Here is an old video from about two years ago. It's a story I told only once at the Velveeta Room, shortly after getting a haircut that went (almost) completely awry. It's pretty short.
I will now quietly end my blogging here on myspace. I have a blogspot blog now. I feel like I have more freedom. It's gonna have a more political bent, maybe some short stories, and the occasional record/movie/book review. I don't expect anyone to follow me there, but you're totally welcome to.
I'll probably still post about shows and stuff here, but not much else.
I am *this* close to being able to run. I miss it. I run a lot, but always for really short periods of time. I always sprint across the street. I even run to the mailbox. It's a weird thing I've always done, but I do much less these days. It was more common in my formative, wilder, more retarded, early manhood years. Like, if I had to get something from my car, I would literally run to my car. If I arrived to a friends' house and there were people in the backyard instead of the front of the house, I would run as fast as I could to where everyone was. One day my friend Mike's mom asked me why I run everywhere, and that question hit me like a ton of bricks because no one had ever said anything about it before. I never gave her an answer. I think I just started laughing nervously, which in hindsight probably made her never want to talk to me again.
In grammar school, circa 4th grade, I was obsessed with baseball, and wanted nothing more than to be on the Cubs. I was mostly awful at baseball (go Cubbies!), but I liked hitting things and running, so it served a purpose. I used to literally get up in the middle of class and go to the back of the room and quietly pretend to play baseball. I am not shitting you, I did this. I would mime pitching a ball, and then I would mime hitting it, and then I would run in place, and well, you get the picture. Please remember I did this in plain view of the entire class, but no one ever commented on it. The teacher would of course say "Seth, sit down", but I felt that was getting off easy. Well, one day in homeroom, Michelle Hitzmann, a buck-toothed, blonde-haired, blue-eyed goodie-two-shoes that I had a huge crush on, leaned over to me and mercifully whispered, "Why are you always pretending to play baseball in the back of class?" I just started laughing, and then I never did it again. I mean, I would still get up out of my seat in the middle of class for no reason, but, from then on, it was just to go stare out the window.
I still don't know what made me do those things. Too much nervous energy I guess. Or maybe it's because my mom fed me chilled cafe au lait in a bottle. Either way, I'm alright with it.
I apologize that I've been blogging every day, but I'm left with little to do, since EVERYTHING ELSE is wiped out as an option.
Okay, it's been two weeks since I tried to scale the unscalable tree. The longer my foot stays hurt, the more menacing the tree will sound each time I relay the story to people. I mean, you should've seen this tree. I don't know what made me think I should climb a redwood while it was on fire, but I couldn't deny myself the opportuntiy. Plus, let's not forget the cat and her kittens that were stuck on one of the lower branches. I guess everyone else would've just left 'em to burn.
I'm getting pretty worried. I'm still not okay to work. Every day I wake up and wiggle my foot to see if it's any less painful. It never is. I swear I'm not doing a damn thing all day. My foot sees very little action, except for the occasional foray into the kitchen (man's gotta eat) or the bathroom (man's gotta sing in the mirror). Sometimes I do the dishes, just to have something else to pass the time besides the internet or tv. I'm not icing my foot as much as I once was, cause ice seems to be no more than a placebo, and all it does is make me get up every two hours and use my foot to go get the ice bucket. So now, I'm completely static and useless. I sit and read the news all day, or people's blogs, or the graphic novel I'm reading right now. I drink coffee. I can't work, so of course I have no income. How will I pay bills this month? Should I hold a telethon? A webathon? Should I post my paypal account like Lucas did? Lucas, how's that workin out for ya? Should I sleep with the cranky old ladies at the City of Austin energy building? Wouldn't that just make things worse?
Did anyone watch the Democratic debate last night? S*!T D@*MIT! FUCK!!!! FUCK FUCK FUCK!!!! I can't stress enough how embarrassing it was. Are there any adults left in the media? Can we not have an ex-Clinton official asking the questions? Can we not talk about flag pins for one entire debate, por favor? Wait, was that just a very special episode of "Moment of Truth"? If so, that makes it okay. Otherwise, do-over, please.
Earlier, on a different station, Chris Matthews is massaging McCain's 72 year-old-balls on Hardball - College Edition, which opens the forum for questions from young, confused republicans, and look out, one of the college students who steps up to the mic is Peter Doocy, the son of Steve Doocy, a Fox News anchorman, and with the all-too-rare opportunity to throw a presidential candidate a real hard ball, Peter uses it to ask McCain to do shots with him after the the show, but not before insulting Hillary Clinton. The entire time, John McCain looked like he was on a show honoring his very existance.
Riot, anybody?
btw, I haven't left the house in a long time. I'm on ebay looking for a new foot. Possibly an animal foot. One that can handle a tree climb every once in a while. Maybe one day I'll be able to afford a matching one as well, and then the hands, and then my torso, and transplant by transplant, I will become tree climbing machine...aka a monkey.
Last night, I got probably the warmest response from an audience that I've ever experienced, and it was a classic case of what happens when I actually listen to the insight of my peers. I was *this* close to changing my entire setlist at the last second, but I was advised not to, lucky for me. I have a hard time doing things the easy way, always have.
My foot is healing. Slowly. I've never wanted to run or dance more in my life. These last two weeks have taught me that I really cherish my feet, and the powers that come with them when fully healthy.
The election is boring now. The months leading up to Super Tuesday were so exciting to me, and now we're bogged down in US Weekly-style minutae.
I mean, for God's sake, so what if Obama called some bitter people bitter? If John McCain would've said it, it would've been labeled "straight-talk" and someone would've bought him a giant cookie cake that said "We May Be Bitter, but This Cake Sure Aint".
So what if Hillary makes shit up all the time? We all know her past well enough to not pay any attention. Let her regale stories of being shot at in Bosnia or hunting ducks behind a shed somewhere in a rural pasture where people are never bitter. She's as transparent as they come, and she can't win anyway.
So what if John McCain doesn't know the difference between Sunni and Shi'a? Okay, so that's pretty big.
Every candidate is playing catch up with reality. They never comment on the economy until it makes headlines. They talk about racism more than foreign policy. They nitpick over each other's words when it really should be a battle of ideas. The stories were much better months ago. Now that we're really getting to know all the candidates, I'd say the American people have lost already, and it's only April.
Unignorable pain, fear of having a limp for life, general worry about busy work-filled weekend making both those worse, collectively drove me to the ER late last night, and I finally found out what I pretty much already knew, and that is that I shouldn't walk on my foot for a while, which means of course not waiting tables. I have $50 to my name, and bills are due! How do I fall into this pit every fucking year? From now on, if anyone sees me trying to climb a tree, do everything in your power to coax me away from it.
Anyway, my foot is sprained. They didn't say high ankle, or low ankle, or anything like that. They just said 'foot' and gave me a "post-op shoe" that looked hastily glued together by some Chinese toddler. The shoe helped me believe that it was alleviating pain, even though I knew deep down it did nothing. After 6 x-rays they found nothing but a reason to send me a hefty bill every month for the next year. At this point, I wish my foot was actually broken.
Now I have crutches, a cheap plastic velcro boot, too much free time, and no money. I have to do something quick so that my New Orleans vacation isn't viewed in hindsight as a bad idea, because it certainly didn't feel like it at the time.
On a lighter note, I have a show tonight in at Homer's Bar & Grill, and I'm in the Funniest Person in Austin Contest on Monday, at Cap City Comedy Club, 8pm. I have plenty of free tickets. Message me for some.
11:07 AM - Radio Stations, I Question Their Blackness
Almost thirty, single, waiter, negative account balance, fucked up foot. And I couldn’t be happier. I’ve heard that comedians are happiest when they’re completely miserable. As little sense as that makes, I’ll buy it.
It is absolutely amazing what a vacation can do for your mental clarity. And I’m not talkin’ about going to San Marcos for a day or two. I’m talkin’ about going somewhere you love, no matter where it is, recklessly spending copious amounts of money on ephemeral things like food and drink for you and your friends (and strangers), sleeping very little, doing something different every day...just going a big chunk of time without caring. That’s a real vacation.
Jeremy tried to bring me back to reality multiple times by reminding me of the comedy festival we were in town for, but honestly, that was secondary to me. I even forgot about it a few times. Not that I didn’t put any effort into it; I had my setlists prepared in time, I’m no dummy. I just wasn’t nervous about it. I was there to escape (being a nervous person), and that’s exactly what I did. However, had the festival been anywhere else but my home town, I probably would’ve been a wreck.
Today, I went to the bank with all my coin change, scored $28.50, and went to Fiesta. I now have TP, soap and a toothbrush again. Fuck yea, let’s do this.
10:59 PM - Please Meet Iggy the Puggle
Current mood: accomplished
Back from Nola. I don’t even know where to begin, or if I even should. I wasn’t taking notes for I was too busy taking shots and meeting people and walking and talking and flirting and drinking free beer and seeing old faces and attempting to scale trees and failing miserably and fucking up my foot and then dancing the next night (because fun trumps intense pain) and eating crawfish and sucking the heads and chasing it with keg beer and toking on the river and listening to records and celebrating birthdays and exploring a town that has grown since last I visited and enjoying the company of so many incredible people and eating and eating and eating and drinking and drinking and drinking and never fucking sleeping.
Oh yea, and I did comedy a couple times, too.
One thing of huge note is I had not one hangover while I was there. I drank more in the past week then I have all year (no exxageration) and slept total of maybe 20 hours from Wednesday to Sunday, and I never experienced any lag. Maybe I did and it didn’t matter since I had no priorities to tend to, and because I knew I was just going to repeat it anyway. Every Night ended at 5am, or thereabouts, in either a bar or a diner. I think my body just knew it was on vacay and wanted to make sure all went well. Thanks, body.
Also worth mentioning is that just before leaving the town for good, we stopped at my folks house so my mom could make us french toast and coffee and my dad could show off his anti-abortion wardrobe. My mom regaled semi-embarrassing stories about me, and then of course about herself, and my dad told us all about the three dogs they now have (Boone, Splenda and Iggy. Yes, Splenda). I’ve always noticed that my dad has more fun talking about dogs than his kids. I think I would be the same way. Puggles are cuter than kids.
One story my mom told that I absolutely loved (and had never heard) was one day a long time ago, she had forgotten my sister, Anne, at a department store when she was very young. Meanwhile, mom’s back home chatting with a neighbor she had invited over for a beer. It was rare that she ever even drank beer, but she had bought it for cooking, and had some left over. Soon, she received the call from the department store, and instantly felt more guilty than she had ever felt (and she’s left kids behind before) because she was imagining the headlines the next day: "Mother Enjoys Cold One With Friend After Losing Child".
I have some of that on film but it doesn’t compare to actually being there. Maybe I’m biased I think that was my favorite part of the trip.
Now I’m settled here at my apartment in Austin, I’m in the FPIA next week, and all I want to do is take a taxi to the french quarter and drink. But back here, that’s a pricey cab ride.
accomplished
