...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.