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).

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

Not a real blogger

Greg Walloch and I were talking after the PVC (Poetry Versus Comedy) show last week about performing at WYSIWYG show together {horrific realization of the product placement in that last phrase--ah well, to make art is to have to advertise}, how much fun it was, and the response that we had gotten. He told me that there was some woman who rated everyone on her blog. I guess that is what blogs are for, so everyone can be their own Roger Ebert/Simon Cowell/Ed McMahon's Star Search and rate everything in the world in order to identify themselves (and that is not said to disparage the girl or her blog, because more people probably read her than me, and she's probably very topical, as is the going definition of a blog--although, who gives a shit about topical: life is ancient, and everything topical has cycled around for eons and eons, so let me time travel and talk about what the fuck I want. Also, I apparently got all 5 stars for my quick-spat version of being a ho and talking about it. God Bless America, I am going on the road with this baby...) and basically Sing their Life. It just seems so unnatural to me that that is what we are doing now, as if we are done talking about ideas (or perhaps just momentarily tired of it, New Dark Age come on!) and we are just going to talk about each other. It is probably going to be a long time of us doing that before we snap the other way and try to expand more than just our technology. Although critique is important. It keeps all us artist types relevant. The point of communicating is to communicate, to touch, to join, to meet, to see. And if all your utopian elocutions are doing splattering off people's dress shirts, then people need to "boo"-up for themselves.

At any rate, Greg was also telling me about some blogger giving him the comment that he wasn't a "real blogger" and after years of I am sure, being told what he was and was not, should or should not be, I am sure this man gives a shit. However, I thought it was an interesting distinction. And probably apt in the end, as "real bloggers" seem to be people who cannot experience a breath in this life without having a public opinion on it, and there are those of us who seem to be opinion phonies--while eloquent, we just can't stop caring about ourselves enough to stay in constant contact with our potential audience. I guess I am going to be secretary or archivist of that club, as I am not a real blogger either. In essence, I love the form of being able to write privately and be spied upon knowingly. It's my kind of funny art fetish. But I am not like most of my friends who seem to want to share every event they went to, participated in, report on every email forward they have received or silly story about their aunt's puppy's rash. I know this is the stuff of life, but really, isn't all of this tedious enough in the flesh--should we really be bringing it into the spheres of the pyschic and intellectual? There is so much already in that sphere that we haven't taken care of yet. Alright, blatantly I am a snob. I just see no reason to talk to the people who are interested in the discussion of puppy rash. Or who want to waste time mocking it.

I am, however, interested in consistently contradicting myself, so let me know when I betray that diatribe by doing it, please.

So in other retrospective news (damn blogger for not letting me back date my blogs anymore):

What I have been up to--
  • Did a taping show at Mo Pitkins on Weds. March 1st. One of the better comedy shows I have ever done in terms of the general level of talent. All sort of people on the underground comedy scene... although we all occasionally pop up at a club doing some random shit--bringing all our friends out so that they don't have money to buy us drinks afterward--most of these people produce their own comedy shows in bars and other holes around town, blog their little asses off, and make sure their shit is always out there, even if it's every week to the same 10 people. There weren't any of those horrific lulls in the night where someone who has a lot of falsely supportive friends and family comes out and coughs up their stinky soul for everyone to get sick over. However, the drawback it seems is the lack of drink minimum and built anticipation of the audience. Comedy club audiences have that knack for being from NJ and less intellectually snobby, therefore ready to laugh at all the vagina jokes they can handle. Plus they have paid a bunch of cash, so someone is going to deliver the goods before they leave. Our audience was decidedly more studied, and was perhaps waiting for an informative lecture on the history of time while they studied the show from an amused distance. People were good, but everyone was hung up over Lent or something.
  • Went to do some karaoke at Sing Sing after aforementioned show with my surprise entourage of Breen and Jesse (Breen's in town from New Orleans looking for law jobs for the summer), Alexis whose wit seems to make her ever-thinner, and who, in the parallel universe of fetish in my mind, occupies a Jodhpur-wearing Mistress Sonia role, And Greg (not Walloch, but a 'Burg denizen with a shaved head and goatee which just whispers pervert all over your pink parts. These are the people that I draw with my siren song of insanity. He's a sweetie though. And his wife's really hot). I did some classic bar karaoke which I can cross of my list of experiences I didn't know I wanted to have (probably repeatedly), and then we went to Lit and hung out in the downstairs lair of dancing and other deviant activity. There we had some bad drinks in plastic cups and danced to a random mix of mostly good and entirely too retro music. I flung sweat off my body onto other patrons with gyrations praised by hot girls presumed Euro. Everyone was saying German, but I was feeling Canadian. Tall Canadian girls and I have an unspoken thing for one another. The most random part of the evening was being accosted by the drunk Korean girl while waiting in line for the bathroom. She hurtled herself onto Alexis and myself with her light and peached intoxicated bones and perfect spongy skin. She had a sliding accent of drunk and horny, and therefore we never got a name, or what her story actually was. But apparently she wanted to fuck. She grabbed Alexis and myself on boobs and crotch at different times to intimate this to us over the unsting of the music. Apparently she was cheating on her boyfriend who was cheating on her, or who wasn't but didn't have as big a dick as the guy she was cheating with, or wanted to cheat with perhaps. It was unclear. When the bathroom door opened, and I departed from her to leave the details with Alexis while I peed, she followed me to explain, locking the door behind us and pulling down her pants. She peed and complained that her boyfriend was Korean and wasn't going to fuck her, but she wanted to fuu-uu-uu-uuk she explained, with an emphasizing crotch grab to me. She finished peeing, and then it was my turn to be entirely free with my body and share a drunken pee with her. I took my whiz while she talked about how she wanted to be fucked noo-oo-oo-oow with a big dick (like she had finally come to some ground-breaking conclusion on this subject) and reworked several scarves around her neck and waist. It's a good thing that I am too socially submissive to have any boundaries. I would have had a difficult time arguing with her that she'd have to tell me this and feel me up through the door while I peed. It is this defect that has made me such an accepting individual. However, I did peel off toward the back room as we both exited the lavatory, hoping that her fucking momentum would land her bird-like arms heavily on the shoulders of visitors longer amused than I. Funny that we walked out of the bathroom together. When the bathroom door initially opened to let me in, two girls walked out, and rather than think that they were in there doing what girls do: peeing and talking together (it's a sacred right of pack intimidation that women go through in bonding, hunting, etc.), all I thought was, where's the coke, ladies? I am sure two other people saw a big black lady and a small Korean prettybird fly out of the lavatory and thought quite the same thing.
It is because of nights like this, and all of the vodka gimlets that I apparently can't stop drinking, that I have had a cold for the past 7 days that I am not even thinking about getting rid of yet. All this in prep for another weekend of hellish hours and feelings of inadequacy. But more on that later as the saga of my unemployment continues.


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