My sweetie has been ill with the swine flu.
It sucks watching someone you care about suffer because there is only so much you can do. In my case, I have been reading to her. Of course, the book I've chosen--Eat Pray Love--is one I've wanted her to read for a long time. Naturally, I'm seizing the opportunity to force feed it to her.
There's no audience like a captive audience.
There's also no sweetie like my sweetie. The flu has given her chills so she's spent the last couple days wearing the giant, furry wolf costume her friend wore for Halloween.
She is the cutest wolf ever.
It's kind of weird coming upstairs to see a giant wolf laying sick and forlorn on the bed though. All she was missing was a caption beneath her:
Swine Flu--The Three Little Pigs' Revenge.
Or possibly it should have been a picture sent with a note formed with letters cut out of the newspaper:
"Dear Mr. Wolf,
You aren't the only person who can play dress up.
And wolves have grandmothers too.
Sincerely,
Red Riding Hood"
The H1N1 outbreak has also instigated a round of one of my pet peeves--people refusing to acknowledge their mistakes.
It drives me crazy when figures both public and otherwise either a) refuse to admit fault or b) issue these mealy-mouthed non-apologies. I suppose there are legal reasons for it, but I still get annoyed.
Is making a mistake that bad? Seriously, we've never had anything like this H1N1 thing before. There's nothing wrong with admitting you were not fully prepared or miscalculated how things would play out. Instead they refuse to acknowledge any problems whatsoever.
It isn't just him though. I've met people who refuse to admit they're wrong, even when they clearly are.
Even more frustrating, I've had people tell me that I shouldn't ever admit to being wrong or making a mistake, that it's a sign of weakness or lack of confidence.
I don't buy it. I've always believe truly self-assured people aren't afraid to admit when they mishandled things. I tend to respect and trust a person who acknowledges failure more than someone who doesn't.
And I think a lot of us would in a better place if we focused a little less on LOOKING confident and a little more on BEING confident.
It sucks watching someone you care about suffer because there is only so much you can do. In my case, I have been reading to her. Of course, the book I've chosen--Eat Pray Love--is one I've wanted her to read for a long time. Naturally, I'm seizing the opportunity to force feed it to her.
There's no audience like a captive audience.
There's also no sweetie like my sweetie. The flu has given her chills so she's spent the last couple days wearing the giant, furry wolf costume her friend wore for Halloween.
She is the cutest wolf ever.
It's kind of weird coming upstairs to see a giant wolf laying sick and forlorn on the bed though. All she was missing was a caption beneath her:
Swine Flu--The Three Little Pigs' Revenge.
Or possibly it should have been a picture sent with a note formed with letters cut out of the newspaper:
"Dear Mr. Wolf,
You aren't the only person who can play dress up.
And wolves have grandmothers too.
Sincerely,
Red Riding Hood"
The H1N1 outbreak has also instigated a round of one of my pet peeves--people refusing to acknowledge their mistakes.
It drives me crazy when figures both public and otherwise either a) refuse to admit fault or b) issue these mealy-mouthed non-apologies. I suppose there are legal reasons for it, but I still get annoyed.
Is making a mistake that bad? Seriously, we've never had anything like this H1N1 thing before. There's nothing wrong with admitting you were not fully prepared or miscalculated how things would play out. Instead they refuse to acknowledge any problems whatsoever.
It isn't just him though. I've met people who refuse to admit they're wrong, even when they clearly are.
Even more frustrating, I've had people tell me that I shouldn't ever admit to being wrong or making a mistake, that it's a sign of weakness or lack of confidence.
I don't buy it. I've always believe truly self-assured people aren't afraid to admit when they mishandled things. I tend to respect and trust a person who acknowledges failure more than someone who doesn't.
And I think a lot of us would in a better place if we focused a little less on LOOKING confident and a little more on BEING confident.
I love ideas. There seem to be as many ways to perceive the world as there are people to perceive it.
However, when it comes to the various -ologys and -isms--be they capitalism, feminism, compassionate conservatism, or even...gulp...Buddhism--I try to write myself a memo.
Memo to self: Horse first, cart second.
There are a lot of interesting ways of looking at the world. The catch is when peopele start trying to make the world conform to their way of looking at it. Their view of the world shifts from being a description of what is to a prescription for what SHOULD be.
Here's an example. We'll call it Dan-ism.
Here are some tenets of Dan-ism.
1 - The world is fundamentally a good place
2 - In social situations, self-expression should be the most important thing
3 - Being Judgemental is bad
4 - People have the right to say shocking or inappropriate things as long as they are funny.
5 - People have the right to choose their sexual partner
I don't think this is a totally unreasonable way of looking at the world. Tenet 4 might give Dan-ists some trouble, since humor is so subjective, but overall, not a bad way to live.
HOWEVER...
Let's say our Dan-ist accidentally makes a judgement about somebody else's beliefs. He has violated the central tenet of Dan-ism, which means he must do one of two things. He can deny it ever happened and start making up increasingly elaborate rationalizations about how what he did/said was not judgmental. OR he can drown himself in guilt and self-loathing for "being a bad Dan-ist."
Neither will make him or other people particularly happy.
Or maybe one Dan-ist expresses that the world isn't always so great. Dan-ists everywhere go into a tizzy. What is more important? Self-expression or the view that the world is fundamentally good? The result is a schism in between the Orthodox Dan-ists and the Dan-ist Orthodoxy, where two groups of people with nearly identical beliefs suddenly find themselves locked in a bitter struggle over dogma.
Or let's say our Dan-ist lives in Canada. Let's see he suddenly realizes, "Hey, wait a minute. There are women in Sweden I've never met. I have the right to choose my own sexual partner, so therefore, I demand that all women in Sweden--nay, all women in the WORLD--move to my city so I can choose whether or not to have sex with them."
The women of the world may have something to say about that. Oh, he can try to make it happen. He can lobby or send his Giant Robot Army (did I mention our hypothetical Dan-ist is a Super-Genius? Well, he is) out into the world to bring back the feminine population...but it will result in great misery for himself, the women, and the rest of the world at large.
Or if he has no Robot Army, he may start an internet blog railing against the social injustice of Women Living In Other Countries. He might even sell stickers and have a PayPal account where "donations are gratefully accepted." He may even organize rallies at his local University campus.
Probably not though that last part though. Complaining over the internet is way easier than taking action [/cheap shot].
There are lots of ways of different world views out there. But a world view is not the same thing as the WORLD. Getting stuck on one is like staring at the guidebook to Paris while standing on top of the Eiffel tower. There's a lot of use to be found in a guidebook, but not at the expense of missing out on the actual experience.
However, when it comes to the various -ologys and -isms--be they capitalism, feminism, compassionate conservatism, or even...gulp...Buddhism--I try to write myself a memo.
Memo to self: Horse first, cart second.
There are a lot of interesting ways of looking at the world. The catch is when peopele start trying to make the world conform to their way of looking at it. Their view of the world shifts from being a description of what is to a prescription for what SHOULD be.
Here's an example. We'll call it Dan-ism.
Here are some tenets of Dan-ism.
1 - The world is fundamentally a good place
2 - In social situations, self-expression should be the most important thing
3 - Being Judgemental is bad
4 - People have the right to say shocking or inappropriate things as long as they are funny.
5 - People have the right to choose their sexual partner
I don't think this is a totally unreasonable way of looking at the world. Tenet 4 might give Dan-ists some trouble, since humor is so subjective, but overall, not a bad way to live.
HOWEVER...
Let's say our Dan-ist accidentally makes a judgement about somebody else's beliefs. He has violated the central tenet of Dan-ism, which means he must do one of two things. He can deny it ever happened and start making up increasingly elaborate rationalizations about how what he did/said was not judgmental. OR he can drown himself in guilt and self-loathing for "being a bad Dan-ist."
Neither will make him or other people particularly happy.
Or maybe one Dan-ist expresses that the world isn't always so great. Dan-ists everywhere go into a tizzy. What is more important? Self-expression or the view that the world is fundamentally good? The result is a schism in between the Orthodox Dan-ists and the Dan-ist Orthodoxy, where two groups of people with nearly identical beliefs suddenly find themselves locked in a bitter struggle over dogma.
Or let's say our Dan-ist lives in Canada. Let's see he suddenly realizes, "Hey, wait a minute. There are women in Sweden I've never met. I have the right to choose my own sexual partner, so therefore, I demand that all women in Sweden--nay, all women in the WORLD--move to my city so I can choose whether or not to have sex with them."
The women of the world may have something to say about that. Oh, he can try to make it happen. He can lobby or send his Giant Robot Army (did I mention our hypothetical Dan-ist is a Super-Genius? Well, he is) out into the world to bring back the feminine population...but it will result in great misery for himself, the women, and the rest of the world at large.
Or if he has no Robot Army, he may start an internet blog railing against the social injustice of Women Living In Other Countries. He might even sell stickers and have a PayPal account where "donations are gratefully accepted." He may even organize rallies at his local University campus.
Probably not though that last part though. Complaining over the internet is way easier than taking action [/cheap shot].
There are lots of ways of different world views out there. But a world view is not the same thing as the WORLD. Getting stuck on one is like staring at the guidebook to Paris while standing on top of the Eiffel tower. There's a lot of use to be found in a guidebook, but not at the expense of missing out on the actual experience.
I'm not a joiner. Never have been.
Even with causes I believe in, I'm more attached to the work or the people than the organization. I'm too socially restless to identify with any one group. I get what I need, give what I can, and move on, looking for new experience.
Groups are interesting though.
I've reconnected with a group I've known for years over the last month. I met them long before I started doing comedy (*) or published any of my writing, let alone the Buddhism, wrestling, and salsa dancing. They're gamers (any kind of game--board, video, or live action role playing). They are intelligent, funny, unconventional folks, and anybody who follows my adventures how much I adore unconventional people.
The thing that's really interesting about this group though, is that though it doesn't have a name or is registered with the government or is even acknowledged in any way, in some ways the group is as important as any of the individual people in it. Members come and members go. Relationships change. But the group bond is stronger than anything. It's like a family, though few of them are blood relatives with one another.
One woman who was part of the group called it a Tribe.
I think she's exactly right.
I'm grateful for them. They've been a constant in my life through a lot of changes and I often forget how much I enjoy their company. Where I'm a wanderer and a nomad, they've found their people and they hold together. And while I'm not part of their tribe, they've always made me feel welcome.
So to them I say thank you, for giving me a warm fire to gather around for a little while before moving on alone into the dark.
(*) One of them told me last night at the party: "You even LOOK like a comedian now." I was awake all night trying to figure out what the hell THAT was supposed to mean.
PS New article is up here: http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23796/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20Conversation%20Fundamentals%20Question%20Quommandments/
Even with causes I believe in, I'm more attached to the work or the people than the organization. I'm too socially restless to identify with any one group. I get what I need, give what I can, and move on, looking for new experience.
Groups are interesting though.
I've reconnected with a group I've known for years over the last month. I met them long before I started doing comedy (*) or published any of my writing, let alone the Buddhism, wrestling, and salsa dancing. They're gamers (any kind of game--board, video, or live action role playing). They are intelligent, funny, unconventional folks, and anybody who follows my adventures how much I adore unconventional people.
The thing that's really interesting about this group though, is that though it doesn't have a name or is registered with the government or is even acknowledged in any way, in some ways the group is as important as any of the individual people in it. Members come and members go. Relationships change. But the group bond is stronger than anything. It's like a family, though few of them are blood relatives with one another.
One woman who was part of the group called it a Tribe.
I think she's exactly right.
I'm grateful for them. They've been a constant in my life through a lot of changes and I often forget how much I enjoy their company. Where I'm a wanderer and a nomad, they've found their people and they hold together. And while I'm not part of their tribe, they've always made me feel welcome.
So to them I say thank you, for giving me a warm fire to gather around for a little while before moving on alone into the dark.
(*) One of them told me last night at the party: "You even LOOK like a comedian now." I was awake all night trying to figure out what the hell THAT was supposed to mean.
PS New article is up here: http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23796/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20Conversation%20Fundamentals%20Question%20Quommandments/
Latest article is up here"
http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23790/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20Problems%20No%20Problem/
In Other news, here's an editorial:
A Facebook friend of mine posted this note. If you're too lazy to look (or not on Facebook), here's the short version: it's on marketing.
I found it kind of a downer.
This isn't a personal shot against the fellow who posted the note. I don't know if he personally subscribes to this mentality (He DOES refer to it as "Lies and Truth"). Heck, I don't even know if he wrote it himself or if he found it somewhere else and forgot to credit his source (Assuming a source could be found--not always such an easy thing on the internet, I've noticed).
Here's my problem with it.
All of the things in the note may be true. My beef is with the unspoken subtext: that success is measured by sales and popularity.
I have nothing against fortune and fame. I am allergic to many things, but you will find neither 'bling,' nor 'mad bitches' on that list. I would love to be rich. I would love to be famous (*).
HOWEVER...
I also think adopting sales or popularity as a benchmark for success is a great way to make yourself miserable. Because no matter how good your product, no matter how great your marketing plan, such things are largely out of your control. Yes, you can put yourself in the best possible position to succeed, but there are no guarantees.
To paraphrase something some editor said in a I once read book somewhere (**): "I can tell whether or not a book is good. I can't tell whether or not it will sell."
As I said, I don't have any moral objection to fame and fortune. I do have an objection to putting my sense of personal satisfaction in the hands of others.
Because you can't MAKE yourself commerically succesful. You can't MAKE yourself popular. That sort of status isn't something you can take. It's something other people give you for their own reasons in their own time.
As long as you are measuring yourself by outside standards, you are at the mercy of other people. You are tying your happiness to the mast to a ship that is not yours to captain.
Fuck that.
I know who I am. I know the standard I've set for myself, both as a performer and a human being. I know when I've done right and I know when I've fallen short whether there are 500 000 people watching, 15, or no one at all.
All things considered, I would rather have the 500 000. The more people I can reach, the better, especially if they're showering me with gifts, adoration, and cold hard cash. I want those things.
But I don't need them to tell me whether or not I'm successful. And neither, I suspect, does anybody else.
Because whether we want to admit it to ourselves or not, I think that is something that deep down, we already know.
(*) More precisely, I'd like to be famous for eight months, with an option to renew if I decided I liked it. But now we're splitting hairs.
(**) With that phrase, I officially give up my right to bitch about other people's lack of citations
http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23790/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20Problems%20No%20Problem/
In Other news, here's an editorial:
A Facebook friend of mine posted this note. If you're too lazy to look (or not on Facebook), here's the short version: it's on marketing.
I found it kind of a downer.
This isn't a personal shot against the fellow who posted the note. I don't know if he personally subscribes to this mentality (He DOES refer to it as "Lies and Truth"). Heck, I don't even know if he wrote it himself or if he found it somewhere else and forgot to credit his source (Assuming a source could be found--not always such an easy thing on the internet, I've noticed).
Here's my problem with it.
All of the things in the note may be true. My beef is with the unspoken subtext: that success is measured by sales and popularity.
I have nothing against fortune and fame. I am allergic to many things, but you will find neither 'bling,' nor 'mad bitches' on that list. I would love to be rich. I would love to be famous (*).
HOWEVER...
I also think adopting sales or popularity as a benchmark for success is a great way to make yourself miserable. Because no matter how good your product, no matter how great your marketing plan, such things are largely out of your control. Yes, you can put yourself in the best possible position to succeed, but there are no guarantees.
To paraphrase something some editor said in a I once read book somewhere (**): "I can tell whether or not a book is good. I can't tell whether or not it will sell."
As I said, I don't have any moral objection to fame and fortune. I do have an objection to putting my sense of personal satisfaction in the hands of others.
Because you can't MAKE yourself commerically succesful. You can't MAKE yourself popular. That sort of status isn't something you can take. It's something other people give you for their own reasons in their own time.
As long as you are measuring yourself by outside standards, you are at the mercy of other people. You are tying your happiness to the mast to a ship that is not yours to captain.
Fuck that.
I know who I am. I know the standard I've set for myself, both as a performer and a human being. I know when I've done right and I know when I've fallen short whether there are 500 000 people watching, 15, or no one at all.
All things considered, I would rather have the 500 000. The more people I can reach, the better, especially if they're showering me with gifts, adoration, and cold hard cash. I want those things.
But I don't need them to tell me whether or not I'm successful. And neither, I suspect, does anybody else.
Because whether we want to admit it to ourselves or not, I think that is something that deep down, we already know.
(*) More precisely, I'd like to be famous for eight months, with an option to renew if I decided I liked it. But now we're splitting hairs.
(**) With that phrase, I officially give up my right to bitch about other people's lack of citations
I've revisited the topic of leading in my latest Suicide Girls article. Leading tends to be a controversial subject on this site, so I'm interested in reading what people think
Article is here:
http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23782/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20Leading%20Love/
Article is here:
http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23782/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20Leading%20Love/
Latest article is up. you can find it here: http://suicidegirls.com/news/geek/23774/Dan%20Brodribbs%20Geek%20Love%20The%20C%20Word/
It would be a lie to say every bad decision I've made recently has started with a phone call from Heavy Metal, but it seems like a significant number of my misadventures are marked with the fingerprints of the reigning OSCW champion.
Last night, I was feeling very smug, self-satisfied, and proud of how responsible and mature I was being by going to bed early on a weeknight when at 11:11pm, the phone rang.
HEAVY METAL: Hey man, Boris (aka '1') and I are on Whyte avenue and it's dead. Where's a good bar to find women on Tuesdays?
As it happens, I know of one, within walking distance of my house, and relayed the information to Mrs. Metal's handsome son.
HEAVY METAL: You should come out with us, brother.
ME: Sorry, I'm going to bed. Next time, for sure.
HEAVY METAL: Come on, it will be fun.
ME: I work tomorrow. Have a great time.
HEAVY METAL: Come on. It will give you a story for your blog.
Say what you will, Heavy Metal knows the right buttons to push.
I justified my decision to go by thinking, "Well, maybe I'll have an awful time like the last couple bar visits and it will reinforce my decision to stop doing this to myself."
I arrived at the bar late and was confronted with an impossible line. For a moment, I thought fate had decreed I should go home-- "Pretty Decent" waits in line for no man--but one of the bouncers recognized me and waved me through.
Heavy Metal was there. Boris was there. A number of pretty girls and cool guys I remember from my bar-hopping days so many months ago were there and greeted me enthusiastically.
Damn it, I remember thinking. I'm supposed to be growing beyond this. The last thing I want to do is have fun tonight.
Unfortunately, I had fun anyway, even if The Work Countdown was going on in my head: "If I leave right now, I'll get to bed at 1 and have seven hours of sleep...If I leave right NOW, I'll get to bed at 1:45 and have six hours and fifteen minutes of sleep...If I leave right NOW...etc.
Heavy Metal taught me how to reverse a hammerlock on the dance floor, Boris started doing Boris things (jumping up and down, "accidentally" blocking women trying to walk past, and vanishing into the Phantom Zone), and the night was on.
I soon became painfully aware my social skills have been badly eroded by weeks of not going out and meeting strangers. I'm not too bothered--thank you, newfound Buddhist equanimity--but I find it hard to be a good wingman when I'm standing around smiling politely not saying anything and wondering if anyone notices me hemmoraghing game from a social sucking chest wound.
One does what one can. Heavy Metal became smitten with a rubinesque young woman, and I went in make the necessary introductions. That's how I met Brent, a handsome young man who makes a habit of hitting on overweight women in bars so he can get free drinks.
"I'm a terrible person, but I'm hammered and I've only paid for one drink all night!" he crowed to me, before saying words I've never heard an 18-22 year old male utter in a nightclub before. "Man, I really wish there were more fat chicks here tonight."
Brent demonstrated his method on a nearby overweight woman. I lacked both the heart and the balls to be a part of this but Heavy Metal played wingman, distracting the more attractive of the two so Brent could do his thing (another sentence I don't think I've ever written before).
Heavy Metal drew his woman onto the dance floor and began dancing with her from behind (*). By now Brent had lost interest and wandered off, so Heavy Metal's girl grabbed her zaftig friend and pulled her onto the dance floor. The result was a rather odd dancing formation: Heavy Metal with his arms wrapped around the woman from behind while she simultaneously held her friends hands with her own.
I wonder who leads in that situation.
I made a couple attempts to join in and entertain the friend so Heavy Metal could work his air guitar magic, but my heart wasn't in it, and everyone (except Heavy Metal, who was busy neck-nuzzling his new love) knew it.
I begged off and went to look for Boris, who had ninja-vanished, as is his custom. (I expected to see him clinging to the ceiling with a katana between his teeth, but no luck)
Meanwhile, Heavy Metal's vertical threesome continued for a while until a better man than me stepped in and peeled the friend away so Heavy Metal could grind in peace.
Heavy Metal tried to get the girl's number, but she faked him out with the "Oh-let-me-get-YOUR-number-instead-and-I'll-call-you-sometime" move.
Heavy Metal was despondent. As the three of us left the bar (Boris had rejoined us, doubtless after assassinating the busboy with his laser-guided throwing stars dipped in rattlesnake venom), he would not shut up about his lost love--a love that he had known for approximately forty minutes.
Fortunately, we saw the girls getting into a car. Even more fortunately, I devised an elaborate plan that involved me stepping out into the road in front of the car to stop them and then either a) faking being hit to provide a distraction or b) being pulled out of the way by Heavy Metal.
It was a brilliant plan and would have worked great...if we were in Europe. I stepped out into the wrong lane and the car puttered merrily past us while I got honked at by taxicabs coming from the opposite direction.
I have a rule. One near death experience per outing (three if Big Jess is driving)
It was time to go. The last I saw of Boris and Heavy Metal, they were sitting on the curb trying to figure out how they were going to get home with no money and houses on the opposite sides of the city.
Hope they made it. I wouldn't have a blog without them.
(*) I love watching drunk grinding couples when the guy is dancing behind the girl They can't see each other's facial expressions but you can see both of them. It's just a kaleidoscope of emotion: lust, boredom, resignation, oh-shit-is-this-the-best-I-can-do-what-will-my-friends-think? I will miss the club scene for that alone.
Last night, I was feeling very smug, self-satisfied, and proud of how responsible and mature I was being by going to bed early on a weeknight when at 11:11pm, the phone rang.
HEAVY METAL: Hey man, Boris (aka '1') and I are on Whyte avenue and it's dead. Where's a good bar to find women on Tuesdays?
As it happens, I know of one, within walking distance of my house, and relayed the information to Mrs. Metal's handsome son.
HEAVY METAL: You should come out with us, brother.
ME: Sorry, I'm going to bed. Next time, for sure.
HEAVY METAL: Come on, it will be fun.
ME: I work tomorrow. Have a great time.
HEAVY METAL: Come on. It will give you a story for your blog.
Say what you will, Heavy Metal knows the right buttons to push.
I justified my decision to go by thinking, "Well, maybe I'll have an awful time like the last couple bar visits and it will reinforce my decision to stop doing this to myself."
I arrived at the bar late and was confronted with an impossible line. For a moment, I thought fate had decreed I should go home-- "Pretty Decent" waits in line for no man--but one of the bouncers recognized me and waved me through.
Heavy Metal was there. Boris was there. A number of pretty girls and cool guys I remember from my bar-hopping days so many months ago were there and greeted me enthusiastically.
Damn it, I remember thinking. I'm supposed to be growing beyond this. The last thing I want to do is have fun tonight.
Unfortunately, I had fun anyway, even if The Work Countdown was going on in my head: "If I leave right now, I'll get to bed at 1 and have seven hours of sleep...If I leave right NOW, I'll get to bed at 1:45 and have six hours and fifteen minutes of sleep...If I leave right NOW...etc.
Heavy Metal taught me how to reverse a hammerlock on the dance floor, Boris started doing Boris things (jumping up and down, "accidentally" blocking women trying to walk past, and vanishing into the Phantom Zone), and the night was on.
I soon became painfully aware my social skills have been badly eroded by weeks of not going out and meeting strangers. I'm not too bothered--thank you, newfound Buddhist equanimity--but I find it hard to be a good wingman when I'm standing around smiling politely not saying anything and wondering if anyone notices me hemmoraghing game from a social sucking chest wound.
One does what one can. Heavy Metal became smitten with a rubinesque young woman, and I went in make the necessary introductions. That's how I met Brent, a handsome young man who makes a habit of hitting on overweight women in bars so he can get free drinks.
"I'm a terrible person, but I'm hammered and I've only paid for one drink all night!" he crowed to me, before saying words I've never heard an 18-22 year old male utter in a nightclub before. "Man, I really wish there were more fat chicks here tonight."
Brent demonstrated his method on a nearby overweight woman. I lacked both the heart and the balls to be a part of this but Heavy Metal played wingman, distracting the more attractive of the two so Brent could do his thing (another sentence I don't think I've ever written before).
Heavy Metal drew his woman onto the dance floor and began dancing with her from behind (*). By now Brent had lost interest and wandered off, so Heavy Metal's girl grabbed her zaftig friend and pulled her onto the dance floor. The result was a rather odd dancing formation: Heavy Metal with his arms wrapped around the woman from behind while she simultaneously held her friends hands with her own.
I wonder who leads in that situation.
I made a couple attempts to join in and entertain the friend so Heavy Metal could work his air guitar magic, but my heart wasn't in it, and everyone (except Heavy Metal, who was busy neck-nuzzling his new love) knew it.
I begged off and went to look for Boris, who had ninja-vanished, as is his custom. (I expected to see him clinging to the ceiling with a katana between his teeth, but no luck)
Meanwhile, Heavy Metal's vertical threesome continued for a while until a better man than me stepped in and peeled the friend away so Heavy Metal could grind in peace.
Heavy Metal tried to get the girl's number, but she faked him out with the "Oh-let-me-get-YOUR-number-instead-and-I'll-call-you-sometime" move.
Heavy Metal was despondent. As the three of us left the bar (Boris had rejoined us, doubtless after assassinating the busboy with his laser-guided throwing stars dipped in rattlesnake venom), he would not shut up about his lost love--a love that he had known for approximately forty minutes.
Fortunately, we saw the girls getting into a car. Even more fortunately, I devised an elaborate plan that involved me stepping out into the road in front of the car to stop them and then either a) faking being hit to provide a distraction or b) being pulled out of the way by Heavy Metal.
It was a brilliant plan and would have worked great...if we were in Europe. I stepped out into the wrong lane and the car puttered merrily past us while I got honked at by taxicabs coming from the opposite direction.
I have a rule. One near death experience per outing (three if Big Jess is driving)
It was time to go. The last I saw of Boris and Heavy Metal, they were sitting on the curb trying to figure out how they were going to get home with no money and houses on the opposite sides of the city.
Hope they made it. I wouldn't have a blog without them.
(*) I love watching drunk grinding couples when the guy is dancing behind the girl They can't see each other's facial expressions but you can see both of them. It's just a kaleidoscope of emotion: lust, boredom, resignation, oh-shit-is-this-the-best-I-can-do-what-will-my-friends-think? I will miss the club scene for that alone.
I've been spending my street comedy practice for the last week practicing moving from jokes to the transitional material I need when I MC (intros, opening and closing shows, etc.). So if you see me in a random public place introducing people who don't exist, I'm not a crazy person. I'm a comedian.
Come to think of it, maybe I am a crazy person.
However, all this practice does make me a better comic. Being a better comic means more shows. And more shows mean better blog stories.
Last night's show was a great example. But before we get to that, a message from our sponsor.
Upcoming Wrestling Appearances
Saturday, August 22 - OSCW August Action, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Dan Brodribb's Geek Love appears every two weeks at www.suicidegirls.com.
More of Dan's musings on dating and relationships can be found on his Hot Chicks & Strangers blog at hotchicksandstrangers.blogspot.com
We now return to our regularly scheduled program.
Last night was Matt Powermann Aleddines religious themed comedy show, which may have been the most bizarre show Ive ever done (at least since the Great Roost Talent Show Debacle of 05, which I may or may not have written about)
I was repping the Buddhists, and my performance was pretty good, considering I was following a topless woman shilling for something called Queer Camp. She was passionate about the GLTthe-other-letter-I-always-forget cause, but it wasnt exactly the funniest presentation in the world. I grade my performance not on laughs, but on the number and attractiveness of the women who initiate conversations with me after the show. Im pleased to report, I delivered a two hottie performance.
One of the hotties couldnt even wait until the show was over to sing my praises, which was kind of awkward since I was shirtless and having a magic-marker beard being drawn on my face by Andrew Iwanyk at the time (Dont ask). The exact words she used were pretty decent--definitely the sort of rave review that keeps me going. Rick Rude was Simply Ravishing, Paul Orndorff was Mr. Wonderful but that all pales when Dan Pretty Decent Brodribb comes to your town.
In other news, I am now 2-0 in onstage pillow fights with other comics (Dont ask). Granted, Ive ended up facing the only two comics in Edmonton that are smaller than me, but undefeated is undefeated. Look out Mr. Perfect. Move over Goldberg. Hang your head in shame 07 Patriots. Pretty Decent Dan Brodribb is starting a streak of his own.
Did I mention that I saw more bare breasts at a Religious-themed show than any other show Ive done to date? The total nipple-count was ten. Two of the nipples belonged to me. Two others were Powermanns, and another pair belonged to my pillow-fight opponent and fellow Riverside Bar and Grill open mic survivor, Jeff Neeser, The remaining four were evenly divided between two women. One was an activist; the other was a train wreck. So there you go.
After the show, we went out and I promptly spent all the money I made from the show on food, which frustrated me, because Im trying to reign in my spending.
DAN: I cant believe I spent that money on food. I need to be more disciplined.
POWERMANN: Yeah, that was fiscally irresponsible of you, blowing your income on frivolities like Things That Are Necessary for Survival. You could have used that money for cigarettes or lapdances.
Actually, I was thinking the Allied Powers: Best of the Tag-Teams wrestling DVD and the Bret Hart autobiography, but the point was well-taken.
Pretty Decent has pretty misplaced priorities.
Fortunately, I volunteered for the FolkFest, and part of our package is free meals. Which means so long as I skip breakfast, I might be able to get away without spending money on food for the rest of the week.
Who needs blood sugar? Wrestlings greatest tag-team matches are the only nourishment I need.
Come to think of it, maybe I am a crazy person.
However, all this practice does make me a better comic. Being a better comic means more shows. And more shows mean better blog stories.
Last night's show was a great example. But before we get to that, a message from our sponsor.
Upcoming Wrestling Appearances
Saturday, August 22 - OSCW August Action, Hazeldean Community Hall - Edmonton
Dan Brodribb's Geek Love appears every two weeks at www.suicidegirls.com.
More of Dan's musings on dating and relationships can be found on his Hot Chicks & Strangers blog at hotchicksandstrangers.blogspot.com
We now return to our regularly scheduled program.
Last night was Matt Powermann Aleddines religious themed comedy show, which may have been the most bizarre show Ive ever done (at least since the Great Roost Talent Show Debacle of 05, which I may or may not have written about)
I was repping the Buddhists, and my performance was pretty good, considering I was following a topless woman shilling for something called Queer Camp. She was passionate about the GLTthe-other-letter-I-always-forget cause, but it wasnt exactly the funniest presentation in the world. I grade my performance not on laughs, but on the number and attractiveness of the women who initiate conversations with me after the show. Im pleased to report, I delivered a two hottie performance.
One of the hotties couldnt even wait until the show was over to sing my praises, which was kind of awkward since I was shirtless and having a magic-marker beard being drawn on my face by Andrew Iwanyk at the time (Dont ask). The exact words she used were pretty decent--definitely the sort of rave review that keeps me going. Rick Rude was Simply Ravishing, Paul Orndorff was Mr. Wonderful but that all pales when Dan Pretty Decent Brodribb comes to your town.
In other news, I am now 2-0 in onstage pillow fights with other comics (Dont ask). Granted, Ive ended up facing the only two comics in Edmonton that are smaller than me, but undefeated is undefeated. Look out Mr. Perfect. Move over Goldberg. Hang your head in shame 07 Patriots. Pretty Decent Dan Brodribb is starting a streak of his own.
Did I mention that I saw more bare breasts at a Religious-themed show than any other show Ive done to date? The total nipple-count was ten. Two of the nipples belonged to me. Two others were Powermanns, and another pair belonged to my pillow-fight opponent and fellow Riverside Bar and Grill open mic survivor, Jeff Neeser, The remaining four were evenly divided between two women. One was an activist; the other was a train wreck. So there you go.
After the show, we went out and I promptly spent all the money I made from the show on food, which frustrated me, because Im trying to reign in my spending.
DAN: I cant believe I spent that money on food. I need to be more disciplined.
POWERMANN: Yeah, that was fiscally irresponsible of you, blowing your income on frivolities like Things That Are Necessary for Survival. You could have used that money for cigarettes or lapdances.
Actually, I was thinking the Allied Powers: Best of the Tag-Teams wrestling DVD and the Bret Hart autobiography, but the point was well-taken.
Pretty Decent has pretty misplaced priorities.
Fortunately, I volunteered for the FolkFest, and part of our package is free meals. Which means so long as I skip breakfast, I might be able to get away without spending money on food for the rest of the week.
Who needs blood sugar? Wrestlings greatest tag-team matches are the only nourishment I need.
More and more, I'm starting to realize what I love about comedy.
It's never the same show twice. No matter how carefully crafted your jokes, no matter how polished your set, the magical thing about live comedy is that you have very little control over a whole lot of big and little things that can completeley change the tenor of the show.
I'm starting to embrace that lack of control. In fact, I'm starting to love it.
I used to meticulously word my jokes and have a set list prepared for every show. The important thing to me was that those jokes got told. I was trying to "get my shit in," which is how the wrestlers describe a performer whose priority is cramming his moves into the match regardless of whether or not it makes sense in context of the match or whether the fans want to see them or not.
It's embarassing to admit it, but I almost want to do comedy like an old-school wrestler. I want to be a worker. I want to go up with an idea of how I might start and a finish in mind, but everything else I do up there is based off reading the crowd and seeing what they like.
And the only way to learn how to do that well, is to do it...sometimes badly.
I've already started. I'm loving it. It feels more like what comedy is. A show for these people at this moment. When that moment is gone, it's gone. You can't put it on a DVD. You can't rehearse it. It's what makes live comedy great...the chance of seeing something you can't see on a DVD or a tv special.
The jokes aren't important. I'm not that important.
The show, that's the important thing.
I don't know if this new approach will make me a star. Showcase and television sets are mostly about not wasting words, about sticking to the program. In fact, I'm worried this will actually HURT my chances.
But the more I think about it, the more it feels like the right approach. Because it's what I love, and finding something you love is a precious thing.
It's never the same show twice. No matter how carefully crafted your jokes, no matter how polished your set, the magical thing about live comedy is that you have very little control over a whole lot of big and little things that can completeley change the tenor of the show.
I'm starting to embrace that lack of control. In fact, I'm starting to love it.
I used to meticulously word my jokes and have a set list prepared for every show. The important thing to me was that those jokes got told. I was trying to "get my shit in," which is how the wrestlers describe a performer whose priority is cramming his moves into the match regardless of whether or not it makes sense in context of the match or whether the fans want to see them or not.
It's embarassing to admit it, but I almost want to do comedy like an old-school wrestler. I want to be a worker. I want to go up with an idea of how I might start and a finish in mind, but everything else I do up there is based off reading the crowd and seeing what they like.
And the only way to learn how to do that well, is to do it...sometimes badly.
I've already started. I'm loving it. It feels more like what comedy is. A show for these people at this moment. When that moment is gone, it's gone. You can't put it on a DVD. You can't rehearse it. It's what makes live comedy great...the chance of seeing something you can't see on a DVD or a tv special.
The jokes aren't important. I'm not that important.
The show, that's the important thing.
I don't know if this new approach will make me a star. Showcase and television sets are mostly about not wasting words, about sticking to the program. In fact, I'm worried this will actually HURT my chances.
But the more I think about it, the more it feels like the right approach. Because it's what I love, and finding something you love is a precious thing.
FEBRUARY 2010
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JANUARY 2010
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DECEMBER 2009
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NOVEMBER 2009
