What the fuck, Marc Maron?!?!

So I just finished listening to the latest episode of WTF. For those of you not familiar with this podcast, I don't have time to keep bringing you up to speed with the goings-on of the twenty first century. Turn your computer off now.

Anyway, back to the reason I'm writing. I was particularly excited to give the newest episode a listen for a couple reasons. First, it featured someone I'm very familiar with; a person I consider to be a good friend and peer. Of course by now you may know it's Josh Blue. Josh has been a local celeb and Mile-High comedy stalwart since before he won Season Four of Last Comic Standing in 2006. Over the past few years Josh has been gracious enough to take me on the road with him several times and I feel like during those travels I've really got to know him on a personal level.

But familiarity wasn't the only reason I was excited to feed my ears with this interview. As much as I love and respect Josh as a human being and comic, I was excited to hear him placed in the hot seat and forced to face a seemingly inevitable barrage of questions aimed at the controversial choices he's made with his career and material. It would seem that in the eyes of Marc Maron, and his ever-present opinion on stand-up integrity, Josh had some long overdue explaining to do.  Last Comic Standing?! That show fucking sucks. Cerebral Palsy jokes? That's a crutch Josh seems to be content leaning on despite supposedly not needing to.
Staying in Denver? Why would he do that?

I want you to know that I don't/didn't want to see a person I care about slandered and ripped apart; I just felt that after the numerous conversations I've had with Josh over recent years, he's fully capable of justifying and making others understand the motivations and benefits of the road he's chosen to take. If anything, this could only help a skeptical comedy community embrace a talented and thoughtful individual that I feel has
been somewhat misunderstood.

So when the episode was finally posted, I added it to my already full WTF folder, dragged it to my I-Pod, and listened anxiously for the prodding to begin. A prodding that never came. Instead what I got was a Marc Maron that appeared to have gone soft. It was as if I listening to a Midwest housewife interviewing a kid with Downs Syndrome in front of her "less-worldly" friends. Did weed help his mind or where he was at in his life? Are you serious?! Why not just come out and ask him if it fucking hurts to be retarded? God damn it I'm gassy from all the placation.

How many times did Maron dig into Joe Rogan for his choice to do Fear Factor? Josh was on Last Comic Standing! Willingly! That show was a violent shit factory. If Marc had done the research he'd know that Josh won the series. He'd also know that despite what Josh claims, those were not his best sets. The network sold the story and used that to create a star. We all knew it. Why not lay into him about that? If he had, I'm sure Josh would have told him, as he's told me, that's it's afforded him a good life. That the choices he made have allowed him to do what he loves every day of his life. That when all was said and done, he didn't go to Hollywood and milk it for everything it was worth. He bought a home and a place in the mountains, started a family, secured a future for his kids, and lives in the place he loves. Shit, if I was a comic or fan who didn't know him, I'd applaud that for sure.

Forget that last point. It's obvious that was just lack of research on Marc's part. But why not press Josh for his glaring hypocrisy in wanting to be seen as equal while freely admitting to using his disability when it suits his interests? Then poke around about his time on Mind of Mencia, when Josh and Brad Williams were part of a thinly-veiled attempt by Carlos to form a freak-menagerie?

Once again I want to reiterate that I love Josh. This is a truly hardworking, extremely talented, no-bullshit dude. A guy who has given me great advice. A guy who worries about his future. A mentor I learn from. A dickface. A husband. An ego. A father. An opportunist. A fan of the craft. A friend.

I'm saying all this because I see him as an equal, if not better. And he is deserved of equal treatment. And equal treatment for the physically disabled doesn't just mean access to buildings and restaurants or free refills at the bar. It also means being judged accountable for the flaws, contradictions, oversights, and self-righteous musings we're all prone to when in the midst of trying to entertain.

I guess I just feel like that in Maron's attempt to not seem ignorant and uninformed with the things he said, he came across as ignorant and uninformed with the things he didn't.

Lame.

"Neutrality is at times a graver sin than belligerence."

If I hear another unfounded or news-fed opinion about what is happening at any of the dozens of Occupy or Tea Party protests throughout our country, I'm going to punch my son in the face.  Think before you speak.  His future mental stability now rests in your hands. 

That goes for anyone who has created an assumption or bias about the agendas and ideas of those involved knowing full well that they, as well as any person they associate with, have never set foot in an encampment or march, or had dialogue with any of the thousands directly involved.  Because when you voice your inexperienced opinion, all you do is firmly plant yourself in the pavement as another speed bump.  My face will gladly entertain your insights once I see photos of you holding a dated sign by any of the "bongo playing hippies" or "right-wing elderly nuts".  This is not about entitlement or bigotry.  This is about dialogue.  And that is happening right now.  On both sides.  This is a good thing!  Both sides can agree that banks are playing a rigged hand, at a table they've erected, in a gambling hall they operate.  So be a part of something.  Whatever that is.  Because you shouldn't be worried about tea-partiers or occupy protesters, you should be worried about why you're ineffectual.  Don't be another fucking mouthpiece of censure and trite opposition for a nihilistic media that is only concerned with ensuring sponsors don't walk away with their operating budget.

A Facebook debate spawned this and it's irritating.  The point was brought up, as it has been in the media, that a big focus of the Occupy movement is on a lack of jobs and a hatred of corporations. 

"Get a job, you fucking hippy.". 

"Don't like it, don't shop at Wal-Marts or chain stores." 

"America has plenty of money.  People are just lazy now."

I've heard this all.  Heck I've echoed some of the same things in the past.  But now I find myself wondering where this came from?  Any large protest will attract a percentage of the fringe.  Sometimes a healthy portion.  But after watching, reading, and speaking with people involved, I know what some of the main points are.

For the lower and middle class, average household incomes have been on a steady decline. The upper class is continuing to see a rise.  The question being presented is not whether the middle class is dwindling, because we know it is.  It's whether or not people should be taxed more as they get wealthier.   A large, healthy middle class is what made this country the land of dreams.  If we all worked hard, at the end of the day, everyone got to sit and enjoy a slice.  Unfortunately, human greed has changed the emphasis to where it's now less about everyone having a slice and more about everyone clawing to get their own pie(s).

We could work to protect and preserve just the upper class and scorn anyone who doesn't make it there as unmotivated whiners.  There are plenty of great countries with an emphasis on a protected upper class and large struggling lower class.  Great places like Guatemala and Peru.

If we have so much, why is it that money for publicly funded projects continue to decline year by year? Why are schools beginning to fall apart? I'll be the first to shit on entitlement but some things can't be summed up as laziness.

More money is being funneled into the top tiers. That's what Wall Street does. Corporations go public, sell stocks, and decrease pay and benefits to increase profit margins for shareholders. They move call centers and manufacturing overseas to places like China where labor is cheap.  We all know this.  The problem grows when most shares are not owned by thousands of Joe and Jane Smiths, they're bought and gathered into portfolios by hedge funds, vested, and paid out to small groups of very wealthy individuals.

Not shopping at Wal-Mart is part of a solution but it certainly doesn't stop investment bankers from gambling away pensions and 401K's. It wouldn't have stopped Citigroup or Bear Stearns from bundling toxic mortgages and assets to sell, only to then turn around and hedge their bets by purchasing insurance, knowing full well those toxic layers would most likely fail and, because of the aforementioned insurance, be more profitable in the end if they did.  That's unethical and immoral.  These are facts. That's why AIG nearly went bankrupt. That's why the global market continues to teeter on collapse. And that's why people are pissed.

No one is being held accountable. And regardless of what any of you think about "lazy" people sitting in the park, we're arguing about it right now. So it's worked. It's created dialogue. It's a string on a finger.

I wish everyone could see that people are not trying to do harm.  The ends are noble.  Whether or not you agree with the means, as harmless as they may be, what those involved are trying to accomplish is for the betterment of society. 


And I don't care about my spelling or grammar.  Eat fuck.

"Egotism is the anesthetic that dulls the pain of stupidity."

As this day winds down I find myself reflecting back on how I have been affected by the events of September 11th, 2001.  How my everyday life has changed.  On how my world, and the way in which I navigate it, has been altered.  I went back and forth in my head contemplating these questions and I arrive at only one reasonable and rational response; it hasn't.

I have the fortunate pleasure of knowing no one that was in, outside of, or near the World Trade Center site the morning those buildings collapsed.  There are no relatives or members of my family that served or died in New York City that day.  I have no connection or ties to any of the parties responsible for carrying out those atrocities.  I have friends and relatives who serve(d) in the armed forces both in Iraq and Afghanistan but all are currently safe or have returned home alive.  I watched the events unfold, untouched and unharmed, from 400+ miles away.

Because of this I try to find some part of me that can be sentimental about the whole experience.  I do my best to show remorse because I truly do feel for the people directly affected by those events.  I don't need to remind myself to not forget because, really, how the fuck could I?  If you did, or are capable of forgetting, you must have been blackout drunk for four months to not remember the scenes that were replayed on a repetitive real for a third of a year. 

But as far as feeling a sense of loss or personal pain, I guess I'm incapable.  Has my life changed?  In all honesty, the motions of my day to day living have not.  I work in the same manner, perhaps even a bit harder.  Not because of some new found reverence for life and American patriotism, but because I'm ten years older and loaded down with the burdens of a dream.  Not to mention that I'm now the father of a six year old child who demands more of me than I sometimes am capable of giving.  I still work, pay taxes (sometimes), shop for the same foods, and demand the same rights and luxuries as before.  Perhaps even more. 

Really, any domestic changes have been slight given the full magnitude of the event.  I now have to take my shoes off at the airport.  I've lost six ounces of carry-on liquid.  I have to use a passport to visit our sketch comedy loving friends to the north. I pay more at the pump.

Aside from incremental inconveniences, for those like myself, life appears to be the same.  Have we as a country become more isolationist, closing off our boarders and reducing foreign imports, increasing domestic productions, in an effort to be more self-reliant and less dependant on a world we seem sure is hell-bent on destroying our rights?  No.  Not all.  Are we working to become a fitter, faster, and smarter nation in preparation for a rapidly approaching war with enemies that surely want to annihilate the very fabric of freedom we cherish so much?  No.  In fact, we're getting fatter and dumber.  Well surely we must be doing more to understand our enemies, and in turn make our interests and agendas better known to them through civil dialogue and exchange in an effort to keep our potential foes closer than our friends.  No.  We've just ratcheted up stereotypes and fear mongering in an effort to keep initiative moral up.

My point is, life has not changed for a great number of us.  I guess I'm tired of hearing that it has, because honestly, we could have used a little change in this country.  We could have used some isolation and introspection.  We could have used victory gardens.  We could have used scrap metal recycling initiatives and manufacturing bonds.  We could have used power conservation and alternative fuel programs.  We could have used diet and exercise regiments designed to prepare a populace for a potential conflict on our doorstep.  Unfortunately we didn't get that.  Why?  Cause we want it all.   And we insist on convenience in every aspect of our life, and sadly for soldiers and their families that includes our wars. 

If you want to ask someone how their life continues to be affected ten years after 9/11, get on a plane and leave this country.  It's the rest of the world that's still paying the price.

"Moving on is simple, it’s what you leave behind that makes it so difficult."

Every break up I've ever been through is hard.  Thinking back on them all, there's not one that doesn't elicit some sort of physical reaction in me.  Whether it was infidelity or lack of compatibility; when ended there was always a feeling of sadness and regret that still faintly resonates.  Doubt leaving me to question whether or not the right decision was made.  The easy part was saying the words because for one reason or another they all needed to be folded.  The hard part came when reconciling what I was leaving behind.  A part of me, even at 32, misses every women I've spent any considerable time with.  As improved as my life is having made the decisions I have, I still feel for all.

Bands are no different for me.  In my life, when trying to recall, I've been in at least 16 musical projects since the age of 15.  I say "at least" because I have a feeling there's a few I'm missing along the way.  I'm sure there's a rogue noise quartet that never made it out of the practice space lodged behind a synapse somewhere in my brain.  The latest and arguably most mature project (both in sound and attitude) I've been lucky enough to be a part of was 'The Fire Drills'.  A five piece jangly power-pop outfit designed to make simple, catchy Rock N' Roll.  When I joined the band I was intimidated by the lineup and newness of style, having most of my life played in aggressive hardcore and punk rock bands.  I resolved to be me and put my touch on it, and if it fit, it fit.  Surprisingly it worked out well and we wrote a handful of fun songs and played a small number of great shows.  We recorded for two days but never put any finishing touches on the tracks.  This went unreleased and it will unfortunately remain that way because today we all collectively decided to let the project go.  Put the fork in it.  Set the bitch on ice.  A decision that came about amicably and rationally.   With age increasing and time decreasing for every member we all felt it best to end on an even plane.  It is unquestionably the right thing to do.  There are no hard feelings and I'm sure I'll keep in touch with most, if not everyone involved.  But now that it's over, and with a slight weight off my shoulders, that aforementioned part of me is looking back with a hint of sadness. 

I'm not bothered that we won't be going forward.  Honestly, I could care less.  I'm too busy and too invested in other avenues of my life to worry about something so insignificant.  No, I'm sad when looking back at we're leaving behind.  I'm attached to the music.  Every sound is important to me.  It's sappy, I know, but I'm sentimental about music.  During my worst times it was the only outlet I had.  I then, and now, put myself into every word.  I enjoy writing.  I respect the process.  I envy those that do it best.  And fuck it - I don't care if I'm viewed as self-centered - I listen to my own music.  There I said it.  Boooom.  Yeah, you like that?  Huh?  I get a lot out of it.  I mean what are we doing if we're not fabricating what we'd like to see on this earth?

For the three of you reading, I ask you this: Do you know that feeling you get when you hear a song that you fucking love?  You've memorized every beat and pitch change.  Each note inspires some part of you.  It's perfect.  Now imagine, you created it.  You sat and mumbled and hummed it into existence.  You let the tone dictate the subject matter and put letters and words in an order that conveyed a sensation you had buried deep in your guts.  When finished and tested, a feeling of gratification falls over you.  You did it and, OH YEAH, the best is still yet to come.  You get to play it live.  To see if it resonates.  To see if people connect.  And some people get it.  And this is important.  This is why I fucking waste my time with it.  That moment. 

What I created with this group was not groundbreaking.  Heck, in forced moments of objectivity, I can see that some of it wasn't good at all.  It may have connected with only one of the seven billion people on this earth.  But that one person was the sixteen year old pock marked kid that lives inside of me.  The one that is still bruised by a dozen loveless breakups.  He's an asshole by the way.  He's a self-aggrandizing solace pig, still angry about a billion blown opportunities and squandered "shots".  But as he's matured, and at the core, the product is all that matters to him. 

I know, I know, bro, "feelings are gay."  I'll stop.  I'm ready for this to go.   I wish I could say it will be the last project but those words have come out of my mouth so frequently they're now near worthless.  What can I say?  I'm off.  I'm tilted.  But it's the truth.  I'll do this again even though I know it won't work.  I just enjoy it too much.

Thanks to all my friends that came to shows out of obligation or pure interest.  I appreciate it.  I feel confident saying the rest of the guys do as well.

In honor of my small contribution to The Fire Drills, below are the lyrics to my favorite song we wrote, "Teenage Hearts".  Alright, back to less serious musings.  Take care, dudes. 


TEENAGE HEARTS

Wake up, Wake up, hey, honey.
It's time go
We've only got ten years or so, lovely
Before we slow
So let's take the biggest risks, baby
And crease the sheets
Cause lord knows that when we get older
It won't burn so sweet

(Chorus)
Teenage Hearts
They beat so fast
But when you get past the point of innocence
They crack
Teenage hearts

We'll wither away with our money
And little sleep
So let's take this time now, shall we
And taste defeat
I'm giving you the whole summer
To bring relief
Cause when forty hits our souls heavy
You'll turn from me

You're "geeving" me the shits!!!

Hello, everyone!  Sorry for the long delay in blogging.  Not that any of you have lost sleep over it.  I've just been so busy at the gym toning up my potent potables.  I've missed you all, and honestly, I've kind of missed doing this.  Not enough to feel compelled before today to do anything about it but I've kind of missed it regardless.

Why am I writing today?  What moved me to the keyboard?  Watch the video above.  (Warning:  If you're a music aficionado, please relocate sharp or delicate objects, or any sentient beings smaller than you, to a radius three feet beyond your current reach.) 


Are you done?  Okay, well first off, I'm sorry.  I did it because I love you and because all of your self-obsessed revelry has allowed shit like this to see fruition.  I too watched the video and was immediately driven to hard, hard, HARD diarrhea.  You're saying to yourself, "Is this a joke?".   There isn't a comedic writer alive capable of creating such a masterpiece.

I can't even begin to express how bad I hate this.  Now, to each their own.  But when given your own, please for fuck's sake, don't create aural Ipecac.  The children are restless enough.  It's like taking two very bland and mediocre objects and mashing them together into a misguided mess.  Like preparing a Boca burger, then deciding to smother it in plain yogurt, and serving the messy concoction on a Richard Marx LP.

Upon listening to the intro I found myself thinking I was just walking through another ordinary suburban metal/hardcore video.  Which is near useless but I can tune it out.  Then, WHAMM-O,  it's as if I turned a corner and now I'm strolling through Kylie Minogue's uterus.  And we all know the beating that thing has taken.

Why does this music drive my colon to empty itself at first tones?  Because it's confusing.  When confused, I shit.  I can't help it.  You should have seen me in Geometry class.  Why are they wearing crosses?  Why are they so mad about partying hard?  How come the chick singing the chorus has no tits?  All the auto-tune parodies haven't clued any of these guys to the fact that giving minimally talented musicians vocoders is the recording equivalent of giving crutches to a quadriplegic?

I feel so sad for music to come.  Oh, damn, I've gotta shit again.

Greetings from the West Edmonton Mall!

Well I'm here.  I've been here for the past four days and I can say with all my heart that this mall is one of the most confusing things I've ever seen.  I can't quite figure out it's purporse or value to these people.  This is a building that covers over SIX MILLION SQUARE FEET!!!  A mall!  Six million square feet?!?!    This polyp on the local economy comes complete with a waterpark (with the world's largest indoor wave pool), an amusement park (with the world's largest indoor roller coaster), a car wash, an aquarium, a bungee jump pad, a firing range, an ice rink, a casino, eight hundred retail stores, and of course, a comedy club that yours truly is headlining for five nights.  And for those of you that know me, this could not be more of an awkward pairing.  I'm agoraphobic.  I'm not a fan of cologne.  I despise slow walkers.  And most of all, I'm not a big fan of things that seem belch natural resources.

I find myself wandering through it's halls before each show muttering in disbelief at the excess of it all.  How does a building like this operate efficiently during weather that rivals Winnipeg and Anchorage for shittiest in North America?  It's open year round.  The water and air heated to a tropical level during the eight months that Old Man Winter slams it's icy cock into the mouths of every Edmontonian.  Average, AVERAGE, winter temps reach 10degrees F.  With windchill, this city regularly spends days in the -10 to -20 range.  How can they afford to keep this running?

Oh yeah, they have a lot of money.  Oil money.  The best kind of money there is in a first world country.  A fact they continue to make abundantly clear, often referring to this place as North Texas.  What the fail to remember is that everyone fucking hates Texas.  Well, except people from Texas.  But, honestly, who the fuck cares what they think? 

"Don't you like it even a little bit, Ben?"  No.  I fucking don't.  "Why?  It's just a mall." No, The Pheasant Lane Mall in Nashua, New Hampshire is just a mall.  The Cherry Creek Mall in Colorado is just a mall.  This is a building that covers 48 city blocks.  This is a large town.  A large town encased in cement and glass, heated and cooled depending on time of year.  A large town with zero infrastructure.  A large town just designed for people who can afford to hang out there.  A large town that's only function is to funnel more money out of hard working private business owners pockets and into PetSmart's, Sears', Victoria's Secrets', Abercrombie's, and Earl's quarterly earning schedule. 

I wonder how much money is being sent towards the mall and away from Jasper or Whyte Ave., two areas that contain more privately held shops, bars, and eateries. 

"But Ben, those are outdoors.  During the winter the weather is too shitty to be outside."  Fine, don't live in Edmonton.  Look at the fucking map.  Of course it's fucking cold, it's the far North.  You see how on the map there's more dots with little names beside them the further south you go.  That's because normal people choose not to live on the tundra.  You want a giant wave pool, head 1500 miles to the west or 2000 miles to the east, there's a giant one waiting for you.  You wanna make a ton of money, turn this into an outpost and work for six months out of the year before returning south for the other six to sit in the warmth.

Musings on not drinking after one year...

It sucks.

How do we spell relief? D-E-A-D!

Good morning, everyone!  And to everyone who cares, Bin Laden is DEAD!!!!!  Let us rejoice that the man we were told was responsible for 9/11 has been killed!!!  To all the families who lost a loved one during the events of that tragic day, you can now sleep tight knowing that, while it took us nearly a full decade, America brought justice to the culpable individual.  Your mouths frothed and seethed with the need and taste for iron and blood, and our leaders have delivered as promised. 

For sustinance?  No.  Hope?  No.  Safety?  No.  Does it bring reason?  No.  For it will not fill you hearts or bellies.  This is just to satisfy the vengeful god-complex that lives within us all.  Congratulations, folks!  Nothing has been accomplished.

Gun owners should not rejoice and "pious" people should not celebrate.  This is just another example of a symptom being attacked.  Bin Laden didn't kill all those people.  At best, he drafted the blueprints.  Extremism killed all those people.  And rather then root out the cause; the virus of thought that infects and compels beautiful, family-loving people to do such things, we play a game of global whack-a-mole.  Why?  Because when you grab at the end of the string of reason, the scariest thought may come in finding that the rope is tethered to ourselves. 

Today, we've become a more difficult culture.  Because today, what we said is that we are less concerned with solving a problem, and more concerned with appearing righteous.  This is all for your entertainment, and trust me, I hope you're all entertained because this is not the end.

"Home is the place where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in."

First off, I want to apologize for doing exactly what I said I would.  I'm not quite sure who it is I'm apologizing to, seeing as how I think very few actually pay attention, but I'll say it for myself.  I have not kept up on this to the best of my ability and I promise to be better about it.  Why didn't I?  No reason really.  Most likely laziness and being easily distracted by pornography or Facebook.  Two websites that, if you put me under a CT scan, would activate the same parts of my brain.  What can I say, conscienceless photo posting makes my cookie dough rise. 

SIDE NOTE:  What do Helen Thomas and my dick have in common?  Both are veiny and known to lean to the left.

Anyway, over the past week I've found myself in a near perpetual state of pensiveness - catching myself dazing out windows, trailing off in thought, or just pondering the question of what "home" means to me.  This is a question that I've struggled with since I left Maine, the state in which I grew up, to live out of a duffle bag for two or so years, and then up until recently, bouncing from apartment to apartment with my girlfriend and now wife, Crystal.  For over ten years I've prided myself on owning as little as possible, accruing only things that I feel are needed (however warped my definition of that may be), and almost monthly throwing out garbage bags of items I've lost attachment to.  I to this day have no photo albums, clothes, memorabilia, or items from my past.  Some could have called it rootless but it was the easiest way for me to deal with all the tangled feelings I carried for my youth. 

Why are my feelings about my upbringing so difficult?  Was I abused?  Did I have a hard childhood?  No.  In fact, quite the opposite.  Well, at least at home and in comparison with others around me.  I grew up in a middle class loving family.  Both my parents are good, hard-working, honest people.  And with the exception of normal teenage angst, I would say that we had, and have, a close relationship.  With all that being said, I ran almost as far away as possible almost as soon has legally possible.  Why?  I've always felt separate.  I've never felt a real sense of being "home".  For a long time, I wasn't sure what that meant.  And this is largely because of the environs in which I grew up.

I grew up in New England, and mostly in Maine near the capital area.  For 11 years I lived in Winthrop, a small town of approximately 5,000 people.  I would say it was a very Cider House Rules-y type of place to grow up.  And I say Cider House Rules strictly with regard to topography, and not because my black orchard manager knocked up his daughter (Which he did. But I, unlike Tobey Maguire, refuse to let it be a defining moment of my youth).  I guess what I'm getting at is that it was picturesque.  On the outside, a town that was seemingly puritanical and pure.  But underneath it's exterior was a place fraught with more problems than most.  It was here that I learned how to drink and yell.  It was here that I watched people use more drugs than I thought humanly possible.  I've known more people than I care to mention that decided to take their own lives.  This was a destructive place that people got locked in.  People were designated paths and seemed to rarely deviate.  "Home" only made me more and more confused about my identity.  Towns that small, I felt, were stifling because your role was set.  There were no other groups to migrate to.  I was who I was in the pecking order.  That would never change.  So I left.  And for the most part, I didn't look back.

I ran to Colorado.  Started a new life.  Reinvented myself from the inside out.  Kept some old friends but mostly accrued new ones.  People I would die for.  I did this on my own for years.   Then during a trip east to visit family, I met my partner, bane and breath of my existence, my wife.   I took her back out west with me at first opportunity.  In Colorado people saw me as who I am today.  And because my wife had not known me prior to our initial meeting, so did she.  I felt that back home, people saw me as who I was.  Prone to forsaking all the work I had done. 

Even with all these confused feelings and motives, I still found a way to be proud of where I was from.  I told people I was proud of being "Made in Maine", even though I felt it fed all the negative parts of me.  I now realize the parts I was proud of were wrong.  I revered the loud mouth side.  The cantankerous, booze shoe that would tell people off at the drop of a hat.  That was the side I designated to my small little lakeside town. 

After almost seven years, and moderate success at comedy, the opportunity presented itself to me to return to the Northeast and perform.  I pushed for it.  I'm not sure why seeing as how I had always felt people wouldn't understand or accept what I was doing.   And when the time approached, I was more nervous than I had ever been.  Would people approve who I was now?  My ideas.  Thoughts.  The way I operated.  I didn't believe they would.  I believed that others would only come to see what they had seen before. 

I'm proud to say I was wrong.  After catching up with faces from the past, I realize I was wrong on almost every front.  Wrong about what facets of my personality were fed by the place I grew up.  Wrong about what people though about me.  Wrong about what people wanted to see.

I learned that the place I grew up is like all things you love; complicated.  While it has so many problems and shortcomings, I grew up around some of the most beautiful, tough, strong-spirited, community-minded people I could ever ask for.  While some people have made decisions in their lives that I don't approve of, I have done the same myself.  I realize now that people just wanted to see me do well.  Wholeheartedly and purely.  Because they too are proud of where they're from and they view me as part of that. 

I'm still humbled almost two weeks after. 

It's funny, but I thought when I left after doing those shows I would feel weakened by the experience.  That I would leave needing to return to Colorado to pick myself up.  But the opposite happened.  I now feel like I'm ready to move forward.  Why?  Because I've got a few hundred of the drunkest, scariest, kindest, assiduous family members at my back. 

I'm sorry if this seems rambling and poorly put together.  And if this is a bit mushy, I'm sorry about that as well.  Trust me, there will be more unbridled, thoughtless disregard for decency and trends coming soon.  I just wanted to put this down before I forgot, as we all tend to do in our lives.

Thanks to all my Maine friends and family again.  Thank you for giving me the comfort I needed.

...of hands false or true to be shaken...

To everyone reading this, please keep in mind that because I had virtually nothing to do, coupled with my hosts constant work schedule, I inhaled western movies, pornography, and stand-up comedy in quantities that should only be allowed if being offset by several uninterrupted hours in a batting cage or two-plus milligrams of Klonopin.

Having now returned to my mile high hacienda after thirteen torpor filled days in Los Angeles I can honestly say I'm more ambivalent about that city than ever. 

First off, why was I out there?  I went out at the advice of my agent for "pilot season".  "What is pilot season?", you ask.  Well if you were to inquire with someone from L.A., I'm sure they would tell you it's the time of year in which all the major networks begin casting and producing new programing and development ideas for delivery to the American public.  A great time to get out and read for roles while simultaneously networking with casting execs.  If you were to ask me, I would tell you that it's a chance to fly out to California on your own dime, hold up in a studio apartment with your gracious friend, and spend two weeks on a leather couch cataloging your scents.

Part of me enjoys some of what southern California has to offer.  The weather is great.  A lot of amazing, interesting food.  Cool design.  And as much as some want to deny it, you can't help but be sold a little by the "anything can happen" mentality that made that place what it is today.  But there are also a lot of good intentions gone awry, yogurt shops, and kill-or-be-killed attitudes with respect to my chosen craft. 

A good number of the comics I've become acquainted with have chose to be there because of a need to be closer to studios or agents for work.  And some have decided to be there to chase the dream.  And honestly, I can't blame them.  It's life, and it's short, try for it if that's what shakes you up.  But after just half a month I don't think I could have tolerated another placating smile, disingenuous handshake, or indifferent introduction.

Hey, new comic guy, I'm not a threat to your chances.  I'm just going to get up and yell for a bit and then it's your turn.  I don't give a shit if you have a killer bit on jaywalking and you're the emcee of that mediocre open-mic behind the pizza shop every second Tuesday of the even numbered months.  Extend some courtesy and treat me like a person.  It's clear that you're upset that I'm there because five minutes every eight weeks is all you have.  Or because I don't fit the mold of what happens to be cool right now.  I know you have to integrate yourself into a scene, because otherwise, you're just another mid-twenties look-alike floating in a sea of wanton acceptance.  You're miserable, that's clear in your swagger.

So I've got an idea for you.  A chance to solve the overcrowding issue, as well as those disappointed, tired eyes you suffer through your days with.

GO THE FUCK HOME!!!!!  This place will eat your young, stupid, fattened soul like it's spiritual foie gras.  Put on your Converse and best planned flannel and run for the fucking hills.  In fact, no, run for the plains, the people you're trying to hide from live in the hills.  Grab a large blanket, go to the prairie, start a fire, and smoke signal your disappointed mother and father to come and get you.  Once you've got back to Jackson, Michigan or Roanoke, Virginia, conquer the scene there.  Find your sincerity again.  Create and adjust.  Make people laugh because it feels good.  That will be a lot easier than swallowing a quart of your own snot and blood after I pound your spiral joke book into your "indie" face.

Tootles!

Aww, c'mon Mane!

A couple weeks ago the media world was abuzz as photos surfaced of "musician", Gucci Mane, sporting a brand new face tattoo.  Articles and blogs went back and forth on the current mental state of the "musician" given his recent arrests, incarceration, and short stint in a psychiatric hospital.  And while everyone weighed in on everything from the worst face tattoos in the industry to the future of his career given his recent exploits, all the writers ignored the most egregious behaviour carried out during this affair.  It was ignored by said writers because it was perpetrated by themselves.  Please! PLEASE! PLEASE! Stop referring to this guy as a fucking musician, you knucklefuckers.

Have any of you heard Lemonade?  Here, take your dick out and slap your ears in the face: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H6Q4s_ZdvAQ 

See, it's not music.  At BEST, it's strip club confetti.  At worst, it is exactly what it is, the semi-retarded musings of what appears to be an obsessive shopper.  What 'Confessions of a Shopaholic' would have been like had it been directed by Johnny Dang. 

Apparently all it takes nowadays to earn the label of musician is a pen to sign your contract, a PR person to advise you on what designer to wear, and an asshole on your face to squirt audio-shit onto disk.  So he got an ice cream cone tattooed on his face.  Big deal.  It's obvious he did it to stand out in a flooded industry where everything sounds the same.  Well, that and because he's bat-shit crazy.  If the press likes the insane so much, why not find moderately talented ones?  Why not do a story on Big Seth, the guitar playing busker that frequented the liquor store I worked at for years?  The guy had an amazing voice and wrote heady, street songs about living on the run.  He was like Tracy Chapman, but white and handsy.  Oh, and he had a tattoo on his calf that said, "Fuck Sausage Teeth".  Brilliant!  At least he created something somewhat interesting. 

In the end, tattoo everything on your body.  Who fucking cares?  We're pretty much the animal equivalent of a useless, office document.  Why not have the shitty clip art to go with it?  But please, reserve assigning the brand of musician to someone who puts some effort into their sound.

WHOOPIE for the assholes!!!!

So, last week a bored and surprisingly non-concussed, Rep. Paul Davis of the Maine State Legislature, took time out of his busy, publicly elected and compensated, day to propose that my ovoid brethren of Maine pass a bill making the "Whoopie Pie" the state dessert.  Can you believe time and effort went into this?  I'm appalled there will be a debate on this issue.  Hey Paul, you're a douche-bag!  

What's a whoopie pie, Ben?  A whoopie pie is a baked good consisting of a creamy, white frosting smashed between two round pieces of chocolate cake.  Perfect for ensuring that the 59% of Maine's population considered to be overweight or obese (a number that has risen 100% in 17 years), or the 36% of the State's kindergartners with a BMI in the 85th percentile, or the 25% of overweight high schoolers, continue to have the perfect confectionery wheels to put on the heifer bus to diabetes town.  I mean, why even try to hide your intentions of not setting a  precedent for change?  Why not make the state dessert methamphetamine and unprotected sex?  Why couldn't we suggest the blueberry be the state dessert?  Or perhaps a brisk walk?

I'm not attacking food items as the source of our dietary problems in this country.  I fully believe it is up to parents and the individual to make positive choices.  Whenever my son asks for a sugary treat, I burn him with a cigarette.  This effectively kills two potentially dangerous habits with one stone; eating sweets and trusting me.  Regardless, I do feel that the state government should be the model for what is best for its constituents.  If you're a state launching a school program to reduce the availability of sugars and fats in an effort to try and curb the single greatest health threat to our culture, you ought not make your state animal, bacon.  

Perhaps the most troubling part of this, and I'm not trying to point out the obvious, but time was taken out of a day to propose this.  If you're a politician and it hasn't been spelled out to you yet, let me be the first; everyone hates you!!!  EVERYONE!  Republican, Democrat, Muslim, Hari Krishna; we'd all gladly use you to sandbag New Orleans against further storms if we thought the water wouldn't seep through the holes in your pockets.  You're now below mimes on the social-ladder.  Most children are taught to get in a van with a strange, candy-wielding, man before ever taking a job as a congressional page.  At least if you survive the van ride, it will drop you off near your home after the diddling. 

The majority of you spineless, pandering, ass-shafts spend your entire campaigns talking about how different you are, and how you'll "be the change Washington needs", only to turn around and spend hours of a taxpayer funded day proposing a bill to make the cod piece the state garment.  

So Paul, if you're reading this, which given how much free time you appear to have, you probably are, I believe the order of your regular agenda while in office should be: 1. Fix everything because it's all fucked.  2.  Draft up asinine, insensate, moron gaiety to bring attention to my feeble, sun starved part of the earth.  The day that happens, I'll bring the cake.

The Maiden Voyage!

So I'm sitting here in my 620 square foot, 2 bedroom apartment with my flu-ridden wife and 5 year old child watching 'Bicentennial Man' trying to figure out a couple things.

1.  How do I get myself more organized?  I need a place to collect thoughts, ideas, and grievances.  I need a website (which by the way is coming very soon).  So I figured, why not start with a blog?  That seems pretentious and harmless when left to fall by the wayside.

2.  Seriously, how did Robin Williams manage to make an android seem like such a pussy?  They should have called this movie, 'Hideous Bisexual Robot', or just, 'Fergie', for short.  I almost puked watching Oliver Platt's character massaging Robin Williams' soon-to-be-face into shape.  I imagine this is a biopic of how Hollywood manufactured Robin Williams.  Just a machine, pre-loaded with jokes and voices stolen from many years of being left alone in front of a television.  I hope that mass of body hair and forearm never makes anything like this again.

So, with that being said, welcome to the maiden voyage of the veritable outhouse that is my writing.  Not all of this will be funny.  In fact most of it won't be funny.  Why?  Because I'm a self-obsessed dickhead who will hoard anything good for the stage.  Also, I'm not known for my brevity.  I will trail off.  I will start off on a rant about the IMF, World Bank, and how I will not buy any item that is not locally grown or manufactured, only to end it on a selfish musing about my latest cholesterol levels and making bread.   This will fail, I promise you.  I will take off from this mental port with every intention of transporting a whole cargo of first, second, and steerage class ideas to the promised land, only to slam into the icy, stifling mass that is a composite of my schedule, overbearing inner critic, and general distaste for labor.

Honestly, it may be for the best.  I think Gloria Stuart summed up how I feel when she played that old, diamond-tossing hag in Titanic.  "A woman's heart is a deep ocean of secrets."  You can have my pussy, folks, but you ain't never getting my mind.

Okay, see what I mean?  I've trailed off.

I look forward to this.