yourself, what makes you think you can fix the country's problems? AND... AND... AND if your life sucked so bad, then why are you riding off with the man who's policies made your life so miserable in the first place? Isn't that "Prince" of yours the root of your original problems? Perhaps he isn't as perfect as you thought, eh? Apparently he isn't smart enough to get rid of poverty or to bring harmony to his own people, I'm sure your "two different world" relationship is going to be just perfect. (as long as you know that the country comes first, then his weird wearing white and slaying people thing, then his love for you). We have those types of politicians running our little country. They're greedy little bastards. There's a good chance your Prince is a puppet ruler for the George Bush/Dick Cheney syndicate. Your boy is a bitch.(make sure he doesn't going hunting with Cheney)

Eight. How sad are you that a man has to save you from your life? What a sad sack of shit you are. What does this Prince see in you anyway? You better have great tits and put out on the first date. Well... If he rode in on a horse... You're putting out.Those horses are expensive. And if the horse doesn't impress you, then he should find a cheap hooker that will be impressed.

Nine. Are you in the habit of just riding away with strangers? What do you really know about this "Prince"? Are you worried that if you don't get along he can have you imprisoned or beheaded? What if he is just taking you to an altar to be a sacrfice for his "god". You thought your judgement was wrong about all those one night stands you had last summer, well... Are you in for a surprise.

Ten. How are you going to fit in with his friends? Or his family? Do you think his family is really going to appreciate a common woman gracing their dinner table? Don't you think that his family will see you as a "fling" or a "phase" that their weird son is into at the moment? Do you even know what that fourth fork is used for or when to use it?

----

Now that we have looked at Prince Charming. I think it's only fair that we look at the male fantasy and see how it compares.

SHE LET ME.

The male fantasy involves reality. We hold no illusion of another life or a far off land. We think of right now, what we can see. Our dream girl. Our Princess Charming... She's standing in line in front of us at the bank. She's in the blue car in the next lane over. She's the bartender. She's the group of five girls eating lunch at the table next to us. Yes, even the married one that is kinda chubby.

Her dream quality that makes her the fantasy... She looks at us. She comes over. She takes our hand and fucks us somewhere nearby within two minutes of seeing us. After the wild sex, she goes back to her life, and we go back to ours. We have her number, and call can her whenever we want too. She doesn't have our number. Or our name.

That's it. Dream over. Dream girl story done.

Male fantasies are not in another world, they are here today. She is every semi-attractive woman we see and we would screw if given the chance. That's it.

Analyze these two dreams anyway you want. They are both true in their own way. It may not be so true for "you" the reader. But in some small way - it is the root of your dream.

With these two types of people on the planet, how are we ever going to get together?

The trick... Men - buy horses, slay bad guys and get the girl. Women - just put out.

zelda

I must. I must have her! I have a lust, a craving in my soul to possess her! And if I wasn't such a cheap bastard, I could own her. RIGHT NOW! I know people that have owned her in the past and they say she's great. I hate these people for soiling her before I've had my chance to lay my hands on her goodies. They say she's hard to figure out, a little frustrating at times, but if you know the right moves, you'll be able to beat her again and again without killing yourself.

50 bucks. That's all it's going to take. Well, that and some other little expenditures here and there for things that always seem to pop up, but I must have HER!!!!

--- Before I continue, I would like to say that this is completely out of character for me. I wish I could blame it on the dizziness, but this craving started about five months ago, well before the dizziness, so I know that's not the reason.----

My lust has compelled me to risk financial ruin just to have this little bitch in my hands. If she weren't so precious to me, I would crush her with a hammer. I would just keep hitting her with it until she was just a massive heap of rubble. People do that with things they want really, really badly and don't want to share.

AND I don't even like VIDEO GAMES!!!!!

But I have to have this one. I have no idea why. I guess I want to spend the next five months of my life sitting in front of a television, going blind and getting fat. For what? So I can figure out the video game puzzle that calls to me like a soulless siren.

I don't own a television set. A DVD player. A bed. A chair. A plate. A cup. Toilet paper, Soap or food. But I will own Zelda before this month is out. The rest of the world be damned. I will own that game.

Perhaps it's the fact that Zelda can fly. Or shoot arrows at anyone, anywhere at any time and not get in trouble. Perhaps, it's the fact that Zelda can fall off buildings, cliffs and other vertical nightmares, DIE and then a simple press of the button can bring her back to life. AND! Bring her back to life mere moments before the critical error occured, thus avoiding a similar fate. Perhaps it's the lack of conscience that Zelda has about killing random creatures or stealing goods from people or randomly and viciously destroying property without the slightest concern for other creatures' feelings. Perhaps it's the constant state of bewilderment or the unsolicited responsibility of having to save the planet from destruction, all the while wondering, "Hey, wait a minute... What did I do to deserve this? Isn't there someone more qualified than me?"

I can not explain to you what this craving has done to my life. Perhaps this is at the very core of my dizziness problem and playing the game will somehow save me. I guess I won't know until I have slaved for hours in front of a television, playing the game.

I shall keep you posted.

wrinkle in time

December 8th, 1972. That's my birthday. Kansas City, Missouri. That's where I was born. I went to school in Shawnee, Kansas and Twisp, Washington. I am a stand-up comic. I am not married.

That's all I have to remember.

So why, then, was I unable to figure out how old I am yesterday afternoon? And I don't mean just a small little slip of the tongue, "I'm 32... Sorry, 33." It wasn't that simple, I was completely baffled and lost. I was pretty convinced that I was 34.

This would be a great case for seeing a doctor to determine if my head is screwed on tightly enough. However, I think it can best be explained away without CAT scans and long hours sitting on a couch, talking about my childhood.

The best explanation: I'm not 18.

Someone asks you for a photo. They want a photo of you so they know what you look like, or so they can have a photo to look at to remember you, or you need a photo for a profile of this or that. So you start sifting through every photo that has ever been taken of you to try and find the "one" that makes you decent enough, fuckable enough, attractive, thin, not special needs, not bloated, not blotchy and the one that doesn't come with an explanation why you're not perfect. "Oh, that one... I had just woken up from a bad hangover and I had a cold. That's why I am so bloated, blotchy, fat, ugly, unfuckable, indecent and look retarded. Don't use that one." The driver's licesnce photo is so full of anxiety, because it's only taken once, the photographer doesn't seem to worried about lighting, angles or if you are blinking or not. AND this is the photo that most people see of you, so it's important that you have a decent one. (9 out of 10 people say they hate their driver's licesnse photo)

First rule of photography. If you are only attractive in one photo out of two-hundred. You're ugly. But, the smaller that ratio gets, the more attractive you are. Those of you in the, "every photo of me is a work of art" can fuck right off and die - but have dinner with me first and wear something tight and easily removed.

You are never going to be as sexy and as beautiful as you think you are in your head. But photos don't lie and your double chin, fat cheeks, pale skin and wild hair are the way the rest of the world sees you all the time. As a lesson in self-esteem - Take a photo of yourself every hour that you are awake for two weeks. Then look at those photos and discover the way you look to the rest of the world. No posing. Don't fabricate the scene. Notice how your tummy isn't as flat as you thought and it seems to poke out a bit more than you thought. (for you ladies, perhaps you should raise that waist band on those tight jeans and rid yourself of that muffin top look). Notice how tight jeans make your butt look like an upside down 3-dimensional flat trapezoid. Notice that your favorite smile makes your face look like a squirrel swallowing a coconut. Photos won't lie to you and it's a healthy lesson that we all need to learn. It's a good idea to accept the way you look and just deal with it.

Second rule of photography. There is no such thing as the perfect angle or the perfect lighting. Waiting for the universe to align itself so that you can show everyone that you are the living embodiment of perfection is like waiting for the universe to hit a cow with a bolt of lightning, thus butchering it, cooking it to a nice medium rare with rosemary and black pepper and then plating the steak on clean china and having it all land on a table in front of you. (with a baked potato) The universe has given you all it's going to give you and you have to do the rest. Trying to use slight of hand or shadows to make yourself look good is a waste of time. You can't control lighting or the angles forever.

If you are truly desperate to prove that you are sexy or that you take good photos if the conditions are right, they do have a place where you can cheat the universe, it's called, "GLAMOUR SHOTS". In this place of limitless magic, minions will cake on the beauty in thick, heavy coats, and then light you to perfection. In fact, the photos may be taken in the dark with a night vision lens. Then, for reasons that no one has ever figured out, they will place your hands on your chin to make you the greatest beauty in the universe. The more make-up, the more(or less) lighting, the more filtering lens... The less likely it is that you are sexy at all. If you look at your glamour shot and you see the Crab Nebula... Either they pulled that camera waaaaaay too far back or the lighting crew was concerned and got a little too ahead of themselves.

You're old. You're getting older. You're beauty is fading fast and with it, your sense of self. At a time when you should be realizing that what counts is inside and finding that what really turns you on is there too, you seem to get caught on the trappings of youth and the belief system that accompanies it. All things seem to revolve around another time in your life when you had physical perfection. When the tummy wasn't middle aged. There were only sexy laugh lines, not permanent gashes in the corner of your eyes. And now they are there whether you are laughing or not. There was a time when your photo collection was full of you in beautiful cool clothes. Your legs were the right size for your body. Your hair looked perfect(you almost wish you could have that hair back). You had a tan. There was a twinkle in your eye. You were the sexiest person alive for a moment. You were as uninteresting a person as you could be, but you wer sexy as hell. And THIS is the same sentiment that you carry with you as you sift through your photos. Where is THAT photo of me?

The thought of losing one's looks is hard enough. It's even harder to imagine a time when your age would be such a challenge. I'm 33. Two years younger than my brother. Twelve years older than my sister. Thirty-three years older than anyone born today. I know this. So why, then, have I forgotten it? I HAVE MORE IMPORTANT THINGS TO WORRY ABOUT. I can't be wasting time trying to figure out my own age, when the battle for my tummy is in full swing. Each square foot of tummy space is being contested. I don't have the time to casually remind myself that I will be 34 next winter.

I can look back on old photos and see the progression of my beautiful decline. What really grabs me about the photos I am looking at is I remember the other photos that were taken with these particular photos and how they didn't make the cut and are gone forever. The ones I hold in front of me are the best of the best of what was taken that day. So I am sifting through a mound of photos that are basically self-produced propaganda. I am trying to convince myself that I was an object of beauty for all these years and in reality, the decline might have started back then!!!!!

You hear it all the time, "The healthier you live your life, the slower the decline into unfuckableness." I say, bullshit! Health is just the slowest way to die. That's all that is. Beauty is just a luck of the draw. Some people just had the right look for the right time in the right place. For others, they would have been in big in Albania back in 1430. Beauty is just a gift from the gods, like the ability to run real fast or the ability to sing. You are just born beautiful, or you're ugly and someone has to make a mental compromises to sleep with you. (Perhaps you're really funny or you're rich. Those seem to make up for wandering eyes and back hair.)

This compromise is not shared with the sexes. Men will sleep with ugly women for various reasons. Most of the same ones what women use, but we have others like... We're horny. She puts out. She's a deviant freak that does things that other girls won't. How bad can it be?(yes that is a reason)

I'm old, the photos show it. My mind may not remember my age, but the photos do. My wrinkles are my own special crop that have been growing since that first laugh 33 years ago. I have fed them, watered them(or not watered as the case may be), smoked, stressed and sunburned just enough, so I can have those beautiful little lines in the corner of my eyes.

I am sexier now than I have ever been. It just takes a special type of freak to want to fuck me, that's all. Abusing my body only made me sexier to those women with a Charles Bukowski fetish.

I'm 33.

m is for magic, moving, movie, madman, murray, money, mel gibson

It's a wonderfully executed pleasure - An early evening movie with a KICK to it. That smell of popcorn seems to stretch out from the front of the theater and just grab you and suck you in. It's the same instrument of drug dealers everywhere... Just a little taste to get your interest piqued. It's that strong, powerful smell of freshly made popcorn that lures you in. It's the elixir that will make it possible for you to pay for, sit through and tolerate a bad movie. If you think my theory doesn't have weight then ask yourself this, "Why am I paying five dollars for a bucket of popcorn, if I'm not in a hypnotic trance?" Movies ... Are legal crack. And with each hit comes new lows in our personality. It's in a crack induced haze that we made Keanu Reeves a star, remember that.

I love movies. It's one of two addictions that I have left in my sad life. (smoking is gone, womanizing too, but it's often thought about and recalled with great pleasure) The other glorious addiction I still have left is this blog thing, or just writing in general. My addictions consume me and I am drawn to them in every free moment I have. Of course, film is easier to think about with the recent new trend of dizziness. Probably because the dizziness is so reminiscent of the popcorn buzz. Writing is a lovely crutch, but it's hard to just "lay some down" whenever you just let your mind wander. (when you're driving, for example. It's not easy to do)

My passion for film has brought me to the greatest film of 2006, V for Vendetta. Not many will like this one and I fear it will suffer the same fate as Fight Club, Sin City, and Howard the Duck as films that were magic in the year they were released, but found no audience and were labeled flops until the secondary - underground - refuse markets made them the classics that they are today(the latter is still not considered a classic, but Howard's day is coming, you'll see). V for Vendetta was excellent. Well written, well shot, well casted, well executed. I think we should see a critical nod for Mr. Hurt as "Big Brother" when the nods go out near Christmas time. He was excellent as a dictator. I will admit to being a little frightened of him as I watched the film. I kept waiting for an alien to pop out of his chest and land in my bucket of popcorn and eat all my Reece's pieces.

Of course, like all great films of the present day, V for Vendetta will disappear without fanfare in a week or two, and all the rage will shift to some other cum sock of a movie staring Hillary Duff and produced by Jerry Bruckheimer. That's the way it works. Great films suffer like a paper boat in a tempest of celluloid foulness. It takes a thorough cleansing of the mediocre film's fecal flake residue off of the great film to show just how glorious the great film was in the first place. It's a, "See, I told you so" kind of moment. But the way I say it is better (fecal flakes... I know that's on my tombstone now) How many of you remember the movies that came out the same time Fight Club was released? None of you. Because none of them were worth remembering. They were made, it would seem, to make Fight Club's star shine brighter. In the dung heap of all those other films, Fight Club was able to blossom and grow. It's a precious commodity in the film community and an piece of pop culure as a "must see" film. Not so, was the fate of Maid in Manhattan.

Such is life of V for Vendetta. It's surrounded by some bile that will soon be forgotten about until they pop up on TBS some Tuesday afternoon. (I mean this. How many of you really think that Failure to Launch will really be a classic romantic comedy that you rent over and over again?) V is stuck... In third place in the box office, behind Failure to Launch and Ice Age, The meltdown. However, when time tallies the impact of all three. V will be the only film that gets a four disc DVD box set and action figures that will be worth a fortune. V will be worn as a costume for the next twenty years. V will be discussed in drug induced(perhaps popcorn) hazes. It will be debated and listed and copied. Failure to Launch will be sold in a "Three for ten bucks" clearance sale at your local big box store.

V for vendetta has a message. Not one that people will want to hear. Lesser minds won't get it. Greater minds will think it foolish and obvious and for those of us with minds in the middle, the message is cool and what makes a movie not just a flick but a piece of art and a collectible.

Not surprisingly, V for Vendetta was made by the movie with a message people that brought you The Matrix. Unlike The Matrix, which lost it's message by being long-winded about it (had the "I had a dream" speech been four hours, no one would have remembered it) V for Vendetta doesn't have anywhere to go in a sequel, which should save it from sucking ass. Not that a sequel will get made, but had it been a hit they would have tried.

By the way, for all of you that care to know... Sin City TWO is coming soon. That's right, a flop at the box office, but a hit for a solid year on DVD and it's back to shove it's mastery of the art form back in the faces of the Oscar voters. Sadly, one of the worst things you can do in a movie is bring someone back from the dead in the sequel (Star Wars, Highlander, City Slickers) but Sin City is going to do just that with Mickey Rourke. I hope it works.

I am just coming down from my popcorn buzz, so I gotta run. I hope you all get a chance to see a movie real soon. As a form of entertainment, you can't beat the price. As a way to escape your problems and live in another world for a few hours, it's beyond priceless.