Me Big. You Little.

Desiree Burch is bigger and badder than you. Except when she's smaller and better (with more parentheticals than you can handle).

Friday, October 28, 2005

And then of course, there is reincarnation

Hosana and Jubilation! Eddie's not dead-ee. This is TOTALLY like when I lost my favorite umbrella.

Uh. All I can say it, he seemed super dead yesterday morning, but I left the light on in his tank anyway, cause I didn't have time to take him out in the morning, and I was hoping to keep him dry (smell and the like) and to roast some of those fucker crickets. When I got the fuck home last night, he was all sprung in his lizard hammock, checking out the bugfood.

Sorry for the false alarm guys. But thanks for still not sending me any love. you fuckers.

Maybe it's like when Catwoman died in Batman Returns, and then the cats licked her wounds and she woke up all cat like. Maybe Eddie's got zombie cricket qualities now. Or maybe he's just really good at playing lizard possum.

Thursday, October 27, 2005

No one emails you...

on a day like today... when you are hoping for email, for a little escape. No email.

usually you get 15 emails a day, people asking you to do shit, wanting information, learning a new word a day or trying to give you the low-down on cialis. usually there is at least one thing that makes you happy, or someone going, "How are you." On days that are shitty, you never get any good email. You never get the diversion you look for. Everyone, you imagine, is feeling as shitty as you are, and no one cares.

Although I did get a lovely email from Carolyn this morning, but she wanted me to do a benefit I can't do, and then I was sad. And I got a sweet pea email from Becky. It was funny. I meant to email her back, but I was too busy blogging all damn day.

Birth 2 Death Addendum

The title of the post comes from a Tulip Sweet (and her Trail of Tears) song of the same name. It came on my iRiver this morning when I was searching through comfy old Elton John songs to listen to... Today is the kind of day where I want to listen to Radiohead and the Divine Comedy and the occasional Antony, as well as Elton, since he is what I bounced on my bed to when I was 6, and sometimes you just need to go back there. But the song, if you get a chance to hear it, is perfect for that kind of feeling.

And of course, this morning, I couldn't help wondering, I couldn't help feeling like, if I had not bailed on the Comedy Social Show I was supposed to do last night, I wouldn't have had time to stop by the pet store before going home, and I wouldn't have gotten that blue death ray. I would have gone to my local pet store, and the this weekend (and just used the day lights until then) and they would have known what the fuck was going on. And I think about how sick and tired I was last night. How sick I felt on the train this morning, still... and how I would rather feel twice as bad now and still have my pet. I should have just gone and done the show, no matter how much better my body feels that I didn't.

And If I weren't so lazy, I would have refused the sub-standard light and gone to find the right one. Or I would have paid attention to shit like that, and have known I couldn't use that one, because I am sure one of the PetLand geeks told me that already. Or I wouldn't spend all my money on food and smokes and weed and wine and entertainment and I would still be able to afford cable and my internet, and I could have looked something up.

Woulda. Coulda. Shoulda. I should go back in time and change all that. Later.

Birth 2 Death

Well, I am at the god-awful hell-hole snake pit again, which is why I have internet access. I have none at home right now. It makes me sad, but my life seems functional. I need to go to work. So I can communicate. I think it is causing odd synapse-formation in my brain. But that is how we people become what we are. Asked to control it.

My eyes are red with smoke. From every cigarette, every bowl that I have smoked. They are dry like my throat, the bloody throat. I imagine the ribbed walls of my trachea curled over like his little fingers.

My lizard is dead today. I killed him. I thought I might, but didn't think I would. I got him the wrong light. I had this little pimplefaced girl tell me it was okay. That it was enough heat. That it was probably enough. That I could just check the cheap thermometer I have that doesn't work. She didn't even listen when I told her what kind of lizard he was. I thought better of it. I thought it might not work. I checked the thermometer in the tank a million times, and it didn't change. Thought that was a good thing, but I should have known that meant nothing but trouble. Well, actually, it did look like it changed a bit. Which allowed me to convince myself. I was just so tired. And the light was blue and pretty. And Eddie was up bounding around, eating the crickets had just gotten for him. And even after all that, I still checked the heat from the light, 3 times. Whatever. I am sure everyone goes through this when someone, something dies... what they could have done. I am sure it's classic. Even for a lizard. I just feel awful.

Even last night, before I went to bed and froze him with the winter light, I was thinking about him. How long we had been together. What a fantastic pet he was. How when I first got him, I showed him to everyone. So proud. I feel like I killed my baby. I mean, of course a baby would cry if it were too cold, and I shouldn't use a dead desert creature as an indication of potential parenting skills. Even though he was my first pet. Like, truly mine. And of course part of me is surprised he even lived this long. And that I remembered to turn his lights off and on (just last night I was freaking about getting something battery-operated, in case there were a blackout like in 8/03, or--more likely--if I got my electricity turned off or something). I had often left him unattended for a long weekend, or had not fed him for a week or something. I boasted that he was easier to take care of than a plant. He was. It's proof how we take life for granted that I thought last night, "perhaps I should leave the day light on just in case... (he dies)" But then I thought, "He won't die. He never dies (duh)." And he's dead.

And he is still in his tank, with the daylights on, wedged behind his big rock, where he died. His little crunchy claws curled up in a way that I knew was unnatural when I saw them this morning. His little rosey mouth pursed the way it always was... God, last night he was so animate/this morning I knocked hard on the glass next to his head, just to see... just to start him the way that I knew I could, even when he was hungry, and I was broke, and I thought he was close to death (though I knew he was the animate form of a cactus, and could always lay close to death and be fine, kind of like me. They way he was very still, and hovered in liminal consciousness, until it was time to eat, or start himself from his routine... or to watch TV, which like me, he loved). No movement. The thickest of knocking and still I wanted to see a squint in his eyes, to know that he could come back. His rapid heartbeat clutched in the palm of my hand, and his powerless struggle in my grasp. The way he laid next to me like a heat rock, feeling my heartbeat and relishing my 98.6. The way he wore his hat. The way he sung off-key... Yeah, you get the picture.

Oh yeah, and Karl Rove is about to get indicted or something, but no one will notice or care today because Harriet Miers says she's looking out for the best interests of the country by withdrawing her unqualified nomination today, after several weeks of scrutiny. I bet no one on capitol hill wakes up with a dead lizard, and then has to burst into unwanted tears over that, and subsequently everything else that is wrong with their lives (isn't it amazing how that happens? It's like your brain sees it's opportunity to void itself of pain when something sharp and acute strikes you. It's what I like to call the "burnt pop-tarts syndrome" where something momentarily atrocious occurs, and all of the deep-seated pain that turns to blue sludge that causes mold in the corners of your mind comes flooding to the surface for it's chance to be set free. the problem is, that stuff doesn't really go away... it is just reminded of its existence... painfully... as I am most days. AAAAAHHH the MEANINGLESS OBLIVION!!! okay... i'm over it). I bet they all just keep going according to the plan, believing in the plan, living life by the plan. It's an evil plan. And I have no further intentions of talking about any of them, or their evil plans today. My friend is dead.

And don't give me greif about the self-aggrandizing sorrow. This isn't like the time I wrote the poem about the umbrella I lost in Port Authority, only to return to the shitty pizza shop where I had left it and find that someone had turned it in for me (of course then, only to finally have it break a year later, and still it was the best umbrella--a favorite accessory, by the way--that I have had). This hurts me. And I finally caved and told Molly, the girl at my work... the only one with potentially more problems than me (misery does love company) , and the self-proclaimed emotional communist who has to know everything that is going on. It wasn't like I was keeping it from her. It's just best to keep the bastard sheilds up for everyone at work because most of them are bastards, and it hurts less not to let anyone/thing in or be a person just to have someone be fake in return (though she's rarely like that). And mostly I don't feel like sharing things when I am going through them, just so someone else can jump down into the mudpit and wallow with me. But I felt very (or at least, "slightly more," which is "very" to me) grown-up by talking about it. Like I was being mature about it or something, despite wanting to keep it to myself.

I really want to talk with Tracy about it. Partially because we are pet-owner friends (she's petsat for me, and vice versa) and oddly because, since she lost her father in May, it's been weird how little we have talked about him. And I am one of her best friends. I am surprised at how well-adjusted she has been, how functional. Because she's had to be, of course. And in her case, it doesn't feel like she's holding back this brooding reservoir of pain. But still, something feels amiss in the way that we haven't had a good long talk/cry together in person. Perhaps I am just being selfish in thinking that she should do that with me. Part of me is feeling guilty that I haven't been a good-enough friend to her through this. I don't want to burden her with death while she's studying tort reform. But hell, I know that she will be able to understand. And perhaps we could watch some Eddie Izzard together, and I could feel some sense of closure in the circle (Even though we wouldn't have to watch that particular Eddie Izzard concert).

I went back to the Union Square Petco at lunch and returned the murderous blue night light I bought. The cute skinny girl with pimples that's nice (the one who nicely sold me the fucking light that she had no idea would work or not) was not around. But I am going to need that 9 dollars that it was worth. Oh, it's ugly. Eddie's still in his tank. I didn't have the time, energy, desire to remove him just yet. The new crickets I bought for him last night are probably eating his remains. Oh how the times have changed Eddie Lizzard. Someday they little calf babies will eat the grass that grows from my disintegrated remains as well. And the daylights will keep shining. I'm so sorry.

Wednesday, October 26, 2005

11:11 Phenomenon

Coincidence in it's highest form. Make sure that when you catch it on the clock, you spare the moment for awareness.

Last week (or was it the week before... fuck, what's going on these days?) I took my friend Kyle(bear) to see Antony and the Johnsons at Carnegie Hall. For those of you who know Antony, it sounded much better than it was. That's unfair. It was a gorgeous show, even though, as with all old theaters, my overgrown 21st centuryAmerican body was uncomfortable in those 20th century old theater seats... However, I was admittedly disappointed that Antony has (at least for the present) shirked his ethereal and effeminate diva chanteuse atmosphere for one that is more technical. Instead of being behind the mic, Antony was behind the piano, taking breaks to have a aged jazz performer, Jimmy (something.... gotta look up his name. I am sure he is important. I mean, he sang "Sometimes I feel like a Motherless Child" and Elton John's "Sorry Seems to be the Hardest Word" for chrissakes) come out and sing and be handed roses, and giving over his encore performance to Lou Reed (it seems like the two are hopelessly in love for this lifetime with each other) which is all fine, but taken in altogether, I feel like we didn't get to see that much of Antony in the concert, which is the reason that hundreds of people were there. Although Antony did do a fantastic riff on Whitney Houston's "I wanna dance with somebody" involving a fantasy with the lovely Shania Twain. It was truly a highlight, although he didn't sing Rapture or River of Sorrow, two songs from his first album that make me crumble. Most of the songs were from later albums that I am less familiar with.

But moving right along to the jist of things... Kyle and I had an amazing night together, which is usually what I give him for his birthday, and then we headed to the Ameritan hotel for snazzy, overpriced drinks. This is where Meghan the bartender comes in. After Kyle and I did some catching up over dirty martinis, the bartender sort of became part of our conversation. Of course, she is a performer to, and could tell that we were from the timbre of our voices (which is always a compliment... god, I sound like such an actor douchebag right now) and she talked about the fact that she did voice-over work, which is something I want to get into. We also noticed her spiritual detox book on the bar, and assumed that she was into the holistic mysticism that these days gets lumped into being "new age." After talking about all the things we all do, we traded email addresses, and I noted aloud that it was interesting that hers ended in 11. I told her it was one of my favorite numbers. And she asked why immediately.

I told her it was because it had a special symbolism for me since I was a teenager. To be honest, it came from 11:11, which I knew for a while, was significant to others outside of the sphere of my best friend from home and myself, but didn't realize was such a huge gap in space and time. My best friend growing up, Lauren, and I used to catch 11:11 all the time on the LCD clock in my cloudmobile (the white Jeep Grand Cherokee that I drove around that was my parent's and was also my freedom for several years) when we would get stoned and hang out in the parking lot by the Metro Rail station in Fullerton, CA. 11:11 extended beyond the car for the two of us, but it was always kind of our 4:20; something we would catch and give knowing looks and congratulations to one another for spotting.

When Meghan asked me why I liked 11, I essentially told her that my best friend and I used to catch 11:11 all the time, and it meant something to us.

She was obviously enthused by the connection and urged me to "google 11:11." "There's some stuff going on with 11:11," she said. "You'll see," she told me.

Well, that shit is true as hell. There is some shit going down with 11:11. Essentially, as it beconed a certain recognition from Lauren and myself, that is essentially the role of 11:11. It is a reminder of consciousness. It is a reminder of awareness. It is a reminder of the synchronicity in this world, of the plane where sprituality and geometry connect.

Yes And...

So I hosted Chicks and Giggles at the new Mo' Pitkins last night. It was a fantabulous show. The lineup was stellar: Pat Candaras (the amazing), Margot Leitman (whom I adore), Fiona Walsh (who I met the first time I did Gotham, and I just love her to death), and this woman, Negin Farsad, who is intellectual, insightful, and Iranian (to go with a bit of alliteration before I say she's hilarious), who I am so happy to have met, as well as Adira Amram, whose name I mispronounced while intro and outro-ing her, I think, but who is one of the most amazing performers I have seen in a long time (who is, incidentally, not to incite any riots in the comedy community, a much more interesting musical comedian than Jessica Delfino, who was also supposed to do the show that night, but again, snubbed a show that I was hosting... anyone who knows about this knows about how this happened before when she was headlining a Smut that I was hosting, and how I felt like she "Bronson Pinchot"ed me, and now I have this pseudo arch-nemesis rage, even though I think she's hilarious and a fantastic performer). And Becky Yamamoto came and did a set, cause Jessica bailed and I asked her to come. So really, it was like a dream show. And my new herpes bit went over well, and all was full of love. It felt good to have a good show, especially since I have felt kind of dry at the last couple of Smuts.

I hadn't seen Becky in forever, and I sure hadn't seen her do standup. She has gotten to be AMAZING, I think. Handling herself so well when she is not killing (which is the sign of a great comedian) and killing the rest of the time, just by being relaxed and herself. It's so good to see in your contemporaries... because you are proud of them, and because it is inspiring for you. Then we stuck around to have a glass of wine and talk about sex and how cute the (always) Irish bartender was.

Rachael Parenta showed up, and it was the first time I have ever had a chance to talk with her extensively. She is a really wonderful person. And hilarious. It's so good to know positive, wonderful people who are comedians. Cause comedians get that bum rap because they usually hate everyone, you know? But Becky and I were just talking about how wonderful Carolyn Castiglia is. Just as a person, as a comedian, as a producer. How amazing, how driven, how kind and authentic she is. And then Rachael showed up. And we had a great time with her as well. And Becky bought me 2 happy drunken glasses of wine. And for that, she is the truest of friends.

Rachael was telling us how the one time she hooked up with someone who was uncircumcized, she was giving him a handjob, and in the middle he yelled, "you're doing it wrong!" Which, I suppose means that she wasn't giving him any sensation through his little turtleneck or whatever. I kind of always feel like if you got a good tight grip on it, and not too much friction, you are doing right just by holding the damn thing. But I was like, "NO FUCKING WAY!" There is no "you're doing it wrong!" in sex. You don't yell that. Once two people are naked, there is to be no flinging of insults. There is no "No, BAD!," only "Yes. And..." Like in any good improv game. You have to establish something, and then of course, respect what has been established, and commit to what you are doing and the world that you have created. That is "Yes, and...." If something needs to be changed, it must be adapted based upon what has come before. And if what has come before is a bad hand-job, then you have to say, "Yes, And...." making it the most creatively good handjob ever. People are pricks, and should be so thankful that anyone wants to fuck their homely ass... Seriously.

Incidentally, a beautiful woman named Signey who was at the show, came up to me afterward, and based on my herpes set, recommended a great French gynecologist. A lovely man with a Parisian accent who will stick two fingers into your vagina, have a cultured look and say, "Ah. Perfect!" when he's all done. Sounds like my kinda guy. If he ever complained about a handjob, I am sure it would be the most charming thing ever.

Thursday, October 20, 2005

In Other News...

So you know I freakin' sent that post as an email to Marc Maron (email from his website) and don't you know that I got a reply back. And he DOES in fact, live in Astoria, like 4 blocks away from me. So THERE, all you nay-sayers who ask me why. Why Astoria? Two words--they rhyme with Farc Faron.

Also, in other news. I hate everyone in my office today. They keep smiling at me. Can't they see my head is in a bowl of snot. I have zero tolerance for pleasantries. Just tell me what the fuck you want from me. I'll do it. Why do people have to take personally the fact that I hate everyone somedays. I don't hate you. I hate everybody. There is such a difference.

Speaking of which, the fucking laundromat lost my favorite brown sweater that Syren gave to me from the Old Navy. It was from a couple of years ago. I wonder if they have more of those long grampa sweaters (the turtle necks that have the double-zipper and go down to mid-thigh). If any of you are O.N. freaks (I just went there for the first time like a tool bag two days ago, and bought my first pair of velour pants... for a tiny film part I got, but they are comfy as fuck, and I was looking for work-out pants for fat chicks, and saw that O.N. had a plus-size section, which won my heart a little--though they could add a little plus to the size of the actual section... all they had was fucking velour... so like 3 fat black chicks can be like.... "oooh, track suits in 4 different colors. yes!" --cause that's what they'd say), and know if they have one of these, I MUST have another. It was the comfiest sweater ever. I feel like a friend has died. Just cause I gave my laundry to the new chick at the laundromat. And I wouldn't have dropped of my laundry anyway if I had time to wipe my ass anymore without someone being pissed at me that I am not doing something I am supposed to be doing with them.

Oh. Tom DeLay got arrested. And God said, "Vengeance is Mine."

It seems like everyone wants me to do things these days. Plays. Films. Writing. When it rains, it pours. But it never pours money.

Thursday, October 13, 2005

Marc Maron is stalking me.

I am sure our lives are meant to collide. I know it.

The first time I saw you was at the 23rd street uptown platform waiting for a train. You were all in a suit and stuff, like you were going to a show or a job interview or some thing random... and I walked by you, and was like... hmmm.... wait, who is that? Is that? Huh? that's not Marc Maron... is it? whoa, yeah, that's Marc Maron. What the hell is he doing on my train? That was like, at least 6 months, if not a year ago... when you had the short hair.

Then I saw you like, 2 months ago (longer hair now), walking down Steinway Street toward 30th avenue... at least, that's where I was coming from. I live in Astoria. On 30th and 41st. And there was some like, massive street fair, like there always is on Steinway, and you were wearing a blue Air America tshirt and shorts and working your way, as I was, through big butts pushing strollers. I saw you and smiled really big and you smiled back. and I was like, "what the hell is Marc Maron doing in Astoria?" I assumed it was some kind of "man on the street" type action, and you were getting some outer-borough flavor. I mentioned this to one of my friends, and they were like... "I think marc maron lives in Astoria." And i was like... wait, first of all, how would you know that? BACK OFF! Secondly, why the fuck would Marc Maron live in Astoria? That just makes me like Astoria even more than I already do. I mean, I dog on Astoria all the time, because there is just so much retarded fodder there... Stores called "Temptation... for KIDS!" and stickers on the door of the liquor store that read "Kids, No hope in DOPE!" I think for a writer or comedian, it's so perfect. You always have something to hate on.

Then I saw you like two weeks ago... at least the back of you... as you were walking down 5th Avenue. I work at 5th Ave. and 21st Street. My co-worker and I were outside smoking and caught you with your backpack and shorts on trucking down to an office of some sort (we assumed) on 5th. My friend was like... "holy crap, that's Marc Maron. I remember him from that show on VH1..." and then we gushed a bit over your virtues and walked down the block a bit, to see if we could see where you went to... just in case you had gone into the Bath and Body Works to stock up on your tea tree oil or something... we were going to find out. Yeah, we made it to like, the Body Shop and then gave up.

And freakin' then, I saw you Monday, as I was walking to the NYSC on 30th and 38th, and you were walking past Duane Reade. and it took me only a second this time, and i was like, "that's Marc Maron isn't it. I know it. What the fuck? Marc Maron is stalking me!" and then I was going to turn right there and say something to you, but I am girl, so I second-guessed myself a moment too long (my first thought was "I'm in my gym clothes... I can't just go talking to some famous comedian. He's probably on his way somewhere, like Duane Reade and doesn't want to be bothered while he purchases Vapo Rub," but then i decided to look to see where you went, and then, again, you completely evaporated.

You are good at that evaporating thing. Like you're some kind of social critiquing soluble fluid or something. Or a gnome. A gnome who is following me for some reason. Perhaps it is because you know that you look like this guy that I hooked up with and totally fell for over the summer, and you are just trying to rub it in that I still think about him a lot, even though I was supposed to be mature and detatched. Perhaps it is because you are trying to remind me of my comedic and performance values, and are highlighting my need for a mentor, and many, many guideposts. Perhaps you are trying to tell me, "Hey, I live in Astoria, and I sure would love it if you would cat-sit for me, and actually live in my probably swank apartment while my wife and I are being bicoastal in Los Angeles, and that way you would be able to live alone, in the neighborhood you like, for really cheap, and you wouldn't have to worry about your annoying, nosy Greek landlord getting pissed everytime you make a creak in the floorboards." I hope it is the latter, Marc Maron. Cause that would really rock. And if that's the case, you don't have to be so shy about it. Next time you see me, as you are following me on the N train, or on the tredmill next to me at the gym, or looking through my window or something, just be like... "Hey, what up Des? Want to get some cheesecake at Galaxy Cafe and sublet my apartment?" And I'll be sure to get the restraining order removed.

Thursday, October 06, 2005

Fit to be Tied?

Fit to be Tied? Fit to be Tied? What the fuck is this shit? Derek Jeter on the fucking front page? Who gives a fuck? It’s fucking baseball. How the fuck is that news? How the fuck does this stupid, Mongoloid bullshit make the fucking front page of a New York City newspaper?! What the fuck, did he find Osama Bin Laden? No? Then get his jailbait-loving, Visa-shilling ass back to the fucking sports section. Who gives a shit about baseball? Did you notice there was a fucking war going on? Fuck baseball, and fuck you for crunching into another complacent hot dog and gobbling up this phony escapist nightmare. National fucking pastime my asshole. Last time I checked, the national fucking pastime was blowing the fuck out of nations of brown people and then building a fucking McDonalds there, so we can make the survivors serve burgers that cost more than their lives are worth for a quarter an hour because it’s more than the quarter a week they get to stitch the fucking shoes these pig-fuckers get paid millions of dollars to endorse every year. Hanging out in a park, smacking around their bats and balls, trying not to get testicular cancer. Meanwhile I can’t watch fucking “HOUSE” on Fox for a month because these shit-kickers need all of October to buy and sell beer to each other.

Just because some lazy dickhead with a camera spends half a day at a ball game, I’m supposed to act like it’s news? Some fucking petulant tabloid hack telling me I am supposed to give a shit if these rat bastards are on drugs or not. OF COURSE they’re on drugs! If it was my job to have some redneck fuck scream at me in the sun while I tried to hit a speeding ball with a stick all day for 5 or 10 years until my arms ripped off at the elbow, I’d do a lot of fucking drugs too. Performance-enhancing drugs? Great! You think any rational human being can work up this much aggression over a fucking ball?

It’s going, going, gone and it’s another beautiful jerk-fest today in the ballpark. Everyone grab your shriveled nuts and sing the Anthem!

You know what would be news? Let one of these knuckle-scraping assholes hop off an aircraft carrier and start knocking the plastic explosives out of the hands of terrorists—that’s news! An athlete doing something useful—that’s front page! I’ll buy that for a quarter Rupert Murdoch. This is why most women don’t give a shit about sports, ‘cause there is too much real shit going on to bother with this trifling crap. You can bet if more women played sports, there would be a lot less ass-slapping and a lot more murder. And that’s what we really want to see anyway. Oh, you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. Would you? Maybe I can get on the front page too.

Saturday, October 01, 2005


For whatever reason, I keep trippin'.
I don't know why.
Why I be trippin?

For whatever reason I am in an astrological or spiritual cycle these past couple of weeks. I keep tripping on stuff. Like a pothole in the middle of the street, or not quite lifting my foot up high enough to make the next stair. After my show at Gotham on Thursday, I was walking back inside from talking to my friends to get my purse, and I fully ate it on the spill mat at the door. Took a spill on the mat if you will.

There is about an inch where the marble of the floor is raised from that of the entry, so I tripped on the inch, and began my high-powered careen into the bridge & tunnel youth that I had just entertained. I was doing that thing where you're running to try to get your balance back on the up and up, but it's not running, so you are just increasing the velocity with which you are eventually going to hit something. Rather than hit the soft, plushy bodies of the kids from Jersey, I decided to take a fall, and crashed into the ground before injuring anyone. Two 20somethings had to help me to my feet, and this is after I encouraged them to use a lower center of gravity because the upper body yanks were not nearly enough to get me to my feet. And then as I brushed myself off, they went... "you were really funny."

All part of the show folks.

And then I met the headliner, who I had not seen (aside from stage time, I spent the rest of the show downstairs in the comedian coral), Andrew Kennedy-who was standing there with this other comedian I had met (named Steve, who incidentally, was very kind to me and talked to me after my show, as a 14 year comedy veteran, about how good my stuff was and how I could improve... I asked him to come and do Smut sometime when I am hosting... but I think I might not be hearing from him, after the fall... oh well, he was kind of cute, and we all know that thing is never good in a fellow comedian--don't date comedians, we are all FUCKED). Apparently he is going to be getting a show on Comedy Central or something. If he ever needs a big black lady to come crashing through the set like the Kool Aid man, I hope he will think of me.

Well, 'tis the season for a little humility. I keep thinking of that Antony & the Johnsons song "Rapture" recently:

"Oh my mama
She's been falling
Falling down for quite some time
And oh my papa
He's been falling
Falling down for quite some time
Oh my friends
I've watched them falling
Falling softly to the ground
Like the leaves
The Leaves are falling
Down in silence to the ground
Is this the rapture?
Is this the rapture?"