Tuesday, July 19, 2016

John Bizarre

I'm sure I've written about it before, but this morning I'll dedicate the next sip of coffee and scratch of the bum to John Bizarre.

John Bizarre, in his current form, is a Las Vegas-based comedian and filmmaker. He also maintains a blog/website at http://www.bizarre.com/blog.html. His writings there slip and slide from the profound to the profane, and rarely miss a chance to be deliberately, almost obsessively silly. While his (two) books are also written without much reverence, these daily writings are what I'd expect in a way: the little building blocks of thought, speculation and everyday happenstance that decay and ferment and give eventual life to the more refined end results that entertain.

My wife and I saw John Bizarre for the first time in Fairfield, California, at a club called Pepperbellys. It was my first real live comedy show after watching stand-up for decades only on television, and John Bizarre was the right comic to jump start the experience.

Anyway, this isn't meant to come off as a creepy memorial, just a nod of gratitude to the universe for bringing back a ray of twice-weekly light for a deskbound office monkey. Bizarre had taken a few years off from social media, and only recently returned from self-imposed exile. Not only has the website been resurrected, but he's got a facebook page, too. It's a real pleasure to see him back online, and on social media again. I dig it.

Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Keep it moving

Yesterday was a good day. Let's discuss why.

I had the day off, thanks to the ongoing "furlough days" my company has adopted to help address cash flow problems (theirs, not mine). I started the day the same way I start a lot of work-free days: with a feeling of lightness and energy and all the things I want to accomplish buzzing around the inside of my head like houseflies. Often, the first challenge is to corral and list all these ideas before this fleeting clarity of purpose dissipates like (the opposite of) a morning fog.

I compiled an ambitious list of chores, and got started. Early on, it occurred to me that this was a component of my daily head space that I'd forgotten: just "keep it moving." I have lapsed over the past year or two into a very sedentary lifestyle. While adopting a couch potato-like recreational life sounds very relaxing, it's not a satisfying default. From the couch, I can see and imagine all the productive things that need doing. However, my brain has developed some very effective techniques for thwarting such noble impulses.

One such techniques is drinking the beer. Oh, how I enjoy most every sip of beer. But not all of them. If you pay attention to your body chemistry, you can discern a lot about how your body reacts to booze. You get the rush, the gentle euphoria, the energy boost... and then what the good Lord giveth, He also taketh away. What goes up must come down, and as the tide comes in, so it must go out, etcetera. The high is equal to the crash, and there's only so much you can do to ameliorate that equation. If you avoid it altogether, I find that even this fat, oldish body can maintain natural energy for over a surprisingly longer time period. I'd forgotten that.

And so it came to be that after working through the morning, when I prepared myself a cheap but pleasant lamb lunch, I forwent skipped the accompanying wine. Dodged that metabolic bullet!

At the end of the day, I got just over half my list done. Not as much as I hoped, but the results of a genuine effort are hard to feel bad about.

And throughout the day, it dawned upon me increasingly, that just "keeping it moving" is a pretty good ethos to weave into the quilt of my daily operating procedures. It's especially helpful because I can be quick to despair at too many choices, especially when planning my day. For some reason, this mindset helps me keep it positive and light, and not get stuck.

At the end of the day, I wasted spent a considerable period of time playing video games, without a pang of guilt or regret, and I got some good stuff done. A good day.

Tuesday, February 2, 2016

I still have this thing?

I have the urge to write in this blog, for a few reasons:

  • It's a fun way to chronicle my life. There are times when I look back at photos, facebook posts and other digital debris, and it's nice to have these "artifacts," as Joe Crawford calls them. Most of blog-thoughts have evolved into facebook-thoughts, and it's not altogether the best thing. Plus, looking back to see only 3 entries for 2015? That makes me sad, bubba!
  • I need conversations to work things out in my head. This blog is nothing so much as a conversation with myself, and helps my "flow."
  • I'm finding that free-writing can be good for creativity, and I need help getting some jokes written. There are few things more satisfying to me than putting together a promising new joke.
  • And finally, sometimes I really like writing and the things I write. I feel surprisingly unashamed at the sound of my typewritten voice.

On the other hand, I really don't like writing about how I should be writing; it quickly becomes annoyingly self-referential. But, I do like that I've come back here and scratched something on the ol' cave wall. Little steps, little steps...

Monday, October 26, 2015

Flu

I caught the flu two Saturdays ago. Dear god, what a curse.

The weakness, the coughing, the gelatin scum constantly creeping from my lungs, interfering with every vital process: sleep, breath itself. There are other indignities and incapacities I can abide, but oh, how I hate being sick.

I don't mind the fever itself so much, or at least the temperature sensation of it. For the first half of my ten-day (I'm on the ninth day now, or so, and it feels like I'm almost done) ordeal, I would roast and sweat like, well, a fevered animal. And I rather enjoyed the heated feeling. It felt oddly like I was cold, but if I wrapped up and stayed insulated, my body heat would rage gloriously and I felt like I was cooking nicely from the inside out, and I reveled in it. It was one symptom I was thankful not to suffer too badly from. I read somewhere that a fever is part of your body's attempt to fight the virus by cooking it, and I like the idea.

At about the halfway point, heat turned to cold, and even though I felt the damned gnawing chill I would still sweat profusely through my clothing, pillow, blanket, mattress. At one point, struggling to find a calm position that didn't feel like I was actively daring my lungs to spawn wracking spasms of coughing fits, I turned face-down to the bed, and smelled the beginnings of a moldy presence in my nostrils, the effect of a constant warm, moist presence without respite of sunlight and ventilation for days on end. Finding new ways to disgust and repel yourself (and an inability to correct them until you are better) are added to the list of curses.

It's the weakness that bothers me as much as anything; the robbing from you the better parts of yourself. Stripped of your inability to handle even the merest challenges, lucky to surmount the run-of-the-mill hurdles like daily hygiene and household duties, you lose the part of your identity that proves worth to you and others.  By the end of the week, I had to put garbage cans out for pick-up, and marching resignedly at 6:00 a.m. to the curb with two rollaway bins I found myself losing a crucial bit of my sense of humor. By the time i was back in the house I hated everyone for leaving it for me to do, and in a fit of impotent impatience I managed to clumsily smash a glass in the kitchen, giving myself another unwanted task to finish before preparing for work. During that clean-up, I broke a plate on the floor. Oh, how I wished I could just give up there and then.

The fever and weakness feel surely to go hand-in-hand, and I have learned to become suspicious of the glimmers of hope when they pretend to waver. In the past I have embraced the first glimmers of energy and become more active, only to have the illness return with vengeance and place what feels like an additional tax of severity and duration upon me for daring to celebrate too early.

Friday saw me visit a doctor and secure an antibiotic prescription. Without this luxury of modern medicine, I don't know how or when I would have come out of it. It certainly didn't feel like I was about to bounce back, as I expected I would have normally done, up to now. I really started to fear for my health (hypochondriac tendencies or no). While the fever felt it was beginning to naturally wane, Friday morning took a brief but surprising downturn and felt like one of those things that would just kill off old people and children and others of weak immunity that the news always mentions off-handedly.

Today, I am feeling better, but still weak. I can still regularly cough myself into a brief headache, but I can feel that I am stronger and less infected with the buffet of maladies I am hosting. I am on the penultimate day of my six-day prescription antibiotic, and I am still affected enough that I wonder if tomorrow's final dose will be enough.

My appetite and energy are feebly beginning to return. There is a silver lining to the cloud of cold and flu, where the downtime provides a break from bad habits; I simply don't have the appetite for them, nor the energy to embrace or enjoy them. Junk food, overeating, alcohol are the main players I speak of. I've eaten little during this ill period. While I'd hoped for some weight loss as a result, there has been none. Being bedridden lowers the other side of the register as well, so with no output, the lesser input is only balanced, not a net improvement. Still, I hope to apply enough will to hesitate when resuming these habits, and maybe secure some benefit from this dreary and hated term. Last night's post-dinner ice cream cone bodes that I have my work cut out for me, but there were several instances where it occurred to me to "reward" myself with sweet treats, and I abstained. These are the components of improvement.

I am not helped in this regard by the fact that the past ten days have been almost completely without pleasure or respite. While suffering has been full enough, I am mindful it could have been worse and I try to retain some bit of gratitude to the fore. Still, an extended existence without any highs, pleasant experiences whatsoever, taxes the mind and spirit. As noted before, I started down the road of bitterness about five days in, becoming angry at my little plight, and reveling in it maybe a little more than I should. I'll be glad to see this particular black cloud blow away.

I am sad and ashamed that I have passed the illness on to Michelle. I normally shouldn't be ashamed of a biological function beyond my control, but there was a moment we could have been more conservative in our actions, and Sunday showed proof that we should have waited. She is now inheriting my laundry list of woes, and at least I have the promise of improved vigor with which to care for her, as she did me. I feel badly, not just from guilt, but of empathy. She is at her new job and cannot quite as easily call in sick.

There have been times when she will shake off an illness of mine more quickly and easily than I did; I hope that is the case here. I hate myself for my role in infecting her. All I can do is resolve to take the best care of her that I can.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Watching the world pass me by

There is a pernicious tendency in stand up comedy (and other arts, I'm sure), to strike a spark of jealousy against the flint of others' progress. That is, there are people who will quickly develop a hostility (if not outright hatred) for those that they see succeeding, paying dues and making some kind of progress. How awful.

It is childish and short-sighted and actually detrimental to the one who embraces this way of thinking. It is as clear as any an example of the adage: "Anger is like a hot stone; while you hold it and consider throwing it at your enemy, it is you who is burned." My apologies for a rough paraphrase; it's off the top of my head.

But I am wary as I find myself grinding my teeth in frustration as I see my "peers" (the word is used loosely here, as some are 'above' and some are 'below' me, in my estimation. It matters not) beginning to excel. Nick Larson is talented with photography and image editing. Aaron Kromann is cunning with visual arts. Saul Trujillo is much younger than me, and is becoming skilled and respected in the game of comedy.  They all work at it.

These are just a few examples; there are more. It chafes. It burns, occasionally, that these people are "moving up," as the typical sour grapes, left-behind comedy practitioner might put it. I've had ideas, inspiration for shows or writing or lighting or sound or sponsorship or whatever the hell. And I've let them languish, for some reasons that are understandable and for some reasons that are indefensible, like laziness, fear of being outside a comfort zone, or for the inexplicable, incommunicable motivations that all humans experience on their way to not getting things done.

The difference is (and I am very glad there is a difference) that I understand I don't suffer because they progress. I am happy to see each and every one of the shit-encrusted baboons scrape away the caked-on scum of lethargy and lack (some of these poor assholes don't have a car) and failure off of their miserable hides and attain some "next level" of achievement. Kromann put out a terrific piece of illustration that proudly accompanies the current withering pseudo-rivalry of the MAMA awards this year. Each "MAMA-nee" has put effort and inspiration together and come up with something of which they should be proud. Saul made a fine video. Kromann, his illustration, masterfully done. Even Jason Sohm wrote something legible, I think. El Roberto has nicely posted his proximity to insanity for all to see, and I think it's touching.

And I don't begrudge the any of it. Unlike your typical hater, I see that their success does not equal my failure. It is not a zero-sum game where anything they reap comes out of my harvest.  I am truly happy for each of them when they do well, succeed, "pass."  I've seen all of them, every single one, eat their own excrement in front of a spindly, apathetic crowd, and so I feel that I know them. I am in touch with their humility, even if they are not (but to their credit, I think they all are well aware of their foibles).

But still, I am unsettled. I am bothered to see them make something wonderful. *I* should be making something wonderful. I should have been out working on my abilities last year, when I so smugly considered what I *could* do and left it for later, instead of what I *would* do.

And this is at the heart of my dilemma. Encouragingly, I believe that the only real, productive competition is with that fellow in the mirror. The only person to compare yourself to is the person you were yesterday, or today. Or where you thought you'd be tomorrow. If you can outpace THAT guy, then you have won something. If you can surprise him, and widen *his* eyes a little bit, *then* you have accomplished something.

And I have not impressed that ugly jerk in a while. That hard marker sits and languishes and taps his foot disdainfully and impatiently at my reticence and laziness and chuckles not-so-softly at my sloth, and waits for me to get my shit together and stop making excuses and get uncomfortable and risk my effort and pride and do something I don't know that I can do yet. That prick judges harshly, and I've given him no reason not to laugh derisively and dismiss me.

It pains me to sit in the middle (okay, closer to the beginning) of "the race" and watch runners zip by - "zip... zip... zip-zip..." as I sit in my aluminum lawn chair and numbly search the cooler for one more beer amongst the chunks of ice.

That pang is motivational, if you let it be.

Saturday, January 17, 2015

A dream deferred

I was on track to visit Paris in the foreseeable future, and I was stoked. I was studying my French language skills, I was buying guidebooks, and I was scouting Expedia like a sniper on crank. I was in the groove, baby.

Now I'm out of work, and we're lucky to pay bills. Money isn't available to set aside. Language skills are going slack, guidebook's getting dusty, and Expedia can breathe a sigh of relief and stop looking over its shoulder.

I miss the buzz of anticipation. I have said long and often that happiness is having something to look forward to.  It was enough to compel me to all these pleasant endeavors, these happy efforts.

I recently came to realize that I'm still going to Paris, I've just got more time now to study the language, history and art that draws me there, which will inform my trip and expand exponentially my enjoyment of it.

My mindset sloshes to and fro, and I lose sight of valuable nuggets of perspective like this. I really should hold on to it, because it is one of the gobs of light and positivity that helps me stay afloat, so I'm writing it down. Don't wanna lose 'em.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Mornings, and airports

Ugh, mornings are getting rigorous.

Even as I type, I am wolfing down oatmeal and looking at eggs that will also be consumed at a quick pace. I've got laundry in the dryer that wants folding. I got started early so all I have to do is dress and all the other things I have to do before leaving. I tried to get in here to commune with my blog (it really does seem to make me happier), and I have so little time now to do it.

Once I started the new job, I knew ahead of time that the schedule change would present itself in a way that made morning time seem longer than it is, just because being up and moving with purpose at that time was a new event, and the effect would be transitory. Transitory has arrived. I gotta leave in not very long at all.

I still dream of Paris. I don't have much time to do it, but when I can, it gives my brain a pleasant place to reside, to imagine. I had a delicious flashback of walking through an airport, on my way to Paris. What a great feeling that was, in retrospect. Just the bigness of the buildings; the low-level stress "Am I on-time? Yes? Good..." repeat 30 seconds later, constant temporal vigilance); the inundation of other people and yet near-privacy, because they don't know or care what you're doing; and the occasional uniform to either help you along your way, or more prevalent these days, scowl and scream at people who don't line up quickly enough. 12 hours on a plane still sucks, but is worth every minute at the end.

I hope I have the wherewithal to enjoy the airport next time.