Heckle me, Elmo.

Dyke. Or maybe lesbian. That’s what he said. Or at least I think that’s what he said. Personally, I never heard him. I found out later from some of my friends who were in the audience. My friend John (see “my little hint of girlyness” in a previous blog) defended me somehow and called him out on it. Lesbian. Really? To call me a lesbian onstage is like waiting for Carrot Top to get up there and then yell, “redhead”. Dyke? That’s different. It’s definitely more aggressive. But like I said, I never even heard it. And at this point, I barely remember it. That’s probably been my only real heckling, because for this blog I’m not going to count drunken fools that randomly yell out things, not just to me, but to every comic in the lineup. I do consider that heckling, but I don’t take it as personally as I did this. Or as I would have taken this, had I heard it. But since I didn’t hear it, it makes me consider the age-old question, “If a heckler heckles in a club and there’s no comic to hear it, does it still make a heckle?”

I’ve seen people get heckled. I’ve seen it handled well; I’ve seen it handled not so well. I’ve seen a comic “induce” heckling and then in not being able to handle it, freeze up an entire room to the point where anyone following him could say whatever they wanted and get roars of laughter, basically by releasing the staggering amount of tension. Then I’ve never seen that comic again.

So back to my heckler. Although it was a long time ago, I sometimes think back on it and wonder if I had heard it, how would I have responded? Of course I always go with the harsher word in my mind:

- “That’s my name, don’t wear it out.”

- “If you’re in the market for lumber, you’ve come to the wrong place. Although if you’re a gentleman looking for lumber, maybe the West Village is the right place for you after all.” ( a somewhat local reference, as well as informative for tourists)

- "Ooh, are we playing homophobic mad libs, now? Man, I can’t wait to hear an adverb!"

I’ll admit it feels nice to close someone down, especially if you know they’re ruining the evening for everyone in the audience. Even if they aren’t directly heckling me, it’s nice to shut someone up in a way that’s better than just saying “shut up”. I’m talking about in a way that says “I’m smarter than you and everyone here knows it. And now you do too. So there. Take that back to your office water cooler on Monday morning and whine about it. At least it’ll stop you from rambling on about Dance Moms for one day.

Of course having written this, I realize the next time I step foot on stage, I’m going to get heckled. And I’m sure I’ll think back on this blog in the process and wonder if I’ve spent enough time working on it. It’s not something I would ever look forward to or wish on anyone else. Unfortunately, it seems to come with the business and you just have to be prepared for it, as much as you can prepare for something that tends to happen spontaneously. I’m sure I’ll deal with it somehow. But on the bright side, I hope to hell they call me dyke.

He 'c' klers

Honestly, this month’s topic, hecklers, is enough to send me into a full-blown panic attack.  Truthfully, I haven’t really been heckled yet.  Well, let me rephrase.  A stranger has not heckled me. 

I’ve been heckled by acquaintances.   A friend of a friend. He died.  Not as a result of heckling me, but he died.  He was one of those fellas who thought that he was doing me a “favor” by “participating” during my little “skit” when I first ventured into the world of comedy.  You know.  One of those people who said the “c” word and then got offended when I didn't smile.  ”What?  You’re a comic.  You are offended by ‘c’?”

No, actually, I like to use the ‘c’ word, but I reserve it for special occasions like when my dog won’t poop and it’s raining and I’m late for work.  Get busy you lazy ‘c’.  And then he poops and then I feel bad for calling him lazy.  And a ‘c.’

Really.  I like the word.  Especially when aforementioned friend of a friend used it to describe the waitress who was too slow with the drinks because she was the only waitress on staff that Friday when the other waitress who was supposed to be training her quit!  Great word to shout during my set.  To me.  As if we’re friends.  Not just friends of friends.

Funny.  One of my friends is going to read this whole ‘c’ rant and think, “She’s full of crap.  She says ‘c’ all the time.”   Truthfully, she’s foreign and I only use it in front of her to make her think that I’m just another crass, rude American.  It’s quite funny.  Shock value betwixt friends.  She’s a ‘c.’

Allow me to return to my opening statement.  I am dreading the day that I’m heckled.  Here’s why.  It’s only taken me 28 years of therapy to blog freely about it.  I was bullied relentlessly in junior high.  The kind of stuff that they make movies about kind of bullied.  For three years.  And it’s had a major impact on my entire life.  So much so that had I not been bullied, it probably wouldn’t have taken me until I was 40 year old to begin doing stand-up comedy.  We’re talking a good 28 years to muster up the courage to just try.  

For a brief moment, every time I get on stage it’s like walking into Room 119 at Christopher Columbus Junior High*.  Will someone mock me while I’m trying to get through my little skit?  I have these visions of David B. yelling from the audience,  “Hey, You no-bra ‘C’!” in front of everyone even though all I did was like him that one summer when he first moved into my neighborhood.  Before junior high.  When he had no friends and he and I rode skateboards together in the park and talked about Mork and Mindy and latka from Taxi.

He’s dead now, too.  Not because he tortured me.  I’m pretty sure.

But I’m on stage and I’m praying that people enjoy my little skit, genuinely laugh at the jokes, and don’t humiliate my inner 12-year old child. 

Maybe I’m acting like an insecure ‘c’, but hey.  It’s all I’ve got on our topic of the month.

*I'm teaching summer school in that very room this summer.  Talk about facing some demons.

Heck-lahs

TheFreeDictionary.com definition:

heck·le  

tr.v. heck·led, heck·ling, heck·les

1. To try to embarrass and annoy (someone speaking or performing in public) by questions, gibes, or objections; badger.

2. To comb (flax or hemp) with a hatchel.

n. heck*ler

1. Someone who tries to embarrass you with gibes and questions and objections.

Now, from UrbanDictionary.com:

heckler

a person who says shit while someone is trying to do stand-up comedy to screw him up cuz he's an asshole or if the act completley sucks.

*”completely” was spelled incorrectly on the site. I made no changes.*

Either definition works for me.  I love hecklers.  I will explain.

I am a very aggressive person and I don’t get around to psychotherapy as much as I should.  I have no problem taking out my shit on someone who wants to “help out” my act from their seats.  I love it when I confront a heckler after a show and he/she will say, “I was just trying to help you out”.  I DON’T NEED ANY FUCKING HELP…thank you anyway.  I can be mean…really mean.  I grew up in a very mean family.  I have mean running through my veins and am always waiting for an opportunity to spray that mean all over anyone who may or may not deserve it.  Sometimes my response is funny, sometimes awkward…either way, I feel better.  

My hecklers are not limited to one gender.  I have had one older woman stand up and say, “you depress me!!!”, then she stormed out of the venue (I was talking about how I wish that I had a ballsac, so I could star in teabag porn.  I think “depress” was not the word she was looking for).  I had another woman tell me that I “make her not proud to be a woman” (I think I was showing the cellulite on the back of my legs from eating fat free hot dogs 5 times a day).  I’ve had a man say, “Yo, you is stupid”.  He got me with that one.

I am also known to turn a possible non-heckler into a heckler.  If an audience member is having their own conversation while I am on stage, I want to be a part of it.  It usually ends with me saying, “shut the fuck up!!’ and the audience member leaving the show.

In conclusion, if you ever see me perform, please, feel free to join in.  I’m sure that I will have missed therapy by a couple of months at that point.  Yo, my shrink is expensive and shit!

 Bring it on, you weird looking old men.  I would say something like, "what the fuck is wrong with your faces and shit?".  Golden.

50 Shades - A Cat's Reaction

My most recent secrets

This is me admitting 5 things that I normally would keep secret. Judge away, it's cool.

1.       I would never sleep with an Asian man. Even if someone paid me a lot of money. They’re the only type of guy I’m not attracted to. (yet the only guys who would never harass me on the street… what does that say about me?)

2.      My credit is horrible and I freak out about it every day. There is about a 2% possibility that I’m overacting but I’m too scared to check my credit so… I guess I’ll never know.

3.       Every time I go to buy a greeting card at a drug store,  I ALWAYS end up going through all the emotional cards that are like "Happy Birthday Dad from Your Little Girl" and cry. my. eyes. out. Without fail, any and every cheesey greeting card that is a tad big emotional will make me cry.

4.       My boyfriend just moved in with me and I’m so excited, but my mind has been over taken by anxiety lately for whatever reason, and I keep starring off into space and imagining him dying in really horrible ways. Like if a burglar came into our apartment when just he was home, and murdered him and I came home from work excited to see him and I find his bloody body parts sprawled over the living room and his head would fall from the ceiling just as I walk in the door. JUST ME?! NO?! ok. Watching too much Breaking Bad I think .   

5.       I’ve been eating all of my co-worker’s Jenny Craig food the past two weeks. For two reasons: 1, I’m a broke artist and 2, Jenny Craig food is actually freaking delicious. Who knew?

ALSO! (shameless plug) I was invited to perform at an NBC/FOX showcase show tomorrow night at 6:30PM at Broadway Comedy Club. 212-252-4260 to reserve tix for $10 (otherwise theyr'e $15). The club is located at 318 West 53rd Street between 8th and 9th.

xoxoKrystyna

Fashion Ghosts of Naomi Klum

by Rhonda Hansome

She’s wearing two different prints!  The blouse is obviously strewn with spring flowers and the skirt is clearly large tropical palm.  Mismatched?  Well, they didn’t so much offend the eye as surprise it with unexpected harmony.  Her city stride is confident in an off-hand ( I’m fly wearing two completely different patterns) kind of way.  Damn!  I envied her and her shapely, but not mile wide ass, cupped by the lush leaf print on her pencil skirt, beckoning glances along the avenue.

Among the various things I’ve longed for (including fortune, free and easy swinging hair, love, fame, section 8, and a father) I’ve always wanted to sport, with an undeniable flair, complementing but completely different prints.  You can have your world peace and end to global poverty wishes.  I want to wear stripes with dots, plaid with stars, a paisley with madras in a combination transforming me into - a cross between Naomi Campbell and Heidi Klum.  Naomi Klum world famous jet set featured model of the elite Ebony Fashion Fair Fashion Show.  Alas, I live a life ever plagued by unattainable fashion goals.  Curse my first issue of Seventeen Magazine and its coveted summer discovery, the dirndl skirt; a garment that no matter the fabric, made me look like I was hastily dressed in an accordion.

In spite of my feminist leanings (akin to the slant of your aunt’s old card table used only for Thanksgiving and funeral repasts) I long for fashion satori. It has spent my lifetime eluding me.  I’m aware (with my nose pressed firmly against the glass guarding an Alexander McQueen museum ensconced display) that my quest could only be satisfied by a full time stylist, tailor and unlimited income.  And yet in the immortal words of Martin Luther King, “I have a dream.”  As long as November follows October I will forever fantasize myself in “winter white”.   It is a flagrant flouting of the “no white after Labor Day” rule that is at once rebellious and luxurious.   I can’t avoid this sartorial daydream.  I perambulate blocking the seasonal chill and wind swathed in shades of ecru, buttermilk, eggshell and cream; a mass of pale textures playing against my chocolate hued skin.  IF I could actually pull that look together from boots to cashmere* toque, I’d have less than a minute to enjoy the outfit’s pristine impact before a spot, stain, smudge, or spill besmirched an element or the entire pretentious ensemble.   Pre-theater drinks at a French bistro = red wine on my slacks.  Cozy Italian dinner = pasta sauce on my boucle sweater.  Short stroll to the museum  =  boots irreparably scuffed and dinged.  You say, “Rhonda it’s a FANTASY, there must be the possibility of your wearing “winter white” without incident!”  Ha, ha, ha, you amuse me…

Fashion longings and nightmares have stalked me since I turned seven and for three years straight my age and shoe size synched.  Traumatized, I would never again wear Mary Janes.  Just this month when blowing out my birthday candle I silently wished (my annual request) for feet two sizes smaller than my current size 11W. I have delirious visions of walking into a Stuart Weitzman or Christian Louboutin shoe sanctuary, I mean store and sliding a practically invisible size 9 REGULAR WIDTH foot comfortably into the latest styles;  alack for size 11 wide me the beautiful sexy shoe cabinet** just does not exist. 

What’s a girl running bare foot from the ghosts of Naomi Klum to do?  This girl whose mother was an accomplished seamstress of Vogue patterns, a girl who took sewing lessons at her downtown Singer Sewing Machine center and a year of sewing at her Catholic girl’s school?  Iguess just watch Project Runway and dream…

Now just between you and me, what’s your fashion guilty pleasure, nightmare or Holy Grail?

 *Political correctness compelled me, even in my fantasy, to eschew my desired white fox head wrap.

** For access to this cabinet see the London hand crafted, custom shoe maker and the aforementioned unlimited income.  

Multi-tasking, HELOCs, and Sexy-texts

by Helene "I am a real estate agent, damnit !" Gresser

I am simultaneously taking an online continuing education course (required every two years to renew my real estate license), texting sexy fantasies with my phantom lover, scouring the internet for comedy ideas, and writing this here thang. I am your classic ADHD gal, all up in da Adderall, swimming in my messy wading pool of things-to-do-that-I-wait-too-long-to-do.  Oh, and now Microsoft wants to install a huge update to my iTunes account, and my sexy-texting has heated up to near-sext.  And yet I am typing this, trying to make a deadline that is technically three minutes away.  My toes are cold, I text my lovah. I want them warm.  Deep breath.

The online course could not be more boring if it droned in Ben Stein-like monotone:  federal financial disclosure rules. AUGH.  

And the course is TIMED so I am required to sit and stare at a paragraph for 42 seconds, even though it takes me five seconds to scan it.  Sexy-texting has reached the undressing part.  And the kissing.  And pressing.  And I am abandoning the internet-surfing but the cat wants to crawl onto my lap, which I spell “alp” because I guess I get dyslexic at times.  And now I am struggling with the wireless keyboard and the crawling feline and the Blackberry. And now my back is being phantom-traced via sexy-text, and I am warm from sitting and working at the computer. But my toes remain cold.

The software is still downloading for the update, and I am scanning a paragraph about HELOCs ---oh for the love of god I just want to sexy-text. I just want to think about this one thing, the sexy-thing.  And yet this is still drawing my attention.  I am ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- okay, I had to concentrate on the sexy-texting. I hate the word "sext" because it reminds me of "sextant" --which is not a sexy word, per se. 

And my god, sexy-texting on a Blackberry requires concentration, due to teeny-tiny buttons and bad reception and grammar issues and all that. I think making grammar mistakes is understandable but they can still make me laugh and lose the needed sexy-thought-concentration and focus on the to/too and their/there and teh/the. Which is stupid, because, whatever, but I need smart-sexy.  And I am my own worst editor.


Crap, I still have 45:23 minutes left of Home Equity Line of Credit shit and then there is this. I hope the phantom lover does not take offense at my typing about this, as he is sure to read this and wonder if I was fully present in our lovemaking. I was, truly. In my fashion. And I feel all loose and relaxed and ready to go. And now I am hungry for steak. Or a sammich. A cold meatloaf sammich with ketchup and mayonnaise and multi-grain bread and a Dr. Brown’s cream soda.  The cat finally got up just now and is lying on a piece of cardboard on the floor, in what I determine is resignation and vague disgust at my lack of proper attention to HER.  And I am disgusted at my sentence structure, or lack thereof.

WHY does the online course take so damn long? What does it matter if I sit for 42 seconds to read a paragraph or do it in five?  I know I just typed numbers and spelled out numbers in the same sentence but fuck it, this is ridiculous. If I pass all the course quizzes, what does it matter how LONG it takes??

I want to open the bottle of California red that has been sitting on my kitchen counter for 7 weeks, because it belongs to a friend of a friend and I have not gotten around to delivering it yet. Fuck it, I just opened it. I wonder how much it costs. It can’t be too much, because my buddy, though he has excellent taste (which I just corrected from “tatse”), is broke-ass like me.  Okay, maybe not quite as broke-ass, but shit, what if this is a special bottle?  I don’t care, too late now.  Mmm, it’s good. Almost as good as a sammich and Dr. Brown’s cream soda.  Okay, better, now that I’ve had a couple gulps.  Good swill, there, buddy. Thanks.

And the phantom lover would not be happy to know I am sneaking a cigarette, but he would not disown me for doing so. He allows me my faults, and wants me to be happy, which makes him an awesome phantom lover, I must admit.  He adores me from afar, which may be the most ideal adoration, as it is so much sexier than day-to-day chores and farts and disappointments and cellulite.  But it means I type this, drinking stolen wine, smoking sneaky ciggies, and I go to bed and splay comfortably, all alone.

I think comics are essentially loners, searching for commonalities but reveling in their/our superior and (hopefully) unique observation of these amusing banalities.  How any comic has a “normal” relationship with a non-comic is a mystery to me. And certainly comics CANNOT HAVE RELATIONSHIPS WITH OTHER COMICS.  That seems to be a rule. That is just a damn rule.

So we search for material, maintain jobs that we have to do to pay the bills, have sexy affairs and are never really satisfied because we are all over the damn place and never fully engaged in the present. Okay, maybe I am just talking about me.  But that is ironically what feeds the comedy. The dissatisfaction, the disarray, the mess, the morass.  The boggy ground.  Sexy-typing on a teeny-tiny machine instead of actual sex.  Wine instaed of meatloaf.   (Yes, I left instead spelled wrong, just to show you what I mean about the dyslexia, which is also impossible to spell.)

But my toes are very warm now.  By golly, that is something. 

Where Are They Now?

Remember the 70’s? Putting on your fanciest bell-bottoms and feathering your hair to spend all night at the disco? Coming home, dropping acid, and staring at the lava lamp for 9 hours straight? Burning your bra on the front lawn? Hoping Carol Brady would do the same? Well, the 70’s weren’t just responsible for an amazing era of music, theater, and trendy styles. They were also responsible for an elite group of gourmet eats known as “70’s vegetables”! Named not only for the time they were around, but the age of the people that actually enjoyed them! Yes, the decade of incredibly poor choices spread all the way to the dinner table! These tasty treats were the (s)hit of the nation, albeit the short time they were around. Some slipped away quickly, while some lingered on, trying to reinvent themselves. All had the same fate: Where are they now?

Cream Corn

All of us at one point in our childhood had the fun of sitting down to the dinner table and wondering, “Hey, what’s that smell? Has the cat thrown up again?” Well, we weren’t too far off on that one! Yes, the beloved “cream corn” came into play in the decade of decadence. As if corn weren’t questionable enough when taken off the cob. Those masters of cuisine got together and said, “Let’s step it up a notch! How about we add some creamy goodness that may be hard to identify but will most certainly make it groovier?” It was actually as if someone had already eaten the corn and then decided, “Wait, I still have to feed the family! Let’s just bring it back- mama bird style!” The short lived side spent the better part of the 70’s being set out in front of repulsed youngsters, only to be found later, hidden in mom’s eyeglass case or dad’s collection of corncob pipes -ah, the irony! But where is cream corn now?

Sad to say, cream corn did not survive the kitchen evolution as well as its counterparts. Fresher vegetables prevailed, and people decided they weren’t ready to give up using their teeth yet when eating. Of course, there are still some cans out there, and by some twist of fate, some ridiculous recipes still floating around the food network on the backwoods bayou edition. But sadly and as the name implies, while fighting to keep on top, it eventually got creamed.

Lima Beans

To many tots they were like kryptonite, the bane of their existence. Nothing could ruin a meal more than a heaping pile of lima beans. They just sat there, steaming and waiting to tarnish the fine supper of fish sticks and crinkle-cut french fries. Or they could be an all-encompassing mess in a casserole dish full of mom’s famous succotash. For the most part, only dad seemed to actually eat them. But who else in the world would dare eat something that looked like a bloated tick? Lima beans enjoyed the “limelight” at the dinner table for many years as the centerpiece of a true love-hate relationship. They were the “Kardashians” of the kitchen, the “Snooki” of the 70’s. We’d set them out there each night and keep tuning in to see what they’d do next. So, where are they now?

Unfortunately (or fortunately), lima beans aren’t the staple of the family meal they used to be either. Even with an emergence of vegetarianism, no one seems that desperate. Whether it’s their incomprehensible consistency, their similarity to a gremlin’s ear, or the fact that their main nutritional value revolves around molybdenum, a nutrient most people can’t even pronounce, much less understand its nutritional value. Lima beans for the most part have moved on in our minds to their final resting place- Paula Dean’s kitchen.

And so, as we have said goodbye to the 70’s (despite the fact that we’ve pretty much brought it all back in one way or another in the past 10 years), we have said goodbye to its vegetables. Those diehard dishes that just screamed “Why?!?” as we placed them at the center of our tables and our hearts. They will be remembered for their ability to bring us closer together, all the while setting us apart from any distinguishing palate that dare ask, “What’s for dinner?”

Devolution of Thought

Hey! Thought it might be fun for you to listen and read.

  

 I’m sitting here, well, not really sitting, it’s more of a 1/2 recline on my bed, trying very hard not to procrastinate with my blentry (thank you for coining that term, Helene) for today.  It’s not really procrastination.  It’s more about not knowing how to prioritize, manage time, multi-task.  I do have a lot to do today like finish my website, finish a friend’s website, vacuum (house and shabby chic pool), laundry (kids are home...see last Monday’s blentry), finish learning Adobe Illustrator, write new material, write a new song with Mike, write today’s bluntly (Oooh.  Look what spell check did to blentry!)

And what to write, what to write.  What.  To.  Write. 

It’s the same old same old.  Throughout the week, I’ll be driving, shopping, showering (HA!), cleaning, cooking, and these brilliant blog ideas will hit me.  But situations don’t always lend themselves to being prepared to jot down genius as pens, paper, recording devices, iphones, computers, whatever, aren’t readily available at all times... which is usually the time that I'm struck with brilliance.. and that’s when I find myself having this conversation  ... with myself:

Me: That’s a fabulous idea.  You should write it down somewhere so you don’t forget.

Me:  I know, right?  It is a great idea. I might be nominated for a Pulitzer Prize with this blentry.  I don’t have a pen, recording device, or whatever, so I’ll just make a point to remember it.

Me:  Pulitzer Prize?  Is that the award they give for blentries?  You’re a little delusional...but it is a really good idea, so you should probably write it down so you don’t forget. 

Me:  You might be right about the Pulitzer Prize.  I have a tendency to get a little ahead of myself

Me:  Seriously, write that sh!t down before you forget.  You do this with premises for jokes all the time and then you KICK yourself because you get busy with like 40 quatchalillion (see last Monday’s blentry) other things and then YOU FORGET.

Me:  I WON’T FORGET!  Swear to GOD!  Hey.  I watched Iron Maiden last night.  It was about Margaret Thatcher. 

Me: Iron Lady.

Me:  Yeah.  Iron Lady.  Is Margaret Thatcher dead or alive?

Me:  I don’t know.  Why don’t you just Google it? 

Me:  Well, obviously I’m not near a computer to Google Margaret Thatcher’s death status or I’d be typing out the clever idea that I had for this week’s blentry.  Which reminds me that I have to check on Abe Vigoda’s death status.  Remember Fish?   And what was his wife’s name?

Me:   Bernice.  I love that term Blentry.  Helene hit the nail on the head with that one, no?

Me:  Yeah, totally.  Uh oh.  I should not have had all that raw broccoli doused in tzatziki sauce.  It’s making me totally gassy.

Me:  No, no, no, no, no.  Do.  Not.  F%CKING. Fart!  I’m serious.

Me:  I can’t help it.  I have a sensitive stomach.

Me:  I DON’T CARE!  You are a lady!!! 

Me: An Iron Lady?  Jesus...my stomach is cramping.

Me: You know WHAT, Iron Idiot?  This is really getting to be a problem.  I’m going to be really pissed if you drop ass right here. 

Me:  I’m...trying...really...I am.

Me:  And fart humor?  Are we really going down this road in a blentry?  So hacky.  Just the sign of a lazy comic who can’t rely on decent, smart humor so they have to resort to toilet humor.  Do you really think Amy, Joanne, Helene, Rhonda, Krystyna, or Maribeth have to resort to this kind of stuff?  No.  Because they’re smart, funny, classy ladies unlike you, you juvenile nincom--

Me: hee hee

Me: SHUT UP!  Your mother would be mortified if she knew about this.  You’re like a 13 year-old boy.

Me:  Do you think Margaret Thatcher farted a lot?  I bet not.  That’s probably why she always had that stern look on her face.  Keeping all that toxic stuff inside can make a person ugly. Ha Ha Ha ... ooops.

Me:  OH MY GOD NOOOOO!  I’m leaving.

Me:  Wait! Wait!  I’m sorry.  I couldn’t help it.  It slipped out when I laughed at the thought Margaret Thatcher farting.  It’s really not that bad.  Wait!  Jeez... You're acting like I'm Daniel Tosh!  What was that idea???

Me:  Go to hell, you putrid pig.  I’m not telling you.  Next time keep a pen and paper next to you, and a CORK, you jerk-off!

Me:  Well, I’m glad I’m gone.  I have to vacuum ... and work on that acceptance speech. "Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pulitzer Blog Academy, Firstly, I'd like to thank you for being brave enough to admit that you see humor in far---"

(postscwipt:  My 12 year old thought this was hysterical.  I seem to have found my niche)

(postscwiptscwipt:  This is dedicated to the one I love)
(postswiptscwiptscwipt:  I was just told that this is much funnier when I read it aloud.  Perhaps I will record it and embed the audio clip for your listening pleasure.)

Amy Loves Ambien

Everyone always tries to blame Ambien for horrible mistakes.  Kerry Kennedy, for example, was recently charged with driving under the influence of drugs, after she hit a tractor trailer on I-684.  She claims that Ambien "made her do it".  Tiger Woods blamed Ambien for all of his affairs (actually, he only blamed Ambien his "car accident").  In 2008, a securities firm's CEO blamed Ambien for his car accident (his blood alcohol level was over .08 - which is legally drunk in New York).  I blame Ambien for a lot of things - like, helping me mistake my closet for my bathroom while in an Ambien sleep walk. Or, waking up in the morning with an empty casserole dish of last night's lasagna beside me - after an night of Ambien eating.  But, I don't blame Ambien for bad or reckless behavior.

This is an example of an Ambien conversation that I had with my husband one night (he told me about it the next morning):

My husband came home from work to find me asleep on the couch. He said, "you should be in bed". To which, I sat upright and began bawking like a chicken.

Husband: For real, go to bed.

Me: Bawk-bawk-bawk.

Husband: Go to bed.

Me: Bawk-Bawk!! Oh wait, I got a check in the mail today.

I ran to the kitchen table, picked up a pile of papers, ran into the office and threw them (like a bowling ball) under the desk. Then proceeded to bawk the remainder of the way to bed.

I received no check in the mail that day.

She’s So Hated

She’s So Hated

Alternate titles:

I’m sorry

Where Women Go, Trouble Follows

Don’t Judge this Book by Her Cover

Why the Hate Ladies? 

Okay, so I got a lot of texts and emails in response to my last post.  Suffice it to say by the title - they weren’t bon mots.

I was called everything from a hypocrite, to a fake, to a real lying, cheating scumbag of the highest caliber to self-indulgent.  I got called some other stuff too, but it was mean and I’d rather not give it credence on this blog.

These were messages from females who have my phone number.  Ladies who I thought had my back and were my friends.  I think it’s notable that these were all women. 

I am sorry for coming of as “sanctimonious”, “better than everyone else”, “egotistical”, “self satisfied” and “unfunny” [1]

My excuses:  

A) I had a mad deadline to meet for this blogetty thingy.  I was late. And I was stressed out.  I’m not a confessional writer unless I’m composing an email to a friend.  This whole open your heart up, write about your life and be witty thing is a bit out of my range. [2]

B) Women have never liked me. 

I’m not sure why.  I certainly love women.

I do everything in my power to support women.  I actively engage in women’s causes, attend events, I give money, time and energy to women.  Yet, my biggest critics, nay my sole critics, remain female. 

C) In ALL the times I’ve been heckled, the heckler was a woman. 

This past week I walked into a club and saw a table full of drunken women.  

As I approached the stage they seemed to be sharpening their talons waiting for me.

And they went at it.

Obnoxious, drunken, nonsensical rambling.  I couldn’t even challenge it, since I did not understand what the heck they were saying.  (guess that’s why the call them hecklers!  Har har) – yeah, I know.  Hack. 

Supporting evidence

Exhibit A: When an obnoxious audience member threw a glass of wine at Tammy Pescatelli while she was performing onstage last week, my immediate thought was- “I bet it was a woman”! 

And I was right. 

In fact, very few men will heckle a female comic but women go for it.  I’m not sure why that is.

Exhibit B: I got a fat lip this spring thanks to a woman’s fist. 

You read that right. 

A woman punched me in a bar. Why?  Because she thought that gay kids who couldn’t handle bullying and killed themselves were simply an example of the thinning of the herd. I disagreed. 

Lip meet fist.  [3]

Exhibit C: Women are the reason I carry a purse filled with four kinds of antacids and at least two pairs of glasses. 

Women are the reason for 90 percent of my insomnia.

Women are why I cry. [4]

Exhibit D: I was mentoring a high school girl two summers ago and took her to an open mic.  When we got in and I saw a bunch of young female comics in the back of the room I said to my mentee, “Listen, I’m going to be heckled and made fun of.  Don’t feel bad or worry about me.  I’m used to it.  I’m cool.”

Afterwards she frantically told her Mother what she witnessed.

At this point it had become old hat and so boring to me that I forgot how weird that must look to an outsider.

Cross Examination

Q: So what am I doing posting on a women’s blog?

A: I’m not sure.  They all seem to like me here.  But, for all I know they are conspiring behind my back, throwing parties and having barbecues without me. [5]

Closing Argument:

I) Hey, here’s a promo video of the women’s festival where I produce a Stand-Up show!  That’s right, a stand up comedy show featuring ALL WOMEN.   [6]

http://vimeo.com/41042208

II) I also do a regular show called Moons Over My Hammy where I put up comics of all kinds but I’m especially fond of giving ladies stage time and attention. 

Still not convinced? 

I can also provide you with the name and number of my ex girlfriend who will totally vouch for my good qualities.  I swearsies!  She thinks I’m the shizz!  [7]

The Defense rests. 

The Saturday post will be taken over by one of the wonderful women in the bio section. Thank you for reading.

My Projects:

Come to my show Moons Over My Hammy at Otto’s Shrunken Head. (http://www.ottosshrunkenhead.com) I cannot stress this enough. I am proud of this show in spite of everything.  Please come support live comedy.  I feature upcoming and seasoned performers every week.  Check my website, Facebook, Twitter and LinkedIn for more details.  You can also email me at moons@maribethmooney.com

Finally, attend and support Stand Up for Estro (http://estrogenius.org) this is my other baby! Very funny women, very strong tight show, new women every week!  Only an hour and a half.  A mere $5 buckeroonies!  Let’s hang!

Peace out.

XOXO, M

---

[1] I take umbrage against all the accusations except the last one.  I went back and reread the post, nary a giggle did I.

[2] I like to write jokes.  Many of my jokes seem like they are stories from my real life, full disclosure-they are not.  If jokes bear any semblance to my actual experiences they are greatly distorted and exaggerated to bring out the funny factor.  I actually sit at a computer and concoct kooky situations and add a punch line or two.  I have an over active imagination.

[3] I did not lay a hand on her or anyone.  I’ve never hit another person.  I did not see it coming.  She hit me.  I bled into bevnap and went home.  Not a very dramatic story.  But a traumatic evening nonetheless. 

[4] Not sure why I’m presenting these items as exhibits Your Honor, I just wanted you to know I have plenty of antacids- so please help yourself.  I know great places to get glasses cheap. I look like this due to lack of slumber.  And yes, you may borrow a tissue- they are the kind with lotion!

[5] Yes, I’m one of those people who always think everyone is having way more fun than I am.  

[6] The rest of the festival features male actors in plays and or plays written by men with strong female roles.  Men even enjoy coming to the festival since it is so darn good!  We (Estrogenius) love men.   But the focus is on Women.

[7] Available as soon as I get her okay. 

Putting the "It's OK!" in Addiction

A surprisingly large percentage of the population suffers from drug addiction, sex addiction, or addiction to stealing underwear from the Victoria Secret at the mall (let's be honest, that's not hard to do).

I... Am addicted to Popsecret Homestyle Popcorn. No, seriously I am addicted. I average about a bag a day for the last 8ish years. It's terrible and I feel the need to write a blog entry about it. Popsecret Homestyle popcorn is the light of my life. It makes any bad day into popcorn time. "It TASTES SO FREAKING GOOD..." is the sentence I utter every single time I eat it. I carry a bag in my purse in case I sleep over someone else's house, I keep a bag in my desk at work, and I light up every time I turn the corner of the popcorn aisle and I see that they have Homestyle flavor.

 It's the perfect combination of butter and salt. A beautiful long lasting marriage of corn kernels and magic. And if you try to pull one of those "Um, like, Krystyna... Like, popcorn is like so bad for your stomach it's like, really not good to eat that much," I will tell you to shove your comments about what I should and shouldn't do up your ass.

For Christmas, my boyfriend got me the most beautiful vintage coat, vintage hats, Darrel Hammond's book... And a suitcase. Filled. With 6-PACK boxes. Of. Popsecret. Homestyle. Popcorn. I cried when I opened it.

The point is... Popsecret Homestyle Popcorn is all I have when I'm feeling depressed/ugly/not funny/broke/anxious. It's been there for me since my teens.

Lorne Michaels actually has his assistants pop him fresh popcorn every day when he is working at SNL, so maybe popcorn enthusiasm, as I like to call it, is indicative of comic genius. I'd like to think so.

Charlie Sheen is addicted to tiger blood.
Robert Palmer is addicted to love.
I'm addicted to Popsecret Homestyle Popcorn.

Sadder things have happened. Life goes on.

^That would be a photo taken of my pantry in my apartment.

I Like To Look

Rhonda Hansome

Our bodies pressed.  Pressed in a cadence we couldn’t control.  Held captive, we suddenly swayed, gently rocked, then careened to a deceptively motionless halt.  In that stillness vibrating one against the other, we silently submitted to the grasp of the superior force surrounding us.  With the proximity of molecules we surrendered to the repetitive rhythm, our bodies quietly pressed in hypnotic rush hour intimacy, on the “A” train.  I don’t think she gave me a second look, or even a first for that matter.  I allowed my eyes to prowl my limited sight line, her swan like neck.

From any respectable distance the delicate black chain decorating her caramel throat would be a simple feminine adornment.  Close inspection revealed an eight point font Lucida Calligraphy tattoo:

If you are close enough to read this, back the fuck off!

My loud full throated (all too recognizable) guffaw cracked the silence of the packed train car.  On any other day our crowded rocking express trip would be accompanied by the tinny annoyingly disjointed musical selections emanating from a dozen or so too loud earphones, but not today.  God’s gift to comics, my borderline maniacal laughter, thundered around my silent fellow passengers like a fart in church.

Bingo! Her tat brightened my morning in a way the sun could only envy.  There was no containing my glee, for you see I am a tattoo voyeur.  Upon viewing a tattoo, my not necessarily sexual stimulation is a multi-faceted delight.  I marvel at the colors, designs, and locations of tattoos. I am unendingly intrigued by the trompe l’oeil, literal trick of the eye suggested by deep black ink on very dark black skin. Is that a fire breathing dragon or a losing battle with eczema; a circle of palm trees or the filthiest ankles I’ve ever seen?  But my highest flight of fancy evoked by any tattoo is for what I do NOT see.  Each human canvas transports me to a reverie of conjecture.  I ruminate endlessly on tat philosophy.  Is a tattoo still a mark of the rebellious individual if everybody has one?   What was the motivating catalyst to acquire the tat; gang affiliation, spiritual epiphany, drunken stupor?  When the tat was applied was the owner alone, accompanied by a trusted friend or just a gaggle of voices in her head?  Why do grey skulls cry blue spiders?  Were you aware before inking the entire 23^rd Psalm on your arm, there are some errors overlooked by spell check?  “He maketh me to file down in green statues: he leadeth me beside still waiters.”

Interestingly enough traditional tribal tattooing, once outlawed is experiencing a revival among the Maori of New Zealand and hipsters of Brooklyn.  I love the ubiquitous lower back “tramp” stamp viewings, offered by the many believers of truth in advertising.  

My enjoyment is tripled during summer months when halters, tank tops, sundresses and shorts reveal winter’s hidden treasures.  On yet another train ride (thank goddess for the weekly metro card!), the beige shorts before me coyly exposed the vibrant red outline of what promised, after multiple tattoo parlor visits, to be twin lush rose bouquet upper thigh tats on the nose ringed subway rider before me.  Emboldened by curiosity or just giddy from the lack of air conditioning, I pointed and asked, “What type are those roses?”  With a suspicious nod in my direction, his response was, “Just a regular rose.”  My imagination quickly colored in a hardy damask rose he chose because its tall thorny cane and strong scent recalled for him a lover lost but never forgotten. Some things are better left to my imagination. That’s why I love to look.