Fruit on the bottom yogurt.

I hate it. Hate Hate Hate it.

This should rank up there as a testament to my laziness. A list which includes (occasionally) not using a wine glass because they are higher up on the shelf, making food/lunch on paper plates because I hate dirty dishes, Leave the TV on at night because I'm too tired to lean over and grab the remote (same goes for turning off the kitchen light. Hey, that's like, downstairs...man.), the collection of 20 oz. plastic water bottles behind my passenger seat (It never gets higher than "ankle deep") and avoiding going inside the house to use the bathroom after mowing the lawn because you don't feel like unlacing and taking off your dirty workboots. Ok that was an outright lie, but the thought did cross my mind.

(coughs)

My point is I like my daily dose of calcium, acidopholous and enzymes to be pre-mixed thankyouverymuch. Instead of a half-stirred glop which landed suspiciously close to my creeee-yotch, and has the unfortunate appearance of a private "fantasy induced" bathroom dalliance. Yeah. The day I don't wear my "stainblocker" dockers.

I'm just glad I have shout wipes. And a dirty mind.

Stoopid fruit on the bottom fuck-gurt.

I'm sick sad right now. A former SM that I had the pleasure to work with passed away as a result of a car accident on her way home from work. She was 24 years old.

In my brain, it has always been very important to befriend your tech crew during the run of the show. This goes (almost) double for your Stage Manager- SM's, good SM's are an incredibly rare and invaluable asset around these parts. And there are many of my friends and associates who would agree that the same can be said of this young lady. Personally and professionally she will be deeply missed by many of us.

My sincerest condolences to her family and (current) cast over at CTC.

Pax, Phylly Dawg.

Tag, y'all

Just a thought (brought about by a typo) Wouldn't be funny if it was called "bloffing" instead of blogging?

"7 Things" Time Waster...play along, playa's

Seven things you plan to do before you die: (1) Travel extensively overseas, (2)Get married, (3)Sell my house and buy a new one, (4) Learn to tap dance-well, (5) Get my black belt, (6) Buy a new car, (7) Be "Debt free"

Seven things you can't do: (1) Drive a stick (Not very well. I'll grind your clutch out), (2)Stay on task (easily distracted), (3)The complete sideways split, (4) Save $, (5)Brecht, (6)Sing "Pop" music, (7) Be serious all the time

Seven things you can do:(1) Jump spin wheel kick, (2) Cook and Clean (3) Make you laugh (4) Stand up in front of a lot of people and not wet my pants (5) Say "Hello" and various other dumb phrases in foreign languages (6) Really good impersonations- and not just of celebrities (7) Drink my weight in Pinot Grigio.

Seven things that attract you to the opposite sex (1) Sense of humor, (2) A bit of danger [Not "dangerous" per se, rather something personality-wise that is adventurous] (3) a little crazy. It keeps things interesting (4) Open Minded (5) takes care of themselves. They don't have to be fitness goddesses, but at least care (6) Flattery. Say something nice and I'll follow you anywhere (7) Toucher. ['specially themselves....WHOOPS!] Being unafraid to make physical contact says a lot about a person.

I was gonna say "Good teeth" but I think that fits under #5

Seven things you say most: (1) I love you (2) brilliant (3) fuck (4) my pleasure (5) not a problem/no worries (6) please/thank you/your welcome (7) The bottom line is...

Seven celebrity crushes: (1) Fergie from the Black Eyed Peas (2) Jennifer Connelly circa "The Rocketeer" (3) Gwen Stefani (4) Jessica Biel [A cop out, for sure] (5) Angelina Jolie [Another one, I know] (6) Salma Hayek (7) That chick that played Monique in "Better off Dead". Lane Meyer could have SO spent more time with her.

Seven people you want to take this quiz: Doi. Nanook, Redwright, Geef, Kaiser, Portana, Tallen, Ry-Gonn, G-7 and his Weef (The Raver) Butterfly Girl and whoever else wants to get their jollies being distracted.

Take My QUIZ!!!!

New irrational fear...

This just in- The lamprey #'s have increased in the great lakes. Man, if I ever need something else to be irrationally afraid of latching on to me bits and pieces whilst swimming, well... thar be monsters.


Yuck, Yuck, and YUCK!!! They ain't even good eatin'!

I've lost it...Really

I talked to the cat again last night. Not in some effed up "Son of Sam" type way, but we conversed. It may have to do with my refusal to talk "baby talk" to either babies or animals, thinking that they are just as important as anyone else we converse with...therefore are also deserved of the same treatment in respect toward conversational intercourse. That being said, a dialogue.

P: What?
Jazz: Mrrorw.
P: What?
Jazz: Mrrrr
P: Are you hungry? Did you want wet food or something?
Jazz: (walks forward and flops on my toes)
P: Well, could you maybe wait a half an hour or so? I was gonna go for a run
Jazz: (purrs while I scratch him with my toes)
P: Is that cool?
Jazz: Mrrrwow
P: I'm sorry, I don't speak Chinese. Well I understand Cantonese, just not Mandarin.
Jazz: Mao
P: Yes, Chairman Mao. (Bends over to pet his cuteness, only to have the cat launch up and bite the tender webbing between my thumb and forefinger.) Look, I don't agree with Communism either, but you brought it up!
Jazz: Murrr. (Runs off to flop on living room rug.)

He proceeds to interfere with me the entire time I'm trying to stretch out- curling into my legs, back, and anywhere else he wants petted. It limited my stretch time, and probably is the reason why I'm bloody sore today. We had a talk about it later, and I believe he agreed to not interfere the next time I jog. At least that's what I think "Mrrreeor" means. It could also mean "Fuck off" for all I know. Cats have tempestuous natures.


I get punchy on two job days. And yes, he did get his wet food after my jog, the little bastard.

Creepy

Filed under: I can't make this shit up.

I go to job number two, and am greeted by the most disturbing sight.

"Um, why are there, like, 200 Bunny heads stacked in the warehouse?"

Apparently, the primary warehouse was overstocked, and they did what they always do when they run out of room- stuff it in our store.

So, everytime I needed to go "in the back", I was greeted by 100's of garish, smiling, creepy, mall-bunny heads. And their hassenpfeffer eyes would follow me. When it came time to close shop, I actually had to run out of the back after shutting the lights off.

Nothing like weird silhouetted bunny heads...staring.

Jazz, the cannibal.

I tried taking a nap on Monday, and I woke up to the weirdest sensation: My cat was chewing on my elbow. Not quite painful, or even malicious. More like he was...tenderizing me.

Which is why, I'm quite convinced of two things:

1) If I were to accidentally pass away at home (Heaven Forbid), I'm positive that the authorities would never find a trace of me. An empty shell of a Gap polo shirt and Jeans in the corner of the room, and a very, full, kitty trying to look all innocent. And attempting to hide his fat-ass under the bed.

2) This is also starting to firm up the belief that my cat tries to steal my soul at night by sucking out my breath. Sure, when I wake up he is playfully licking my nostrils....but I know. Oh yes, I knoooooow.

Hmmm 2, Electric Boogaloo

So, this'll mark callback numero four that I didn't land a gig. Oh for Four. Do not despair, gentle readers, as there are a coupla things to consider before y'all click away to sights perverted:

I ain't trippin. Why I am not, said, trippin', is largely due to the fact that I do the following:

1. I know if I've "landed" a gig. Everything else, I just don't assume or rely that I'm gonna get it. I think, in my life, I've only been certain 100% that I got cast in something. Everything else, is up to another person. And I have enough problems thinking for myself than having to worry about what the director is thinking. (And, it lowers the level of disappointment, btw)
2. I don't, in my brain, pre-cast. (This also alludes to Bruce Lee's ethos: "Never assume the outcome of any fight- One must move, and accept every move that comes at them as it happens"- The Tao of Jeet Kune Do) I'm not one of those dudes that looks around the room and thinks "Well, if I played this and they played that, blah blah blah." Why would you do that to yourself? Focus on your job.
3. I pick what gigs I am willing to accept. J gave me that advice a while back (Well, it's actually her ethos...but I kiped it and it has worked for me since.) If you don't feel strongly about what you are auditioning for/getting cast in: Why do it? And that's that- Same with the whole "Taking every gig you are offered" argument. You could wind up cast in some really bad experiences.
4. I don't question the directors choices. I was tossing back cocktails one summer and conversatin' with some local unknown director who gave me the low down on how he casts- If they got someone else in mind, they're gonna go that way. Period.
5. It's a waste of time to be pissy about not being cast. You all know my feelings on wasting time. Seriously, even if you work your ass off for an audition- It doesn't behoove you to be the actor that whines because you immediately invalidate the work you put into the audition. Like building a sandcastle with your single intent of knocking it down again. "I don't understand whhhyyyy I wasn't considered for the role it was peeerrrfect for meeeee" Or some such nonsense. Phooey.
6. There'll be other gigs. Doi.
7. I gots puh-lenty of other shite to do. Seriously, the downstairs terlet backed up. I gotta fix that fucker.
8. I should think about trying stand up comedy. Maybe, Eug and Ryan...Maybe.
9. Maybe you should get to the dojo more than 1-2 X's a week? Yes, sensei.
10. Maybe you should try to get into better shape for your Vega$ trip? (I was pretty, how can you say, thick, last year. Or as my friend Ry said "Were you like, 200? I mean, 190?" Thanks.)
11. Maybe I could try writing....

So yeah. No worries. I'll see y'all at the next one. Just so long as it doesn't interfere with wedding plans. ; )


ps: And, really this is a common sense thing I feel- If you don't get cast, don't lambast. And if you've lambasted in the past...don't bother showing up. Over, you'll be passed. (How someone thinks that they can....well, let's just say people need to activate brain before engaging mouth. Or typing fingers.)

pps: I called the ol' agent to report my hours on the overnight shoot...and landed a stoopid audition. Weird, that.

ppps: There is always Pinot Grigio.

There are days....


When my job...


Sucks ass-o-saurus rex....


And my co-workers....


Get so punchy....



They get weirder than me.


Case in point: Yesterday. Sooooo durn busy, that my eyes (at the end of the day) felt like they were going to run out of my head like they were undercooked eggs. My co-worker, hotcarl, comes over with a plastic lei...and throws it on me like a ring toss. I proceed to turn it into a garotte and try to kill myself. He, in turn, wraps it around his bicep and starts pumping his arm (All while making these Hogan-ish noises like..."Ooooooo...yeah")

Me: "You're weird"
C: "Your mom's weird."

Doi...

Well, this can be filed under BFS (Big Surprise)


I mean really, really..."Lookin' Fine Smut and P0rn0"? (If I were a betting man, I'd wager that it is actually "Smut 'n", not "Smut and".) Maybe the judge would have given them more latitude if it was an adult smut shop called "Happy Warm Fuzzy Teddy Bear Flower Place"?

Yeah...I'd fire your, whoever, it is who invented that delightful sign.


I mean, why not put "Slutty McNasty's Palace of BeeJ: We're a veritable Pornucopia of Sex!"

Something. Maybe the "C'mon Inn" ? (Okay, it's a hotel in Fargo...but the name is kinda suggestive. Kinda)

And Stuff...

The idea's are pretty thin today. Can ya tell I'm gonna be on a vacation for a week?

Wanna see something cool?

This, is martial arts bad-assedness.


It might take a minute to open...so leave it alone while it does. Then hit play...

Iwonnawhutnow?

A 3:30 pm phone call from my friend Ry-Gonn promised free tix to a St. Paul Saints game, free food, and $1 beers. I said yes, and promptly hustled my buns home to get ready. (Seriously, fan or not, if you’ve never experienced the intrinsic joy of outdoor Minor League Baseball, well... you just haven’t lived.)

We arrive et the game, and try to find the group area where the food is being served- On the way, we guffaw at the plethora of Elvis Impersonators, until we discover that it is "Viva Las Vegas" weekend at the stadium. (They host theme weekends, see?) We narfed down burnt ‘dogs (The free concession area was closing when we arrived) and headed to find our seats.
Ry saw a BNW alum that also does stats for the game and they struck up a convo…the jist is, I heard "grumblegrumblegrumble…P can do an Elvis!" Horrified, I turn to see him pointing at me and the mascot smiling predatorily. "No", say I…and before I could do anything the guy grabs my ticket and tells me he’ll flag me down in the 3rd Inning. I was a little miffed at Ry, but I let it slide.

"C’mon, dude…you were in that one show where you did Elvis…’Picasso and the Phlegmy Rabbit' or some shit…?"
"No"
"C’mon, you’re a fuckin’ ringer…." (And then the seal of doom) "Don’t be a fuckin’ pussy"

Normally, I wouldn’t cave in to the double dog dare mentality, but when the dude came up to ask for my full name…I grew a little more daring. So- there I was…in front of a sold out Saints Crowd with two other dudes (Grimace and Olive Oil, was the best way to describe ‘em. Olive Oil took the liberty of Drawing on sideburns and a widow’s peak. Grimace just, well, ate.)
The gimmick was they wanted us to read a commercial spot in between innings ala’ the King. At first, I thought it was me and two "serious" impersonators. Mmmmnot so much.

After Frick and Frack had their turns (and were both, subsequentlycut- off mid-commerical) I did some quick editing of my script, went up and did it. (Something about the farmers market. I cut it so that the last bit was "All this talk 'bout produce has made-ah me hungry...I sure could go for a PB and Banana S-s-s-sammich...Thankyouverymuch.") The people cheered. (Even though they probably only heard: "Grimbledimble, Flim Flam Farmer, wimble Womble doon, dengdobeddybutch.") Heck, I even threw in a little hip shimmy for good measure.

The announcer thanked the other two Elvii, and asked me if I knew what I’d won. "Won? This was a contest?" He looked at me rather incredulously, and said "Ladeez and Gentlemen, give it up for Elvis #3"____", who wins a 5 Day 4 Night Stay at the Golden Nugget Casino in Las Vegas, NV!!!"

So there I was…the anti-ringer in my polo shirt and "Shakespeare in the Park" baseball hat…and apparently a free pass to a Vegas hotel/casino. The short version of the story is I won some shit at the Saints game this Friday night. But I find the punch line is rather gratifying when I say it the long way.

Friday Freakiness

> How music f##ks with my day:
>
> Someone just asked "Do you know where the fax is?", so I started singing (to the tune of AC/DC's "Shook me All Night Long")
>
> "She was a fax machine, something something something something...words and stuff and more" (I only know that first riff, and don't feel like looking up the words online)
>
> Then I went up behind my co-worker Carl, and started singing (to the tune
> of Night Rangers "Sister Christian")
>
> "Muffin Top! What's your price for fries? And find some jeans my size!
> My big-old-butt is wiiiiide!"
>
>
>
>
> We just received an audio update through our speaker system: "CCS (our "Consolidated Client Search" System) is now available. I repeat, CCS is now available". Sooooo, I said to my boss (rather loudly)
>
> "Dang it! Wouldn't you know it, as soon as CCS becomes available, I'm seeing someone!" (I had to explain that to her again.)

They aren't wearing any...

The new system roll out has got our buildings in a panic. Management tries to apply a positive reinforcement salve by letting us be "casual" for the next week and a half, and also instituing the popular "Theme Days". Yesterday, for example, was "Jersey Day" (Which means "Every Friday" if you're Kaiser)...Since I don't own any major sports teams, I had to break out the old HS jersey and explain to people that "Yes, I know they are Packer colors" and "Noooo, this is the foo'ball jersey of the PC Pirates baby...you're looking at the lightest O-lineman in their HS history...yeeeeeah!"

Today is "hat" day. More specifically "baseball cap day". So, out of the 3 "legitimate" baseball caps I own (The rest being for painting/manual labor/wearing to the gym because they have big sweat stains) I choose ever so wisely to wear my USA Karate hat. Nice little black number, w/Gold stencilling.

And WTF to my surprise? Nobody, and I mean NOBODY remembered to wear their flapsnappin' hats. Except one rassin'frassin rep over in policy acct'ng. And its a flippin' Nascar Asscar hat.

(Grumble) I'd take my hat off, but I didn't comb my hair. And my hair, when messy, scares small children. Swear.

"Whaaaat?"

Sc: Int.
(A dark, smoky room. Seated around a large table, is a group of well dressed...powerful looking men and women. The scene could be taken from the "Godfather". Standing behind these men are their individual bodyguards. An older Sicillian man at the head of the table, breathes heavy. He is dressed in a dark, pinstripe suit- a fedora sits next to a glass of water in front of him. He stands to address the table. The camera does a slow pan on all of those seated.)

M.D: "Friends of the family, I welcome youse to this impromptu meeting. I would also like to extend my appreciation to alls of youse for taking times out of what are certainly very busy schedules. Particularly to those who've come the farthest: Don Nicholo, Don Vannici....Don Ciccio, Don Davanni's, Don Johnson, Donny Osmond, Donna Summers, Dawn Wells...."


That just popped in there during my meeting this morning. Made me laugh anyway.
See Portlana? It is a strange place in there.

There is a reason...

I don't eat the filthy things. I think it is the writers use of describing the "Monster Burger" as two "gray-brown slabs of processed animal protein". 'Course, my cafeteria salad yesterday was no picnic either, with its withery greens and flavorless slices of chicken breast (Really, painted packing peanuts would have tasted better.)

That picture of the Rix burger is just weird. "Kill it! KIIIILLLL ITTTT!!!"

I think I'll stick with the grilled chicky boobs, thank you.

Lion's

This will be the 1st of many posts today. (My office is rolling out a new system. Anyone who has worked corporate knows that there are inevitable growing pains with all the Luddites. Today, I am phone support. Meaning 10 hours of suckassedness.)

I had the lions Tallen. Voltron had (officially) 3 incarnations: Lion's, Cars, and Robots. Which prompts a funny story of my whiny-assed history:

I still love toys. (Minds outta tha gutta's, ya preee-verto's!) So much so, in fact, that when I am in Target, I still wander to the toy aisle to see what's new. And also, wonder upon wonders, to see the magnificent advances in Toy-chnology. (Realistic looking lightsabres, in lieu of the flashlights with plastic tubes and gels from when I was a kid. Action figures that were laser-scanned to better resemble the character they represent- Instead of injection molded 4-points of articulation jobbies.) Seriously. I still love'em. I still own my 1st Spider-Man figure, and my "Mego" Spiderman Doll.

My toy collecting career almost met an abrupt end, circa 3rd grade...The year of Voltron. My parents were leery of buying the really 'spensive toys (Thrift stores and flea markets were usually where we'd get'em) but the year they released Voltron, I could not be denied... It was my Red Rider. A half birthday, and a Christmas went by where I would actually dream that I was unwrapping this holy Grail of toys, but to no avail. (And numerous trips to Target) It was, at $70, in a price range that meant it was unobtainable. Mom was always a pushover, but she didn't budge...so on one fateful night I tried a different tact: I'd ask my dad.

He walked me up and down the aisles as I pleaded and begged. "I'll never want another toy", I wept. "Are you sure?" he said. "You will never, ever ask for another toy? Ever again?" "Nooooooooo!!!!" We were standing in the baby clothes section. I remember it so clearly.
And then...it was placed in the cart. And then it was home. And we all sat around, putting it together, taking them apart. Repeating the TV sayings like "GO LION FORCE", creating scenes with Pidge/Hunk/Lance/Allura/and Keith...

Then two weeks later-I broke it. Stripped the Black lions arm, and broke Red Lions tail.*

3 months later, The "Car" Voltron finds its way into stores. Instead of 5 lions, you have 15 Vehicles. Retailed at $85. That trip to Target, I was reminded CONSTANTLY "Ohhh Dad, it's the only Toy I'll EVER want...I'll NEVER want another toy AGAAAAIN"

He still likes to remind me of that, 20 years later. Kiss my butt dad. I'm 30, and I can buy my own darn toys now!

*That box of toys J and I found on Sunday? Totally had Voltron bits in it.

**I should also mention that a larger Voltron that could actually fit action figures in it was released later that same year. This also prompted a big fat NO from the 'rentals.

*** Geefster, this is another reason that Wrestlemaniacs were not allowed. I exceeded my budget until I was, ohhhhh, 28 years old? And by the way, poor Jake the Snake? A crackhead alcoholic? Yeesh.

Wrassle!

One of the more homo-erotic sports pursuits I engaged in as a youngster, was wrestling. Like a lot of kids in their Jr. High years (circa the mid to late 80's) we started stripping our love for action figures (Star Wars "final" episode having been removed from theatres for some time) dirt bikes (For Mountain bikes and 10-speeds) and cartoons (Okay. So that last part never really technically left my daily routine.) And started adding more lofty, adult pursuits.

Cartoons, for example, were replaced with cartoon violence. In the form of Pro-Wrestling.

Gone were the baddies I remember hearing my dad and his co-workersjoke about. (Baron Von Raschke, who btw did the voiceover for the monorail @ the MN Zoo) Killer Kowalski (Spokesperson for the United Way) Mayslack (Who's name adorns a terrific bar in historic NE Minneapolis. Best damn garlic roast beef sammies, evah!) The were replaced by the new heroes and villains: Andre the Giant (Pre-Princess Bride Fame), Ravishing Rick Rude, Rowdy Roddy Piper (Did we ever talk about that guy, Geef and Weef), Sgt Slaughter (Yo JOE!), Macho Man (Great cameo in Spider Man, btw.) Hacksaw Jim Duggan, Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat, Ted DiBiasi, some Minnesota punk named "The Body". There were the topical bad guys: Nikolai Volkoff (Oooo Cold War), The Iron Sheik (Ooooo Arab!!!) And the hero: Hulk Hogan.

Maybe y'all remember some of the guys. Maybe you had the action figures, or finger puppets. (1, 2, 3, 4, I declare THUMB WAR!!!) Maybe you'd occasionally flip channels on Saturday after 'toons and see this testosterone-y soap opera. I was never into as much as some of my friends, but I knew enough to know who was good, who was bad, and that Wrassle-mania was the Superbowl of Wrasslin'. And, for example, to be encouraged by my parents to take up wrestling.

Which was nothing like the shite on TV. No boa's, no body slams...Just this grody...singlet.
That rode up the crotch. (And made for some hilarious pics...which NONE of you will ever see. Ever!) It was about pins, and holds, and catches, and takedowns, and people who were all quite a bit bigger than me tossing me around. It was about nosebleeds (Which I got, a lot.) from getting your head crammed into the mat. (What, no "ring"?) It was about making weight. (I was at the low-end of the heavy weight division in 7th and 8th grade. Besides induring the "baby fat" insults, I had to wrassle dudes who were way bigger than me. And gassy. And greasy. And pimply. All-over pimply.)

It didn't last too long. I quit, mid-way through 9th grade, to focus on Hockey. I wasn't all that good anyway, being a benched B-Squader for most of the 2 seasons.

This all came back to me after watching "Hogan knows Best" late last nightThere was the Hulkster, getting inducted to the wrasslin' hall of fame, shaking hands with all these be-suited dudes. Dudes, who looked like older executives you may pass occasionally, walking downtown. Older, tall, bespectacled. Weird, to be shaking hands with this old pro-wrestler, wearing a tux and a bandana. Weird, until they showed who they were. (See above paragraph after Andre the Giant. That's right, all of 'em. Weird.)

* We kiddies never wrassled "pro-style", like some of the stupid kids today who get in trouble or hurt each other by trying the TV moves on each other. Um, we kinda knew it was fake. And probably dangerous. Doi.
** "Wrassle!" Was whut my wrestling coach would shout at anyone starting a match. An ex-Marine with baaaad cauliflower ears (From wrestling sans headgear.) He'd also yell "COMBAT!!!" when it was time to square off. He was wicked weird.