Is it ever "too soon"?

Hey, kids. Happy Talk Like William Shatner Day from the Migraine Zone. (Because da Shat is where it's at! Love that crazy bastard.)

So... Japan. I haven't really said anything about the horrific aftermath over there because honestly, I can't wrap my mind around it. The fabulist in me is looking at the events in the West Pac and seriously wondering if the Elder Gods are rising. The realist in me is wondering if all that bullshit about 2012 might not be so out there and remembering that the Annapolis Valley in Nova Scotia was a safe zone on the future maps a slightly out-there friend showed me a few years ago.
Bottom line is that my prayers are with them over there--Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Peru... all the places hit over the past few months so horribly. (Quebec got hit with an earthquake last week. Fuck 'em. Damn Quebecois!) (Yes, that was a joke.)

*sigh* It bothers me that I have to put that little rider on that statement. The other "aftershock" of the earthquake last week came when Aflac Insurance fired Gilbert Gottfried for making *gasp* OFFENSIVE JOKES via Twitter regarding Japan.
Just color my fat ass shocked. NOT.
Let's take a look at the two sides: Aflac, insurance company, which derives 75% of its business from Japan. Has an "iconic duck" for its ad mascot. (Yahoo News's phrase, not mine.) Hired Gilbert Gottfried to voice the damn duck to quack out, "AFLAC!" in commercials.
Now, I would never have noticed these commercials, despite the fact they contain a duck (in case I've never mentioned it, I love ducks. Ducks make me happy, alive or roasted) were it not for the fact that Vicki gets the biggest kick out of them. Until she sent me the link to the story about Gilbert Gottfried being fired, I had no clue he voiced the duck. (Stupid me, honestly, his voice is so distinctive, but I just didn't care, y'know? It's not like it's an episode of Futurama where I love to play "Spot the Voice Actor" because the cast is so damn good.)
And the other side... Gilbert Gottfried. Annoying-voiced comedian. Famous with Disney crowd for voicing Iago the Parrot in Aladdin. Done quite a bit of other cartoon work.
Not exactly known for being the most tasteful of comedians, he was greeted with the ultimate censoring comment, "TOO SOON!" at the Friar's Club roast of Hugh Hefner in 2001. He told an airplane joke less than three weeks after 9/11. The bit was used in the Paul Provenza/Penn Jillette film, The Aristocrats, a documentary on the infamously tasteless joke that comedians tell to each other.
Can't recommend that film enough, BTW--how to see how many different versions of the same joke can be told. It's not a comfortable film--it's not a stand-up film. I actually found it a bit disturbing (and it turned me off Sarah Silverman forever), but well worth the watch. (Yeah, I own it; willing to loan local.)
At the Foxwoods gig a few weeks back, Pat Oates told a great story about opening for the late Greg Giraldo. It was a funny frickin' story and nothing inappropriate about it (honestly, Giraldo was an utter DICK to him, but Oates gave him props and respect). Some idiot behind me yelled out, "TOO SOON! TOO SOON!"
Fuck you.
The point of comedy is to act as a release valve--a cathartic for both the comic and the audience. It's storytelling without all the airy-fairy artsy-fartsy bullshit around it--a chance to have a damn good laugh and, depending on the comedian, a little self-revelation. For some people, it's always going to be "too soon." Or in bad taste.
Example: I got to see Boston legend Lenny Clarke on Friday night out at Giggles. There was an MC and two openers. Everyone was good--best of the lot was Artie Januario (I hope I spelled his name correctly). He had the two of us howling. Lenny Clarke was awesome--I've heard him on radio plenty of times, but this was the first time I've seen him live. I was laughing and howling for most of his set. MOST of his set. I was with him when he took down the douchebag who was decked in party store regalia letting the world know it was her birthday and expected him to give her a shout-out in the middle of his set. I was there with all the Catholic school jokes (although one of his routines came a little close to one of my bits I've been working on; just gives me a challenge). He lost me when he started on his political stuff because we're at opposite ends of the electorate.
Did I heckle? No. I stopped laughing. I didn't find what he was saying funny; I found it uninformed and (IN MY OPINION) ignorant. I paid attention; everyone deserves their say, and this man is a legendary comic who's been at it forever. It was his room, his stage, and I chose to be in the room (and I was warned about his political views beforehand). He's also not a stupid man, not by a longshot. I just bloody well disagreed with his politics. Didn't take away from the fact that I found most of his material hysterical, and didn't diminish my respect for his command of the room and stage presence. Five minutes out of the 40 weren't to my taste; I can live with that.
Same thing goes for Talkin' Shit, the Jim Jefferies & Eddie Ifft podcast. Some of the shit they talk... Yeah. Not to my taste. Tough shit for me--I choose to listen to it. It's an unscripted chat--it's "live" fuckery. Not everything is going to be a perfect hit. The overall experience, however, is great, and it takes balls to put it out there (and regular listeners know that Jim regularly shows his balls to everyone in the room just for the reaction). I do know, however, that if I spend the money to catch Jim live, I'm going to get an amazing freakin' show--tight, professional and FUCKIN' HYSTERICAL.

So, Aflac hired Gilbert Gottfried to voice their duck. Now, I can't imagine that a huge insurance company does not have a really intense human resources department with an equally impressive legal department. I can't imagine that the marketing department did not know Gottfried's resume and reputation when the talent agency/casting director presented them with choices. Even if the suits above only knew him as "that guy who voiced the parrot in the kids movie, right?" the flacks would have made damn sure to do their homework in case on of the suits actually knew his shit and asked the wrong question. You take a risk, you do your homework first. You also can't tell me that Gottfried's shenanigans on Howard Stern haven't gotten back to them.
You hire a comedian, you take your chances. You accept that you're getting not just their talent for your product, but also everything connected to them, and if you have a problem with their material, you either a) don't hire them; or b) suck it up, buttercup, and roll with it.
Now, I'm not going to debate the merits of Gilbert Gottfried's "humor." Personally, I can't stand the guy; his voice goes right through my ears, and I don't find him funny. That's me; there are a few comedians out there who do NOTHING for me (Joan Rivers is right at the top of the list; I'd like to park a tank on that woman, but she's had so much plastic surgery, she'd jam the treads; either that, or the silicon would explode). The reality is that, unless Aflac put a rider in Gottfried's contract, they had no right to fire him. What he said on Twitter, on his personal account, is protected under the First Amendment. By attempting to censor him by firing him and depriving him of income, they have put themselves in a precarious position. (There's already a petition out there on FB to get him reinstated.) They've also set themselves up for a lawsuit.
Right now, the Twitverse and Blogosphere are the Wild West of First Amendment protection. What's being said on personal accounts is technically considered protected speech; however, not all employers see it that way. There was a ruling a few weeks back (sorry, don't have time to research it) that ruled in favor of the blogger. I'm hoping the precedent is going to be used to get the suspended high school teacher reinstated for the comments she made on her blog regarding her students.
Now, I didn't bother to check out the jokes last week. I just did. *headdesk* Jokes? For fuckssake people, they were VAUDEVILLE STANDARDS. I'm completely fucking serious--they weren't jokes, they were CHESTNUTS. Insensitive? Yeah, absolutely, but right up there with, "Take my wife. Please!" retard, and parapalegic jokes.
Jesus wept, can we all GROW THE FUCK UP AND GROW A SAC?!?!?! This was the kind of schoolyard BS that the tough kids would ignore because they knew the little smartass was just talkin' shit and trying to show off--the kind of shit that you IGNORE and it goes away because the idiot isn't getting any attention.
Instead, this PC hypersensitivity has given a mediocre talent a hell of a lot of attention--that will lead to more employment because there's ALWAYS an asshole ready, willing and able to pay someone to generate some publicity for themselves. You know who's going to lose because of this? The First Amendment and free speech in general. Think about Gilbert Gottfried as the poster child for the First Amendment; to me, that's right up there with the KKK and neo-Nazis having the right to march. I also don't like the fact that it's going to make it harder for other controversial comics to get hired as spokespeople.
And what will that mean? The harder we make it for people to speak freely--the more censorship power we give to the corporations--the less freedom we have, and hey, what the hell, we're already bordering on being a fascist state as it is.
Well done, Aflac. Instead of having a fucking brain and using a plausible excuse--misquote sales figures, tell him you can't justify his salary, terminate the contract--it's done all the time. Instead you've given him grounds for a lawsuit and a shit-ton of publicity. And all the people whining about how awful he is will be the first to watch the damn interviews and the stupid documentary or telly dramatization of his "horrible struggle."
Yeah, I know. TOO SOON!
Grumpily yours,
Her Most Imperial Pissiness

Foxwoods: The Aftermath

Or, A Mother's Ultimate Revenge

OK, so I gave y'all the review of the fantabulous show at Foxwoods last Saturday night. You heard how utterly, brilliantly hysterical Jim Jefferies was, etc. (And thanks to all the friends who have given me shit about the picture. I love you, too. ;-)

So... The trip itself.

Now, regular blurkers are aware I got a little wrecked on Friday night/Saturday morning. I was catching up on the podcast, the mood was right, and I wanted some fucking tequila. So I had some tequila. And then I went to bed and overslept a wee bit, which means I was running a shade behind on Saturday.

You know where this is leading. You've been down that road with me... you know what I'm like. A madwoman. So, I run around the Somerville/Cambridge area, fueling up the car, getting coolant (and yeah, there's definitely a problem with the Blue Bomber's cooling system which means large repair bill headed my way if I want to drive to Nova Scotia in April and see Jim in PGH in May. Shit), directions, etc. Before I head out, I make sure St. Teresa's arse is in gear because she's sod-all slow and dithery, and no effin' way am I going to miss the damn show because she's dawdled and I got stuck in traffic in $%^&*()_ Connecticut like on the trip to PA.

So... Yeah. I get the missions accomplished, get my ass back to the house, showered, dressed (and was incredibly disappointed to discover that the brand new black jeans were boot cut instead of pegged. Sod that--not with brand new, custom painted Chucks. Besides, I hate boot cut--they make me look short and fatter), the Amazing Tess arrives, I manage to get makeup on, and finally out the friggin' door.

Half an hour behind schedule. NOT happy.

Get Mum loaded into the car along with her blasted walker.

Allow me to describe her walker. I wouldn't call it the Cadillac of walkers (thinking back to the time when Cadillacs were actually elegant and an automotive thing of beauty, rather than the pieces of ugly, generic, over-priced shit they are today; show me an Escalade, and ninety-nine times out of a hundred, I can show you an asshole behind the wheel of it), but it's definitely a luxury model: padded seat that flips up to reveal a storage space, mag wheels that pivot, hand brakes, sparkly paint job--definitely NOT your bog-standard hospital-issued brushed aluminum mobility aid.

It's also a pain in my fucking ass because I'm the poor sod who has to get it off the porch and somehow wrangle it into the car. Accomplishing this took moving up the driver's seat, unpacking everything that had already been packed, wrestling with the blasted contrivance, and a whole lot of swearing whilst Mum attempted to be helpful and yell suggestions and other cars swerved around me, honking, because there's still a fair bit of snow on the streets. Oh, yeah, and a high, biting, whipping wind.

Now I am running behind, am freezing, and am THOROUGHLY annoyed.

"I have to go to the bank!" announces the little old lady in the HUGE blue puffy coat in the back seat.

"Both of them!" she adds.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

So, stop at the little bank on the corner. She spends five minutes just trying to dig out her card. I get out of the car, come around, and look for it for her. In the high wind.

As I said, Tess is amazing, so she is maintaining her good humor and being cool.

A couple of minutes later, the woman who had been standing inside the ATM knocks on the window to let me know that she has had to explain to Mum how to operate the ATM because she was leaving the card in the slot.

*slams head on the steering wheel*

Ten minutes later, St. Teresa returns to the car, annoyed that the ATM won't give her what she wants. Now, she KNOWS there's a daily limit to how much you can withdraw. She KNOWS this. But she is not acknowledging this. So I now have to drive to the other bank across town. Steam is starting to come out of my ears despite the cold.

Get there--swearing at other drivers along the way--get the card from her, go through the drive thru, and she instructs, "Get me five hundred!"

At which point, I keep myself from diving over the back seat and strangling her because I can just imagine how much money she was originally planning on pissing away on the many-buttoned bandits. I get her $300, which is the limit the ATM will spit out in a given shot, and which is PLENTY to spend on a fucking slot machine. Too much, if you ask me, but then, I don't gamble on anything but myself and the occasional date (usually to my detriment on the latter).

THEN I speed across town to my Starbucks because I need coffee for the fucking road. I mean, if I don't have caffeine, we aren't going to get there safely nor will we get home safely. (Granted, I had stashed my tin of Via iced coffee packets and a quart of half-and-half in the back seat, but better to have it ready-made with an extra shot or three of espresso for safety.) Of course, I have to get Herself a cup of tea.

Now, I know how to make my mother's tea. Stas, lovely fella that he is, knows exactly how to prep her tea from the barista side of the counter. I grab a protein pack, Mallorca sweet bread for her, water for Tess, St. Teresa's tea, and two trenta's for me. Because that's how I fuckin' roll, dammit.

Show off my new custom kicks and the fabulously vulgar yet elegant blouse (I'm going to have to replace some of the crystals on the hand if I want that to be my stage shirt), and get a pleased crack from Stas about getting flashed (I was mortally embarrassed, but he was teasing. I mean, I love my tits, but I'm not flashing flesh in Sbux, y'know?). Hit the ladies, prep Ma's tea, and hop back in the car.

To almost get into an accident from an ignorant piece of shit coming in the exit. I really, really hate people. He tried to get into a pissing contest with me, but a) I drive a Buick; and b) despite being expressly female, I have bigger balls than God when I'm in a hurry and behind the wheel. I called him an ignorant cunt and went around him, despite his attempt to prevent it. No way some dumbass mofo was making me any later to see Celebricrush.

OK! On the road! Backstreets through Cambridge, out to route 2, on to 95, cruising and doing a fair clip at 75-90 for most of the way until I hit traffic in Rhode Island. *shrugs* It lasted about five minutes, and I hit Foxwoods about 8:30, cutting the drive time by about fifteen minutes--not my best time, but still, not bad. St. Teresa keeps asking for napkins because she has spilled her tea all over her coat. *sigh*

Parking was fairly simple, the wind was fiercer than a blow torch, and we managed to finally, FINALLY get inside the fucking casino. OK!

Drop Mum off at the Dream Rewards counter, check she has her cell phone, tell her that the show will be out around midnight, and I WILL CALL HER AS SOON AS IT'S OUT.

Then... pick up the tickets, catch Jim at full throttle in the background, walk out grinning grinning grinning and PSYCHED up for the show. You know how the show went--you know how awesome it was.

And then... it's 12:35. I'm sobering up (thank you, gastric bypass), hungry, tired and ready to find Mum, grab a quick bite, and get on the road.

So I call her cell phone. Five rings, and the canned voice, "I'm sorry, but the person you have called has not set up their voice mailbox."

Shit.

Wait a minute, call again.

Five rings, canned voice, shit.

Wait three minutes, call again.

You get the picture.

Tess and I start walking down towards the casino room--I am still OK, still fairly up (I mean, hey, I just had Jim Jefferies's arm around me and a great convo with Pat Oates. Life is awesome!). Tess takes a troll around, doesn't see her, we walk down to the food court in case she's gotten tired and sat down... No Mum. I hear a page over the speakers, get the idea, we walk back, ask the guard at the door and get directed to the security desk in the back.

This is where my high ends. I HATE casinos. I REALLY, REALLY FUCKING HATE casinos. Too many people doing something I find really fucking stupid and useless, and now, I have to enter one. Immediately, my spidey senses start screaming because there is some dark and ugly energy in the room. I mean... it's like being in Dawn of the Dead, and there is a part of my soul screaming, "GET OUT GET OUT GET OUT BEFORE THEY EAT YOUR BRAIN!!!!!!!" I mean, seriously, it was not a happy experience, just walking through, and no sign of the little Irish American lady with the giant coat and tricked out walker.

A lot of people with drinks, cigarettes and crap food mindlessly whacking buttons. *shudder*

Not good.

Soooooooo... I have her paged.

Nothing.

Go outside, wait in the corridor.

Nothing.

Go back, have her paged again, tell them to tell her we're in the food court.

Nothing.

Tess goes and looks again.

Nothing.

I am getting pissed.

Enraged.

Angrier than hell.

Panicky.

Because she was VERY unsteady on her feet. So now I am scared that she's taken a header and no one has been able to get in touch with me.

My groove has been so harshed the record has been shattered into a gajillion shards of vinyl.

We actually walk back down to the club in case she's wandered down there looking for me and run into Pat Oates who I'm SURE didn't need a panicked me asking him if he'd seen a little old lady in the club lost and looking for me.

Jesus, I felt like a loser. I mean, seriously--43 years old and I take my mother along on a trip to a comedy gig. I mean, yeah, it was the right thing to do--she needed to get out of the house and have a good time for herself, but... sheesh. WHY DID I HAVE TO BE INVOLVED?!?!?

ANYWAY... now, I am mad enough to kill. Fed up. Panicky. HUNGRY. Exhausted. Groove harshed. And still no St. Teresa. Tess needs to get home--she has a lovely man waiting for her. We were supposed to be on the road looooooooooong ago and on the way back to Boston. Back to the security office for another page, and this time, the guard asks if she has a Dream Rewards card because they can track her down with that.

Thank the fucking Gods.

So, as they're pulling up her info in the computer (which I find really, really creepy but was thankful for), Tess comes rushing back--"I FOUND HER! I must have gone past her a dozen times, she's tucked back in a corner. I told her to stay put!"

Bless Tess. She is going to be an amazing therapist some day (if that's the path she chooses). She really deserves the modifier "Amazing" because anyone who can deal with me dealing with my mother and remain positive and pleasant is a saint.

Yours Truly stalks across the back of the casino, holding back my rage, and muttering, "I am going to STRANGLE her!"

Sure enough, there she is, tucked back in a corner, whacking away at a slot machine.

"Oh, hi! How was the show?"

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT TIME IT IS?!?!?"

The exchange that ensues goes like this:

"No."
"It's two a.m."

"Really?"

"WHERE THE HELL HAVE YOU BEEN?"

"I've been here the whole time!"

"Ma, the show was over an hour and a half ago; I told you midnight, it's 2:00 a.m."

"Why didn't you call my cell phone?"

"I've called YOUR CELL PHONE A DOZEN TIMES!"

"I need a new one."

You get the picture.

To make matters even worse, she turns back and starts whacking the button again. At which point I stand up, announce, "I am leaving. NOW."

"But I'm winning!"

"NOW. Or take the fucking bus home." And I turn around and stalk out.

What makes this really amusing--in a dark and twisted way--is that she and I have had the same conversation, only she was the one in the rage making pronouncements.

Yeah.

Well, she eventually dithers out. I am ensconced on a bench, taking deep breaths, trying not to flip out or make a scene because I am ready to fucking lose my shit right then and there. And she says to me, as I sit on the bench, glowering, trying NOT to yell, "So, where are we going to eat? I haven't eaten yet."

It is after 2 a.m. in the morning. We have been here for almost six hours. And she Never. Ate. Never. Ate.

NEVER FUCKING ATE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I explain to her--in a very, very quiet voice, the voice that makes most people who know me run for the fallout shelter, that everything has closed--all of the shops and restaurants. And We. Are. Leaving.

I stalk off, looking for the elevators downstairs, walk past them because I thought they were the wrong elevators, and find myself lost, heading for another fucking casino. I mean, it's worse than the mall! And zombies... so many zombies, smoking, doused in cologne and perfume and trashy clothes, and I'm lost and REALLY starting to panic and can't take a Xanax because I was drinking tequila three hours ago and it will put me to sleep and REALLY fuck me up.

Finally get to the correct elevators, the doors open, and I here a *thunk* behind me. Mum has taken one of her famous falls, and now I am panicky, angry, upset, scared, and feeling GUILTY because I have been mean to an old lady who is now on the floor and has knocked her head on the crown molding. So I switch immediately from Raging Bitch to Terrified, Highly Competent Caretaking Daughter, lift her back on to her feet, deal with the nice man from the casino who has an EMT meet us in the lobby downstairs while the Amazing Tess runs to get me a hot dog and a bottle of water because I need hydration and protein, and get her downstairs and checked out.

Still with me?

Get her settled in her seated walker, order up the car from the valet service, wait for the car and listen to her complain about everything and ask inane questions. Including, "Can we stop at Dunkin Donuts on the highway?"

Get her into the Blue Bomber, wrestle the walker back in as the razor wind rips through me, and try to find my way out of the fucking casino. I get turned around, take the wrong exit out of there, and end up tooling around the back roads of rural Connecticut at 3:00 in the morning. Ma announced she was hungry and got handed the protein plate from Sbux.

Thanks to Google Maps and my Droid, we eventually made it to 395 north. We passed Mohegan Sun on the way. We skipped Rhode Island completely. I almost cried when I saw the sign for Worcester and the Mass Pike. If it had been warmer, I probably would have pulled over the car and kissed the tarmac after we crossed the Mass border.

Around 5 a.m., I pulled up in front of Tess's man's place. Thankfully, he only lives a few houses down from me. I found the last parking space on the street, got St. Teresa out of the car and headed for the house, and got myself in. I left the walker in the car.

I was in bed, asleep, within about fifteen minutes. I think I hit the bathroom before I made it to bed. I managed to get my vitamins and some water into me; beyond that, the details are fuzzy.

The next night, after blogging from Starbucks, I pulled up at home and cleaned up the car. I finally got the damn thing tidy (instead of looking like a frat party aftermath), I wanted to keep it that way, and I damn well didn't want anything rotting in the backseat (because Mum is a cross between a toddler and a teenager with the car habits, and it just ain't pretty). Sure enough, there was the protein plate on the floor, egg still intact. However, the packet of Justin's Honey Peanut Butter was still in there, unopened, and damned if I was going to let THAT go to waste.

I picked up the protein plate. I opened the protein plate. I lifted up the packet of Justin's. I screamed.

Underneath, I found her bottom set of teeth. There is nothing more disgusting than dentures (well, except shit, but you get my drift).

The next morning, I couldn't find my keys. She'd borrowed them to find her teeth. The ones sitting right next to the chair she was ensconced in. She left my keys in her coat pocket and made me quite late for work.

The way I see it, my mother has paid me back in spades for any trespass I ever committed.

And I'm a saint.

Another Evening With Jim Jefferies, Bicarbonate of Hypocrisy

Hey, kids. To quote Blazing Saddles, "How are things in the clean world?"

The pic (which I hate) is my second photo with Jim--he looks thrilled as hell to have his arm around a drunken, yapping me (and Gods, did he smell fabulous); the gent in the background is Pat Oates, the comic who brought Jim on. Very, very funny men.

I am HUNGOVER. Happy and fuckall hungover. Like the last time I saw Jim Jefferies perform, the experience was a mixed bag. The gig was FUCKING AWESOME, but the shit afterwards totally harshed my high.

However, I still had three awesome hours. And that's the important part.

Like the last time, the story will be told in two parts--the review (this post) and the aftermath (next post).

On with the review...

OK, let's start with the venue. You know I have a serious fan hardon for someone if I will subject myself not only to driving to Connecticut (the Asshole of the Northeast), but even more so that I was willing to go to a casino.

I hate casinos. HATE them. Rick Riordan got it completely right in Percy Jackson & the Olympians with the casino scene (and more on that in post #2, In Which I Find It VERY VERY Difficult NOT to Strangle My Mother). For me, casinos are the embodiment of Hell. All those people, like zombies, playing the slots... *shudder*

BUT I DIGRESS!

Comix is a great room for the audience set up--liked it immediately. The staff is FABULOUS--really lovely, lovely people to deal with, helpful, pleasant and attentive, from the management, to the door staff to the waitstaff--our waitresses were a hoot (and complete with Jim Jefferies autograph tattoos. I thought about it. I really did, but I think I'll wait until I've lost another 100 lbs. & finished the firm-up on the body). VIP tix were worth the expense. Food was decent, too; coffee was passable, but then, I was drinking tequila.

Secondly, the openers... Awesome guys, very funny. Steve Lazarus (who has a book coming out about being a beer vendor at Yankee Stadium since the 70's, Gods bless him) was a hoot--told a classic joke about the Sox fan, the Mets fan and the Yankees fan that totally showed where the fans were from. I think the Sox fans showed best, but then... I'm biased.

Pat Oates... Jesus wept. AWESOME choice for the lead-in to Jim. Describing himself as the "extended leprechaun," Pat did an incredibly high energy set, giving the audience shit (including me--I got dubbed "Meatloaf," and rather than heckle, I let it roll and laughed along. More on that later), with great bits on road rage and Steelers fans. My companion for the evening, the Amazing Tess, is from Pittsburgh and totally loved it (and agreed completely). And I will TOTALLY disagree with the arse who yelled out "too soon!" about the Greg Giraldo story. It was a GREAT story, there was NO disrespect in it, and that's the end of it. Keep telling it, Pat. (Pretty please?)

I had a chance to talk to Pat after the show; the guy is a decent dude--just really supportive and pleasant. He made the point that once you've open miked, it's like chasing a heroin addiction (totally on the money); I also liked the fact that he was protective of both Steve Lazarus and Jim. It just goes in line with my philosophy that we're all in this together and need to watch each other's backs--love to see it in others. The old "neighborhood ethics" (doesn't hurt that Pat is another member of the tribe--a fellow American bogtrotter). We had a laugh over the Meatloaf bit (hey, with the way I was dressed--sporting a white shirt with a skeleton hand giving the finger--I set myself up). Besides, it wasn't cruel. He took enough shots at himself which is why I was cool to roll with the "Meatloaf" shit without heckling (aside from the fact that heckling is classless under 99% of the circumstances, and when I come up against the 1% when it's acceptable, I'll tell you. I've heckled ONCE, and it was completely unintentional, and the comic got a full apology afterwards--and I kept my mouth shut for the rest of the set because I was mortally embarrassed at being an asshole, even if unintentional). I can totally roll with a comic when it's all in good fun.

Unlike the cunt sitting behind me during Jim's set. If I hadn't been high on tequila and Jim, I would have broken my rule of non-violence and broken that hosebag's humorless jaw and taken the jail time with pride. I mean, her boyfriend/husband/fucking idiot who kept yelling, "Up, Gunta, Up!" who also needed a sledgehammer to the crotch to prevent him from entering the gene pool should have told her to shut the fuck up, and if she was having such a miserable time, to take the fucking bus home. I'm serious. Bad enough the management had to step in front of me to tell the worthless cumrag to stop taking pictures for MySpace (and her lame-ass lie about "just taking pictures of ourselves"--really, bitch?)... Argh. She was bitching during the best bits, the ones about Xtianity, Michael Jackson and American stupidity. Proving Jim's points about hypocrisy, and as long as he didn't hear her (although I would have enjoyed him taking her to the cleaners--if you've ever heard his "Hellbound" CD, he takes on a bimbo and tears her posh ass to shreds in three lines. If you're ever tempted to use fake tanner, I will be happy to play that bit for you).

Ignorant cunt aside, Jim's show was in-fucking-credible. Better than New York in October. The second Percy Jackson moment--he came on to the strains of "Highway to Hell," my personal favorite AC/DC song (although the guitar solo in Back in Black is quite possibly the single greatest guitar solo ever, ever recorded). He looks fabulous (and Jim, fat? Really? Please. I should be so fucking fat. You're 34 from a family in which you have at least one member with a serious weight problem--a slight pot [which is as big as the tiny pot the gorgeous 24 year-old walking past me has] is nothing. You're still hotter than fucking hell, to the point I had to talk down the very drunk fan who had wangled permission to fuck you from her husband from following you backstage; give yourself some credit--there wasn't a straight woman in the audience [or gay man] who wouldn't have at least offered you a blow job. Was that too honest? *shrugs* Whatever. I have a hangover, so I'm a little cranky.)

His set was a mix of bits--I'd heard most of them, but there was new material. The older material had been tweaked and added to--the "knob joke"--the joke with the great line, "My job is to get an erection; your job is to get your hole wet" that goes to make the point that a dry hole is an impotent hole (nice to see a man fighting back strong against erectile dysfunction jokes) that ends so beautifully... he breaks my heart with that bit every time, and he's taken it to new lengths of insanity. Jim has mastered the art of the digression--as someone who digresses CONSTANTLY and always brings it back to where it should be, I appreciate this--he knows how to go off on a tangent and bring it back to his orginal story and get to the ending he wants.

Artistically, I am in love. Note, I said "artistically"--this is an important distinction. I'm psyched that I stumbled on Jim's work last summer, just as he's starting to REALLY take off here in the U.S. I cannot encourage people enough to get out and see him live--this is a man at the top of his game who is only going to get better. I'm hoping to be able to interview him for the blog; note I said "hoping"--he's a busy man, and I am not exactly a national outlet, y'know?

Despite being 'faced off my ass last night--it was one of those rare times when the conditions were right with my body so I could drink and not have a bad come-down, but it's definitely back on the wagon for me for a couple of months. No whooper--I was still able to be coherent after the show. Now, as an old theatre lag, I like the backstage bit of the work. I REALLY HATE not being in the game right now--I miss being in the middle of it all, the mayhem, the camraderie, all of it. I stopped myself from slipping backstage to talk to him; he was definitely in a different headspace after the show and ethically, not one I felt I had a right to intrude on. This, however, is why I want to interview him. I don't want to know where the funny comes from--I know where it comes from. It's all about how he looks at the world and processes it. I get that--it's the same place my funny comes from. It's a combination of rage and amusement, disbelief, and the need to a) see if anyone else gets this; b) keep from self-destructing from sheer despair at the outrageousness of the injustice and sheer stupidity of the world; and c) to make a living.

That's the bit some of Jim's oikier fans miss. Yeah, he's an oik. But if that's all you see, Jesus H. Fucking Christ, but you have missed the point. You have missed the intelligence and offended decency, and, folks, sorry, but decency doesn't have to refer to sexual conduct--it also refers to ethical conduct. You can take him to task for his drug use, drinking, sexual inclination, but have you cannot fault his ethics--and if you LISTEN to him, if you pay attention, there are some deep fucking ethics in there, the kind of that demand that you actually be truthful and own up to your shit--plus an extraordinary work ethic. That's what I'm interested in talking to him about--his work ethic. I'm interested in the process, not the funny. If I want the funny, I just have to watch him or listen to the podcast.

Alcoholocaust is coming to Showtime this spring; no air date yet, sadly. I'm planning on road-tripping to Pittsburgh and catch at least one (if not two) of the gigs down there in May, and will definitely go to the show at the Wilbur in September (and I'm hoping, hoping, HOPING he'll do the brothel story at that one; I'm dying to see where he's taken that).

So, Jim, thank you again for a magnificent show. Keep it going, man. Just keep it going. I'll say it again--you are at the top of your game and only getting better.

BTW, the title of today's review comes from my novel. It's how I describe my protagonist, Rebecca Kinsale. I think I can share that title with Himself.

Ultimate Jim Workout

For the record, casinos are my definition of hell. My spidey senses are screaming.

We also cannot locate St. Teresa. My worst nightmare did NOT come true-she did not show up after the show & accost Jim Jefferies.

Instead, my second worst nightmare is coming true-we have no idea where she is.

However... the show...ZOMG, JIM! AMAZING gig, better than New York. Better than the DVDs. Just... artistically, i am in love.

I'm coming down from the tequila and more... the comedy. I think i might have cum, the show was so good, from start to finish. Steve Lazarus & Pat Oates did fab openers-just a perfect warm up.

And Jim... at the top of his game. Looooooong set, the audience was with him (well, i was).

More later. Must find my mother & drive back to Boston.

Thanks, Jim. Thank you. Thank you for your fearlessness, thank you for your honesty. Thank you for it all.