The Ramblings of Comedian Jerry Rocha

Hello.

This is for anyone who happens to still click on this shit. I’m really sorry I suck at this. I have six posts in like 3 years. I’m not sitting on this giant pile of blogs that I tirelessly labor over making sure every word is perfect before I hit publish. I am just lazy. I wanted to use this as a constant ramble forum, like I could pop on here at 3am and just type “Something smells like twat in here!!” and then leave it at that, but then I realized that’s why twitter exists, and I got a twitter account. I also think the key to twitter success is to just retweet something a Kardashian tweets and just add a “Boy what a fucking idiot” line next to it. I’ll try it soon. I’m also going to try to and get my 23 year old girlfriend to watch episodes of The Bob Newhart Show and then try and touch her in a sensual manner the entire time. I bet I fuck them both up. That’s all. More soon.

Listen! Listen! Listen!
Television: Marquee Moon: it’s fucking brilliant.

(and this is for the genuine young insecure nerds out there, not for a guy who bought an Incredible Hulk T-Shirt at Target)

1. Enjoy being a nerd.  That’s who you are.  Never be ashamed.  Girls really love all that shit.  A good woman would prefer a guy who spends 80 dollars a week on Magic: The Gathering cards over a guy who spends 80 dollars a week on lapdances, or axe products, or a library of “how to get laid books” basically anything else that screams “I have zero confidence”.  Buying Magic cards, and action figures screams confidence! It says loud and clear “yes, I am a grown man, but I need this Dr. Fate figure because the one I have has a plastic cape, and this is a rare one that came with a cloth cape, go fuck yourself if you don’t think this is cool.” You are saying, “I really don’t need you, I’m fine with this, in my mind I have trifecta’d Psyloche, Jean Grey, and Storm, you better fucking bring it.”  Every room I’ve called my own since I was five has looked like the toy section of a thrift store took a giant shit in it, and that’s fine.  To this day, I have a shelf up with action figures in my room, and it has never stopped me from getting laid, in fact I take pride that I let them all watch. The Lions from Voltron have seen my balls more times than the creepy old guy who used to babysit me growing up.  Girls love it.  Several times after wiping my excitement off of their stomachs or backs or faces, (the ones with daddy issues for the latter, I can’t explain it, and I was never into it, just following orders… promise) the ladies I was lucky enough to convince to come home with me after I hit on them at a Long John Silver’s (more on this soon) would always end up walking around and looking at the toys, asking questions, eventually begging me to give Galvatron’s cannon a spot in the rotation next time.  I never had to hide my giant stack of comic books, or sci-fi novels with covers that were bigger turn offs than Ted Bundy’s car.  Even the snobby girls who looked like they only fucked failed jocks on steroids and had that initial, “holy shit, I might bolt” look never did bolt, in fact they came back dressed as The White Queen.  It can happen.  So lock her in your Dungeon and show her the Dragon.  (sorry, I had to)

2.  Change the place. Don’t be a sad improv troupe who hears the same location game after game.  Go for something different.  If you see a beautiful woman in line ahead of you at Luby’s, make your move then.  If someone you’re attracted to is going for the same ointment that you are at Walgreens, make your move.  Name a better ice-breaker than “Oh, you have a rash too?” Why wait for a nightclub full of shitty music, skanks, white guys who act black, foreign dudes who all seem to ask for the “Sonic The Hedgehog” when they go to the barber, and douchebags whose only play is “I’m going to lie about myself twice, then put her down a few times, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll go roofie”? (usually, they panic after lie 1, and jump right into roofie) Getting laid at a nightclub is too easy, like Barry Bonds celebrating after putting one out of the park at the Little League World Series, and those who revel in easy pussy are the ones who are one step away from rapist.  It’s like the future serial killer starting off with squirrels in the woods.  Fuck nightclubs, aren’t you sick enough of not being able to avoid Katy Perry’s music when you go the grocery store?  There is nothing wrong with wanting pussy at the library, and then going for it at the library.  The Library is perfect really, (go get some ass in a section no one goes to like Native American Studies) you save money on a cover charge, and avoid any late fees all at once.

3. Don’t hit on them with anything they’ve heard before.  Well, let me be clear, still try and say something to charm a lady.  Don’t think that’s a green light to use “wanna see a dead body?” as a line, just don’t be nervous about straying from “wanna grab a drink, or dinner?”  Go for something knew as a pick up line is my point.  Like a 55 year old prostitute, there is not much that women haven’t heard, so pick another angle.  I met my girlfriend at a club in Cincinnati.  I was taken instantly, and started flirting with her right off the bat. We talked about Star Wars for 30 minutes (that’s what I consider flirting), I was so turned on that jizz was pouring out of me like a busted faucet, but instead of telling her, or showing her, I simply asked her to come back to my hotel room to talk about books and maybe read.  I’m not lying.  On paper, that is as lame as asking her to help me with a Fantasy Football draft, or come over and let’s have a roundtable in the hotel lobby to see if Pete Rose belongs in the Hall Of Fame (That’s second base for me, no pun intended), but it worked.  Twenty minutes later, we were in my hotel room, I was bullshitting about “Infinite Jest” for 3 minutes, then we were naked… now she is standing over me as I type this dressed like Red Sonya and getting ready to pee on me (it’s a Friday thing for us, and I’m kidding).  She was amazed at how fast it went, like at first she really thought I just wanted to talk about books, and then the next thing she knew, we were talking about how there was no way she could have gotten pregnant, and I was convincing her the sore on my dick was just a birthmark (She bought that one and is now excited that she has sprouted a few of her own… haha!! chicks… kidding again).   It went from “come back to my hotel, and let’s innocently talk about literature for a bit”, to “you’se a fine motherfucker, won’t you back dat azz up”. I was like the friendliest rapist ever, and all’s well that ends well: “Back Dat Azz Up” is now her ringtone!!

So to all the people out there afraid to try to make a move because you think there is no way she’ll be into it.  Don’t be a pussy.  Go for it.  Are you the guy that folds under pressure, or are you James Tiberius Motherfucking Kirk?   Spock never hid his ears, don’t hide yours, and if all else fails, Storm, Jean, and Psyloche will always be there.

I thank you for reading this, but for another take, you can listen to my main man, Mad Flavor himself Joey Coco Diaz give his take on how these methods have worked for me:

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Listen!  Listen! Listen!  Do Make Say Think: Anything they have out.  Consistent like Ichiro, these motherfuckers bring it on every cd.

Something about me that often surprises people when we first meet is that I have never done drugs, and that I have my penis out and am making them talk to it, and I give it a voice pretty close to The Cookie Monster’s… that often surprises them too.  I know!  Insane that I have never done drugs!  I suppose that drugs (just like college and anal sex) aren’t for everyone, and they have never been for me.  I do love most music associated with drugs which is even harder to figure out, but (like those herd of Christians standing and praying outside of goth clubs in middle America) I am here to tell you that there is another way.  It’s possible to enjoy every note of Pink Floyd without being fucked up!!  You can realize the brilliance of the Flaming Lips with nary an ounce of acid in you!!  You can appreciate all Shania Twain has done for us without wearing a U.S.A. flag shirt tucked into tight jeans!!  (Maybe I avoided Death Cab For Cutie, because I’m afraid the only way to enjoy them is to be fucked up, and I have to be a hypocrite.  ooooohhhhhh shhhiiiiiiittttt!!!!  That’s right Death Cab For Cutie!!!  Let’s finish this shit on an episode of Beef!) Anyway, it can be done, and here is my only advice to those who wish to accomplish this:

Have a Mom who likes, REALLY LIKES drugs.

The main reason I don’t do drugs is my Mom.  She has done and spoken about every drug on the planet to me since I can remember, and she called me “bro” as she did it (and after the second parent teacher conference that she pulled that shit at, it got old, and I had to switch schools).  That (like a son of a Texas football coach who decides to only date black guys and learn ballet) sent me as far away from drugs as possible.  She has done so many drugs, that I have gotten acid flashbacks.  I have gotten contact highs from shit she did before I was in the womb.  That is the only reason I can explain being six years old, and jerking someone off for a hit off of a salt rock.  What also helped kill the appeal for drugs for me, was the afternoon when I was around sixteen, and I busted my Mom smoking pot.  Instant detractor.  Once you walk in your Mom doing anything, it’s not cool anymore, that’s why I’ll never do drugs, or put on a condom with my mouth.

Mom of course also loved Pink Floyd, and played them as often as possible.  She also loved Frank Zappa (proof that my Mom is awesome and never takes herself seriously: Zappa ridiculed the drug culture heavy), combine that with David, her boyfriend of many years, (and the man who I will always look at, and know as my Father) who introduced me to all other music under the sun, and you understand why I have a knack for annoying music trivia, and get excited every time the band Spirit has all their shit re-mastered.

By the time I was 9, I probably heard every Pink Floyd album 75 times over (and every 70′s free jazz album, but I blame that on Dad) and they began to sink in.  Like some creep looking over a dead body, but who doesn’t work in forensics, I poured over every detail of every song.  They became more than something I would just associate with what I heard some nights when Mom was alone, thought I was asleep, and a funny smell came from her room.  They were slowly replacing the E.T. Soundtrack, and joining “Weird Al” as the only music I gave a shit about.

By the time I was 12, I thought they were brilliant, and  taking drugs would only dilute the genius of them, not enhance it.  Unlike picking your kid up at your ex’s place, sober seemed to be the only way to go through with it.  It is very possible to have a great time floating on a David Gilmour guitar solo without thinking you are actually floating on a David Gilmour guitar solo.  (I know, I’m a pussy, but, talking about this has gotten me laid… more on that in another blog)  It’s amazing to pick up on every nuance of “Comfortably Numb” without failing a piss test the next day, and waste the night on a sofa with a some white kid who pretends to be black because he was the only one who had any heavy shit that you could get a hold of.  It’s also just fine to sit and watch The Wizard Of Oz with the soundtrack the movie came with. (Although, I hear if you play The Dark Side Of The Moon while watching Boys Don’t Cry, crazy shit happens).  They became my favorite band, and I would spend every night of my young life listening to a different Pink Floyd album while a funny smell came from my room (not drugs of course, I was learning to masturbate).

One time, years ago at a  Pink Floyd concert, I looked at all the fans and for the first time as a sober concert goer, almost felt left out.  They seemed to be having an amazing time, they seemed to be hearing instruments no one else could.  I was for a moment jealous.  For the first time, I thought I might be missing out.   I felt like the one baseball player in the game not juiced, and yet still delusional enough to think he had a shot, but in the end, it didn’t bother me, and unlike the guy next to me, I didn’t cry and shit myself when the fire-breathing pigs came out.

My choice made sense again, and I felt bad for the guy. This was fucking naive of me, but I really wanted to help him.   I wanted to tell him that I had a blast sober at the show.  That maybe he should tone it down a bit, but of course I didn’t, I was just a junior in High-School, what the fuck would I have to say to him? As crazy as life is a few months later, I actually saw this total stranger again, and I was able to have that talk with him, but only after he pulled his pants up and my Mom almost choked on a Trojan.

Listen! Listen! Listen!

Why not keep this theme going full force??  I have been deep into The Flaming Lips covering The Dark Side Of The Moon in its entirety.  I highly recommend it (No pun intended)

p.s. for those wondering, I have the best Mom ever, she hasn’t done 99% of the shit I joke about, so don’t go to her place with some grass thinking you’ll get lucky.  She will smoke the grass, and maybe bake some of her God-awful chocolate-chip rocks, but that’s all you’ll get.

There have already been so many perfect memorials to Mike that have been written by those he touched with his love, wisdom, and humor.  This is just something I have to do as well.  I could spend hours writing and telling stories about my friend Mike, but I just really needed to tell this story right now.  I want to thank the people at Cringe Humor www.cringehumor.net for all they have done for memorializing Mike these past few impossible days, and Roy Wood Jr., for his beautiful blog about my friend which you can find here: www.roywoodjr.com

Mike came to visit L.A. once about a year ago, and as we were driving around North Hollywood going to visit a friend of MIke’s, we saw a giant coyote just roaming the streets of a residential neighborhood.  Mike was so taken by the beauty of that creature, we slowed the car, and tried to get it’s attention, I’m certain if Mike could have, he would have kept it as a pet right then and there.  For most of the evening, usually during a pause in conversation, he would mention how cool it was that we saw that Coyote.

On the night of Sunday March 6th, I had just finished a show at the Punchline in Atlanta, a club that I had last worked with Mike in September, so of course I thought of him the entire week, we talked at least three times over the phone during my four days there.  That’s how beautiful and powerful a soul my best friend was, wherever you went with him, that location was forever tied to him, a fucking Goodyear by a mall in the Atlanta perimeter will always remind me of Mike because we went there to get my oil changed on a Saturday, and spent the entire time just making each other laugh.  That’s how I always felt around Mike, like being with him meant I was accepted into the greatest club on Earth.  After the show on March 6th,  I was being taken back to the hotel by a doorman from the club.  I had to make it home to pack and try to sleep for about three hours because my flight to L.A. left at 5:30am.  For some reason my mind was anxious, and not because I hate flying, and was dreading the trip, it was something different, something I could not quite focus on, just a sense (and not negative), that there was something or someone watching.  So I hop in the car with the doorman, and he starts for the hotel, and I am just trying to shake this feeling.  Then the car turns on a road not far from the club, and there in front of us walks a giant coyote. The feeling was suddenly gone, and like Mike around a year before, I was just taken by the beauty of it.  The doorman and I rolled down the windows, and tried to get it’s attention, just like Mike and I did, sure enough, it turned it head and looked at me for a moment, and then continued along.  That started me thinking of Mike, and I spent the rest of the night packing my bags and literally laughing out loud at all the great memories.  I wanted to call him, but I figured it was too late at night, I had no idea that I would never be able to talk to him again.  I found out the next morning as my plane landed, and I turned on my phone, several messages all came in at once from people offering their condolences. I wept and wept, and have no idea how I made it out of the plane.  Later that day, I talked to Lois, Mike’s soulmate, and an equally wonderful person.  She told to me try and think happy thoughts, that that is what Buddhists want, that it helps carry their soul over to the next place.  I have never been a religious person, but looking back, that coyote must have crossed right around the time Mike had left our world, and I am so happy that I had those happy thoughts of him at the end.

The best part about having known Mike is that I will always have those happy thoughts, they will never fade.  He was too strong for that.  I am so privileged that I knew him.  There are so many ways to memorialize MIke DeStefano. To say he was the greatest comedian I have ever seen is one, to say that he was the best friend I could have ever hoped to have had (so much so that I will always look at him as a brother) is another.  What I feel strongest and what cuts through all the sadness of losing him, is knowing how lucky I was to have known him.  How fucking lucky all of us who knew him are to have been part of his life.

During the past few weeks, I’ve had conversations with two ex-girlfriends.  Which is really odd because I could have sworn that they were both dead… bam! What a zinger right off the fucking bat!  I spoil you motherfuckers!!!  jerryrochacomedy.com/ramblings remember that shit!!!! Remember that shit!!! Well anyway, it was an odd thing.  They were my two most recent ex-girlfriends.  Only six months apart, which is not really that long, well I guess it’s long  if you are talking the time of births between twins.  One was in Texas, one in L.A.  One was in 06′ (Texas), one in 07′ (L.A.), one had great breasts, the other, an awesome vagina… okay kidding, they were both beautiful women, but this a comedy blog, and I sometimes have to pepper the serious stuff with poo jokes.   Sadly, they both ended bad.  Which is too obvious of a statement, do any end good?  There has never been a break-up that ended with a  “we each go down on each other one last time, then wake up in a room surrounded by gift cards from our favorite places to shop moment”… that would count as a good break-up.  Most break-ups are the emotional equivalent of Scott Hall, Kevin Nash, Konan, and Hollywood Hulk Hogan beating you for ten minutes, and then spray painting N.W.O. on your unconscious body.
The fact that I talked with them within days of each other, was not planned, but like the entire Bush presidency, it happened anyway, however, unlike the Bush presidency, this needed to happen.  After a few years, I still had lingering feelings about both relationships. It was something that I could never quite place until recently.  Like having a long vivid dream that dominated your night, but when you woke up, you could only remember the part where the guy who played Harry Potter had a dick bigger than yours, and it made you angry and confused.  You’ll spend the rest of the day trying to remember that dream, and getting a little aroused every time the Triwizard Tournament kicks off.  I had spent the last few years trying to remember the rest of that dream so to say, and it was time to finally see it.

Going in chronological order:

Texas was my fault.  I was an ass.  I fucked up, cheated, and it hurt her deeply. It was something that I have never done since, and wont do again, something that I never thought I was capable of doing, until I had done it.  Then I hated myself, up until about a week and a half ago.  I was in NYC doing shows, seeing friends, when I started thinking about Texas.  When I lived in NYC in 05′ she visited me a there a few times (we had met and hung out when I still lived in Texas before moving).  It was great, I spent most nights that year talking to her, then I moved back to Texas in 06′ and we began dating.  Being back in NYC, and walking around the city reminded me of her, even though when she used to visit me in NYC, we never really left my apartment (and not for any sexual reasons, but because when I lived in NYC I was like De Niro in Awakenings… I can only imagine how bored she must have been).   So every night as I was visiting, there came that feeling that something was off.  I decided to call her, to finally apologize (not that over and over “I’m sorry” shit when it first happens, and you just want there to be peace, but a true genuine apology, the lack of one was what ate away at me for so long), then I realized after the nice lady told me to go fuck myself several times, that it has been four years, and she has since moved from Texas, so I bet her old number did not work (I even pulled the “wow, what a great African Lady voice you can do, but quit fucking around, I want to talk” line twice till I figured it out).  So thanks to social websites I was able to find her, and free ringtones, and porn stars that want to fuck me!!! I can’t wait to send you guys the links!!!  Anyway, I find her, and we talked, and after four years… it was nice (well okay, we did talk once in 08′ but that was because she got a new iPod, and wanted me to fill it for her, but that was just regular mail, and nothing much past “hope you enjoy!”  Yeah that’s right, I had to chance to make amends before, but instead, made sure she had that Missy Elliott/ Queens Of The Stone Age Mash-Up).  When we talked I was able to finally say I was sorry.  That I hated myself for hurting her.  It was almost impossible to do.  It is really difficult to admit that you fucked-up, especially to the one you hurt in the process.  She said it still hurt her, I then said “It’s been four fucking years, let it the fuck go, you’re sitting here acting like I fucked all the girls before Tiger and Jesse James (and apparently his crate of Schindler’s List props) got to them”.  Okay that didn’t happen.  She accepted my apology, and told me she had forgiven me years ago, and then started to explain in full detail all the sex she’s had since me, and how much better it’s been.  Okay that last part didn’t really happen, I hung up when she got to the “Lil’ Jon tour bus” line.

L.A. was a rough one.  The timing was awful.  She wasn’t ready for a relationship.   I ignored the obvious warnings and still tried to make it work.  I was like a guy disarming a bomb, and after cutting the red wire which made the timer go faster, I cut the red wire again.  I am sorry for that.  I wished it could have worked.  We had some great moments, but wasted several days mired in horrible arguments (another first for me in a relationship).  Each morning would start out like The Sound Of Music, and then the day would end like really any scene from the last half hour of Scarface (You have no idea how many times I was dragged out of the Denny’s in Sherman Oaks saying “you need people like me, so you can point your little fucking finger and say that’s the bad guy”).   After listening to some of the horrible things she had said to me, I wondered if this was payback for Texas (which I felt I deserved and accepted), but after hearing several more, I wondered if it was payback for David Koresh and she had the wrong guy.  Either way, when it was over, I was wounded beyond belief.  The worst part about hearing enough vile shit thrown at you from someone you love, is that you start to believe it.  They no longer belong to the voice of someone angry at something else and taking it out on you, they become the voice of something that takes shape in your soul, and echo those words when you are all alone, hoping to get away.  We met on MySpace of all places, and I only went back to my page there a few months ago, and fell on my knees crying throwing rocks at my computer like Jenny did when she walked past her old house in Forrest Gump… I felt better.  Actually, it was when I was in NYC, that L.A. sent me an email wanting to say hello (what’s with a seven day trip to NYC raising all these ghosts?).  I hadn’t heard from her in year and a half, and that was when I told her I felt it would be better if we never spoke again (a tactic that I have now been trying on bill collectors… I hasn’t seemed to work yet).  I read her email five or six times (I’m still at reading level three).  I was stunned to hear from her.  When I got back to Los Angeles, and after I made peace with Texas, my mind still went back to L.A., and her email.  I figured it was pointless to sit there and hold anger and hate towards someone that you may never see again, for something that happened three years ago.  I wanted to let go of all that, cut whatever part of me still hung on to those emotions.  My good friend Jodi suggested I write L.A. a letter expressing all that I felt.  I thought that was the gayest idea I’d ever heard, Adam Lambert and the guy he made out with on Good Morning America even agreed with me.  So… I wrote a fucking letter and emailed it to her.  I told her I had gotten over all the anger I felt towards her.  We spent the rest of the night talking through email.  It was a wonderful way to say goodbye, to wish someone well, and mean it, and it sure beat saying “Say goodnight to the bad guy”, as a lumberjack slam was being brought out.

I’m relieved that all those nagging feelings are all gone now.  I have made peace with two people that I loved deeply, and needed to make peace with. We have all been wounded, but sooner than later you have to let go,  stop looking and looking for the fingerprints of whoever hurt you, and move the fuck on. Now I just have to get a penis enlargement kit, find that Harry Potter shit, and show him what’s up.

Listen! Listen! Listen!
Radiohead- There There: Arguably their best song (fuck off, it is).  It’s just as epic, brilliant, hypnotic, and revealing as it was years ago when it came out.  “Why so green and lonely, heaven sent you to me”  Exactly.  Fuck OK Computer, nothing on it touches this song.
Guns And Roses- Estranged: Arguably their best song too.  Criminally underrated, and it features Slash at his best.
Zombelle:  I saw her perform recently in L.A.,  and all I can say is everyone needs to hear this music.  It’s genius, and original.  The best way my feeble mind can describe it, is to say that if there is music playing as one passes through realities, this would be it.  Or, this music is like The Undertaker at Wrestlemania: Hard to fuck with.  Absolute greatness.  Check it out here: http://www.myspace.com/zombellemusic

I was in Las Vegas not too long ago doing some shows, and to be honest, no sort of debauchery took place.  Don’t worry, this is not a blog about how Christians can have a great time in Vegas by doing nothing but watching the afternoon magic shows, I just never had any urge to gamble much, or buy a hooker, or to finally go and show Celine Dion all the pictures I’ve painted over the years of her rescuing me from demons using only the power of her song.  All I really did after every show was walk up to my hotel room, and read George R.R. Martin’s: A Game Of Thrones (Book One in the A Song Of Ice And Fire Series)… out loud… to hookers.  They would have looked more comfortable if I had asked them to vomit on my balls.

I was right there in the center of it all, a place where you can get laid, while getting laid.  I saw a guy who looked like Twiki from Buck Rogers with a girl. There was no excuses, but I had no interest, and for the entire week, I had no idea why.  Then I suppose I figured it out.  It’s all bullshit.  Insane shit that you should keep to yourself can happen anywhere in the world.  Vegas is only exciting if you are already boring before you get there.  As I was reading aloud Tyrion Lannister’s imprisonment to hooker number four, and she paced the room saying “what the fuck is this shit?” over and over, I remembered one of the crazier nights of my life.  It was not anywhere near Las Vegas.  It was in Little Rock Arkansas, and it went like this:

I was working a Comedy Club there.  I was very young and new to working on the road, the excitement of performing in a city I had never been to before, was very soon offset by the fear of performing in a city I had never been to before.  That was the very real weakness to having spent most of my early life as a comic working only one city, and really only one club, I got too comfortable in that single environment, like an aspiring basketball player who only practices by shooting free throws, or a cult leader who only preaches to, and impregnates one fifteen year old. Little Rock helped, it was a good club, with good crowds which helped the nerves die down a bit.  Then the second night comes around, and I remember feeling better about the whole thing, I had the kind of confidence that tells a guy it’s okay to wear a leather trench coat even though there aren’t any vampires around to hunt.

I don’t remember much of the show that second night, other than the gorgeous redhead that was sitting all by herself at the back of the club.  I do remember thinking “I hope the hot girl in the back is laughing” when I was onstage.  So, when I my set was done, I made my way to the back of the room, hoping to be cool about it, but I’m sure if I had just walked to the back of the club, staring at her, and pointing at her with my left hand as I jerked-off with my right, I would have looked more subtle than I actually did.  As I got close enough, she leaned towards me, and said “good job”, I think either “Thank you” or an eruption of semen came out of me, I don’t remember.  Either way, after that, she politely turned back to watch the rest of the show.  Since I didn’t want to be too much of a creep I walked to the office to be out of the way.  When the show ended, I went back out to the showroom only to see that she had left.  Fuck.

The next evening,  I got to the club hoping that maybe some other beautiful girl could give me a mild compliment that I could get terrified of hearing, and run away to hide for a second night.  Instead one of the waitresses came up to me.  “Do you remember the girl that sat in the back last night?”  “The redhead?”  “Yeah her name is ___, (I’m a gentleman) and she’s a friend of mine, she thought you were cute and funny (cue the second eruption of semen).”  I think at this point words came out of me, but fractured, I must have sounded like a guy in a western who had got shot in the gut twenty-five minutes before. If a mouth can just make ones and zeros, I think I had accomplished that right then.  “anyway (she carried on, obviously regretting telling me anything at this point), I am having a party tomorrow night, and she’ll be there, and she wants me to invite you.  I won’t be working tomorrow, so I wrote down my address so you can come out.”  I’m sure at this point I was convulsing like someone who was about to have the Alien shoot out of it’s stomach, but I was at least able to form a “sounds great, and thanks!”.

I pull up to the waitresses house at about eleven the next night.  I remember thinking “what if this is all some elaborate plan set up by evil creatures to trick me into coming into this place so they can just eat me alive?” (I really think this every time I knock on the door to a place I been invited to, but have never been to before, then Celine’s voice sings in my head, and I know she will keep me safe, but anyway…).  The waitress opens the door,  and invites me in. The party is like three of her friends watching a collection of The Cure’s music videos (I am kinda hoping for the evil creatures at this point), and there in a corner is ___ looking as amazing as she did a few nights ago.  She motions for me to come sit next to her.  After about five minutes she asks if I want a tour of the house, after two minutes we are in a bedroom making out.  Then she asks if I want to go with her back to her place.  I say yes (For some reason the fear from a few nights before is gone, and I am as confident as Aikman in 93′), but first I made her wait for the video to “Close To Me” to come on, and when it did, I wobbled my knees back and forth like the Iceman King Parsons before he entered the ring (okay, so I didn’t, but I really wanted to).

We get to her place, and as she is unlocking the door to her apartment, she starts whispering. now, I think nothing of it because her other hand was busy… if you know what I mean… she was a professional juggler, and she had two bowling balls and a Putt Putt token going with her other hand.  Anyway, the door is opened, and her place is an empty loft covered in darkness.  The only thing you could see was her bed, which was up against her one window, and illuminated by the moonlight.  I know, this must be how people who really like True Blood fuck, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment by asking if we had to have it like Blackula.  She undresses, and I hit that shit like Pujols.  Now, we are lying on her bed, just talking and laughing.  Right when I was thinking “what a fun night this has been” from the left side of her bed, like five feet deep into the dark I hear “WHOUUUUGHH…  OWWWGGGHHHH”, and it was fucking loud.  She flips out, and shoots up saying “It’s okay!  It’s okay!”, I had no idea what to do, so I fired my shoe in the general direction of the noise, then I hear “WHOUUUUGHH (thump) ugh”.  She turns on the light, and there is a homeless guy lying on the floor of her apartment… with a big red imprint of the bottom of my shoe on his face.  It was a one in a million shot.  I was like Jordan in 92′ (I even shrugged at Marv Albert).  She said “Oh my god, it’s okay, he’s this brilliant artist, and I give him a key because the cops are so shitty to homeless people here.  Of course that explained the sudden whispering when we were at the door.  He tried to get up, but then fell back down, crying out.  I could do nothing but look at her try and help him up while he just rolled back and forth.  I imagined that is what my dick would look like from now on when I was hit on by a girl randomly.  The night was over.  I don’t remember how I got out of there… or how I got my shoe back.

So, that is why I suppose I wasn’t into whatever Vegas had to offer.  I mean once you’ve had sex with a girl in front of a homeless guy… who happened to be in a home… most other things pale.  I guess I would should have been scared that night, but I wasn’t, and why should I have been?  I had a Celine Dion song in my head, and my leather trench coat on.

Listen! Listen! Listen!
Prince- How Come U Don’t Call Me Anymore:  It’s off of his B-sides compilation, and it’s brilliant.  If you’ve ever longed for anyone, this song will speak to you (don’t worry, not in the creepy way The Beatles spoke to Manson)
Buddy Guy & Junior Wells- Hoodoo Man Blues:  Get this fucking cd.  Every song is perfect.  Everything works.

I was back in L.A. from a few months on the road.  I go and see some friends for a few drinks.  Kinda.  I don’t drink (never have, I look at booze and drugs like I do anal sex: not for everyone, and something you should not force High School Juniors to think about), so it was just me sitting there watching everyone else drink, not realizing at the time how detached and awkward that feels.  I can only imagine that is how people who become serial killers get started. I rarely go to bars, so I promise I am safe, but never trust anyone who goes to bars all the time and doesn’t drink.  Also, never trust a White Person from Africa, but that is for another day.
What is sadly never surprising is how many dudes try to pick up chicks by insulting them (it’s even more depressing when it works).  Ladies, please don’t punish your vaginas by allowing these douchebags with way too much false confidence, to gain entry.  Guys, you can get pussy without having to read “The Game” or any other book written to make male twats twattier.
So after about an hour a young lady trailed by two friends comes stumbling out of the bar, and the minute they get outside, she collapses and smacks her head on the pavement.  She is out cold (we were outside and the tail end of the patio seating and saw it all) and her friends attempted to drag her away telling everyone “It’s okay, it’s her Birthday” over and over.  Well, she falls again, and this time is halfway out on the street.  That is when myself and two other people go over and carry her off the street and sit her on a chair.  Her two friends walk over to her and refuse to call an ambulance keeping the “It’s okay, it’s her Birthday” mantra going.  They were just sitting there whispering “It’ll be okay” to her over and over, petting her like you would the family dog before you put it to sleep.  A human version of “go tell Bubbles you love her one more time” if you will.
It was right about then, as the people I was with were getting ready to ignore the friends and call an ambulance to save the poor girl, that some French guy walked over, sat in front of her, and started throwing ice water on her face, and slapping her.  She was breathing, but she never responded.  It was apparent, very quickly, that he was going from trying to help, to just getting to do things he always wanted to do to a woman.  I thought him saying “that is for last Christmas you cunt” before he slapped her was a dead giveaway… okay, he didn’t really say that, but you could read it all over the dude’s face… promise.  By the way, her two friends were still doing nothing but the pet of death throughout all this.
During the French guy’s tirade, my friend calls 911, and we are told to not sit her down, so we go over, get the dude off of her, and lie her down flat as instructed.  Thankfully she is still breathing, and we are told the ambulance is on it’s way.  Now that all that we could have done has been done, there was nothing left to do but wait.  So while we are waiting I walk back over to the people I was with, who are  now surrounded by a group that has gathered to see what will happen.  That is when I decide to say, innocently enough: “I wonder if she dies on her Birthday.” (okay, I guess there is no innocent way to say that.  Maybe if I had put “gee mister” at the beginning)  Instant bad guy.  People groan, I even hear a few “aww comeons”.  Now, I had just finished carrying her off the fucking street, yanked Pepe Le Pew away, and lied her down flat, while all the touchy fucks who groaned sat there and did nothing.  I figure a fireman can make a 911 joke… right?  All I was doing was calling attention to the possibility of the rare Birthday Death.  That is fucking history isn’t it?  It’s like if you are watching baseball, and after four innings, the pitcher has a perfect game going, you start to tune in… just to see.  And it wasn’t like I was routing for it to happen.  I wasn’t sitting there looking at my watch and then her over and over going “She better flatline by midnight fellas”, like some morbid Cinderella.
Now, the ambulance shows up, takes her in, and as it is looking like she will be okay, guess what happens? That’s right, all those people who groaned start making jokes.  They went from an Amy Grant Christmas Special to Gia in like two minutes.  Fucking cowards.
If it makes you feel better it really did look like she was going to be okay, and as they took her away, one of her hot friends stayed behind.  I walked up to her, insulted her for being a bad friend, and told her make-up looked bad.  We have a date Friday.

Listen! Listen! Listen!
The Cribs- You Were Always The One:  I know this song is like five years old, but it’s a great tune.  Off of their first cd, for those who give a shit.
Betty Davis- Nasty Gal & Is It Love Or Desire: I have been a huge fan of her two previous records re-released in 2007, and these are equally brilliant (Is It Love Or Desire gets bonus points for never having been released before this).  A supermodel who married Miles Davis, became a musician, wrote all her own songs, and around ’74 made some of the dirtiest, sexiest funk music ever. This is music that makes you want to dance, fuck, and learn karate all at the same time.

I have never been so sick that I was afraid I was going to shit my pants (Of course I have shit my pants before, but that was a lonely night in Corpus Christi, Tx, and it wasn’t because of illness, it was for the promise of love… needless to say, things didn’t work out), but recently (a few Saturday nights ago to be exact) the fear was there, real, and kicking at my stomach like a growing fetus.  It would not have been that big of a deal, except that the minute it hit, I was onstage, on like minute 5 of a 45 minute set… and I had 2 more shows to go that night.  Weeeeeeeeee.

It had started earlier that afternoon.  I was happy to be back home in the Dallas/Ft. Worth area.  I had the pleasure of headlining the Hynea’s Comedy Club in Arlington, Tx. (a great room that I had performed at several times, as a comic living in Dallas).  So, Friday goes fine. 2 shows, fun and merriment for all, and I woke up bright and early at 1:45pm Saturday ready to eat.  Even though the entire weekend was covered in a horrible rain that made DFW look like the end of Blade Runner (right down to a young Blonde replicant with a black stripe painted over her eyes doing cartwheels in the hotel hallway), I decided to make the 20+ minute drive into Dallas to grab a bite to eat at my favorite Middle-Eastern restaurant.  This place, like pot, the Oscars, and cock before it, I discovered hanging out with Mom and her gay friends, so fuck the weather, I had been craving this joint since I moved to L.A..

When I lived Dallas, I ate there all the fucking time, even after 9/11(I might have even eaten there on 9/12 and helped clean up all the bricks Republicans threw at the windows), and never had a problem, but this time, it got me. I don’t get it, nothing felt different when I was there. Okay, I was the only person in the restaurant  which is always awkward, and I guess even more so when you feel like the priest at the beginning of The Exorcist, but it’s not like I jerked-off to a Toby Keith song the minute I walked in, and then used a photo of the Slumdog Millionaire cast to clean up with.  I suppose sad fact is that always eating at restaurants is like always walking around in a Mexican neighborhood, eventually something bad will happen.

So, I make it back to the hotel, full and happy, and do what I always do after I’ve woken up at 1:45pm, take a nap.  I wake up, shower and still feel great.  I am now ready for the shows, looking fucking dapper I might add (well, as dapper as someone who likes denim jackets can look) and drive out expecting nothing but happiness.  I get onstage for show 1, and there is a hot energy to the room, I am feeling a great night in my bones (too bad my bones have no idea what the fuck is going on with the rest of my body), then minute 5 comes around, and the suicide bomber hops on the bus I call my intestines.

I literally almost fell right the fuck over.  My knees got weak, and my mouth went dry.  “No fucking way” I hear a voice in my head say over and over again.  “I can make it”  my other voice says.  “See, you should have gone to college” my Grandmother’s voice decided to pop in for a second.  It was fucking torture.  I struggle with the next 40 minutes,I somehow make it, and right after the first show, I run to the Men’s room, and do things that I’m sure has that toilet in therapy right now.  I get out feeling worse and fight through two more shows.  I had such a feeling of pain and doubt on my face, that I’m sure to the crowds I must have looked like a religious person in science class.

I was bedridden the next day, was able to make the trip to the family the day after, and was still messed up for a few more days after that.  It fucked my plans to get back to L.A. for a bit before hitting the road again, so now my poor apartment will alone for some time.  I have mixed feelings about my favorite restaurant now. I still love all the memories before that day, but, as I was feeling better, I was driving around and flipping stations on the radio, and a Toby Keith song came on, and instead of laughing… my dick got hard. Real hard.  Don’t fuck with America/Ted Nugent makes valid points hard.  There may be no going back.

Listen! Listen Listen!
I could tell you that I have been listening to something other than the new Beatles re-masters, but I would be lying.  Go listen to Revolver, Rubber Soul, Abbey Road, etc, all over again, and learn something.  My favorite is the Rubber Soul/Revolver era, its like listening to The Jonas Brothers if they were good, turn into Radiohead if they were even better.

When I like a female, I’ll either make her a mix cd, or I will stand outside her window and masturbate, hoping that they will see the angry/sad/desperate look on my face and invite me in with a warm smile and say “come closer Sweetie, I’ll take it from here”.  Sadly, the latter (which is my preferred method) has never come through for me (I thought about sounding smart and saying “Sadly the latter has yet to yield any positive results” but that would make me sound like a twat).  One time it almost worked, but she said “come closer, I’ll take it from here”, and left out the “Sweetie”, so fuck her, she didn’t know me.  I’m sure after reading those first sentences, the point of this blog has become clear to you… yep, I’m happy to be home visiting family.

I drove from L.A., to Laredo, Tx. with a Wed-Sun stop in El Paso to work a gig.  I love driving.  I fucking hate flying.  I am never able to sleep the night before I fly.  It fucks with me too much.  I toss and turn, can’t relax, and am a mess of nerves.  I am also just as antsy the night before I plan to masturbate.  Why the nerves before I jerk-off?  Well, that has been the case since my Grandfather died, and that is because I know he is watching… and I don’t do it the way he taught me.  I already fucked up Baseball when he was alive, so I don’t want to disappoint him in the two things he would show me in the backyard.

Back to the trip.  I learned some shit during my drive.  1. My iPod wants to fuck David Bowie, Ice Cube, and Tom Petty.  2. I know all the words to Def Leppard’s “Love Bites”.  3. It’s really not that bad of a song.  4. Fuck you.  Judge me all you want.  5.  “I don’t wanna touch you too much baby, cos making love to you might drive me crazy”.  6.  See!! You know them too!  7. I will miss the Grey Ford Focus that was with me from El Paso to Van Horn.  May all your wishes be granted.  8.  I stopped at the Judge Roy Bean Museum in Langtry.  9. I don’t know why either.  10. I pissed outside of his actual saloon (It’s still there), and unlike Ozzy at the Alamo, no one cared.  11. No one even saw me,  not even the Lesbian who was there taking pictures of scorpions.  12. Not even the band The Scorpions who were playing in Langtry that night.  13.  I still think tickets are available.  14. I know all the words to “Still Loving You”.  15. I blew the chance at a threesome once by singing it.  16. …

Fo real do, back to the trip.  L.A., has actually been not that half bad a place so far, but I miss Texas.  It will be a relatively short trip home, but worth it nonetheless.  I love staying with Mom.  I really loved living with her.  I know people made fun of me in those days, and called me a loser, but, I honestly think I won.  I mean, most people my age have fat annoying kids they have to provide for, and stand in line to buy a Wii for over the holidays.  Guess what?  My Mom stood in line to buy me a Wii last Christmas.  That’s right, who’s the loser now?  Seriously, my Mom is really the best.  I started my comedy career making her laugh by impersonating SNL sketches on Sunday mornings, I was 5, so I bet I wasn’t that good, but she was supportive enough, and she only beat me when I fucked up Billy Crystal’s characters (he was her favorite). I can’t wait to see her again, eat her breaded chicken with rice, make each other laugh all night, and then watch her get stoned and listen to her go on and on about Chupacabra theories till 2am.

It will be absolute greatness.  A whipping on a mule’s ass with a belt (for you Wesley Willis fans out there).  I even get to go home to Dallas for a few days too, which I’m sure will be mirthful and joyful.  Ali Baba, you have a buffet now… watch the fuck out.  Of course I will be happy to be back in L.A. when the trip is over, but for now, I can’t wait to see Mom, my Aunts, my Uncles, my Tranny relatives who are both, my cousins, my friends, and my little Godson Carlitos (even though I am an atheist, but fuck it).  He’s great, 4 years old, too fucking cute, already a ball-buster, and the best part is, I get to be the teacher in the backyard this time around.

Listen! Listen! Listen!
Johnny Rivers- The Poor Side Of Town:  One of the best oldies ever!! Such a masterpiece of heartache and hope.
The Dave Clark Five- Because:  Maybe the prettiest love song ever.  Very pure, very simple, and let’s give credit, even if it was for a small amount of time, they had The Beatles on the ropes.
Jackson C. Frank- The Blues Run The Game:  Easily one the most depressing stories in music (this side of the fact that all The Black-Eyes Peas all have lots of money in the bank) look it up.  This is kryptonite for optimism, but still a great song.

Some weekends are absolute shit, some are fun, and some weekends you get to work with one of your best friends (Mike Destefano) at one of the best places to see, and perform comedy in the planet (The Lakeshore Theater in Chicago).  Those are the weekends that are so good, they erase the absolute shit ones, and even make the fun ones seem like that time you drove your ex to Sacramento for Thanksgiving to see her family, and she was such a cunt the entire trip, that you wanted to cut your dick off just to concentrate on something other than her voice.
First, the Lakeshore.  Easily one of the best places I have ever worked at.  It’s right in the middle of a great neighborhood (I have no idea what that area is called or known as, sorry, but it’s near Wrigley, and there are tons of gay people) and every good American needs to catch a show there, and every terrorist should have the decency to leave it off a hit list.  It’s owned and run by Ritter, a dude you will love right after you meet him, and someone who (get this) actually gives a shit about comedy (yeah, I know, crazy huh?). It has one of the best staffs on the planet, (Laura Bluett, you have the greatest last name ever) who make every show fucking amazing.  I can’t wait to go back.
Second, Mike D.  He was recording a cd (pick it up when it comes out, he’s one of the best comics out there) for Stand-Up Records (Dan, meeting you the second time, was even more fun than the first), and asked me to join him for the fun.  I had never been to Chicago before, and thanks to MIke, I loved every second of it.  I suggest every person go to Chicago with Mike Destefano, wander downtown all day insulting “twatty” men who walk around with the false confidence that morons fall for (they are in every city, and trust me, and even though they sometimes wear Affliction t-shirts with skulls and vipers on them, they don’t say shit back), and hitting on the women who walk by, who thankfully aren’t dumb and insecure enough to fuck one of those douches.  The best pick up lines, if you see two women:  Point at you and your friend, then say, “Ladies, there are two of us, get a calculator, figure out the math.”  They love it.  If there are three:  “Okay Sweethearts, pick which one waits in the lobby”.  That one works even better.  Then by 2:30 am, when no one has bitten, at least the Lakeshore puts you in nice hotel with comfortable towels to jerk-off into.
Third, your first time in a new city.  All your friends who have been there, will email and text all the cool places to eat, and all the best places to visit.  It’s great, except when it gets too personal.  It might start with: “Gotta get pizza at Giordano’s”, and “there’s a place a block down from Wrigley that has a kick-ass Bloody Mary’s” but ends with “then go to 1475 Broadway, ask for Sarah Hamilton, and when she comes down, you punch that bitch in the mouth and tell her Tony sent you.”  It’s uncomfortable and awkward, and as I was done doing it, I thought… I don’t even know a Tony.
Listen! Listen! Listen!
Josh Ritter- Here At The Right Time:  It’s off of The Animal Years which is top to bottom a great record.  The song sad and beautiful, but hopeful, and worth your time.  Trust me… I almost cut my dick off once.