5.27.2006

Thank God I Wasn't Paying Better Attention

I love to get excited about things. I love the growing anticipation of counting down the days till, for example, I can see a movie that I have been stoked about since the mere idea of it was mentioned. Harry Potter movies are great for this - especially because they always come out right about the same time of the year. Every time I am lucky enough to even see one of those teaser trailers, I can't resist furiously rubbing my hands together because the energy which is suddenly manifested in my body reaches some kind of over-saturation level and must be released from my body in the form of kinetic energy. It should be fairly obvious that I kind of live for these types of things - I live to look forward to events. (Maybe that's a crappy way to live, but I can't seem to entirely break myself of it.) So when I found out about X-Men 3 complete with Archangel and sentinels was coming out, I was thrilled. Luckily, however, I somehow missed the fact that it was coming out this weekend - so that I ended up only being pumped full of eager impatience about it for a little less than week. I say this was a good thing because I, of course, saw it the first possible opportunity that arose - and all I can say without giving anything away is . . .

D I S A P P O I N T M E N T

I will discuss this newly found deep-seated sadness with anyone – I just don’t want to say anything at the risk of ruining the disillusionment for anyone else. So if you are with me or against me, let’s talk about it.

5.20.2006

I Doubt There's a Support Group for This*

I have a horrible habit of purposely putting myself into awkward situations that tend to make me extremely uncomfortable for no other reason than to hopefully come out of my own personal hell with some kind of funny story. I always tell myself not to do it anymore. "Amanda," I say, "Why do this to yourself? All you are going to do is sit there panicking the whole time. Avoiding people you don't know. Trying to find something to prevent you from having to talk to anyone - all the while counting the seconds until you can make a quiet exit."

"But Amanda," I counter, "think of all the great comedy material you will come out with! Should you survive, that is."

"I know, Amanda. It’s tempting. But, honestly is it worth it?"

I usually end up answering this question with a resounding "YES!" And then immediately hate that part of myself.

Currently the new situation is that I was invited to something called a “Slumber Party” where I would potentially go to a friend's house which will be filled with girls whom I have never met while some lady would try to sell us . . . well, adult lady "Tupperware," if you catch my drift. (Let me reiterate that I will only know maybe 2 of the 15 women that will be there.)

Could there possibly be anything more uncomfortable? It's doubtful.

Is there a chance I will go? Sure.

Will I end up hyperventilating and dying in the process? It's possible.

Hopefully something better will come up, and I will be forced to put my comedic material yearning on the back burner for the time being.


*Ali, you probably shouldn’t let Matt read this one.

5.15.2006

At Least No One Threw Any Tomatoes

Friday night went alright. Not great - just alright. Even though it was a politically-themed comedy show there ended up being a reservation for a Bachelorette Party of 30 whor-I mean, ladies. (For those of you who have had the pleasure of missing the St. Louis Landing during pre-bridal season, allow me to explain. These are the Bachelorettes who parade around in veils with condoms hanging from them, carrying huge inflatible penises that they make the performers sign while drinking five long island ice teas and yelling out the suggestions (even to a stand-up comic) "dildo" and "blow-job.") So as soon as I heard about that, I knew they weren't going to really dig my comedy-jazz. Oh well. I was a bit nervous at the beginning, but it went fine in the end. I did somewhere between 10 and 15 minutes.

I always get so freakin' nervous before I do stand-up, and I find myself continually asking myself why I do it. After it's over, though, I usually feel pretty good - sometimes just okay, but always much better than before. A friend told me since it makes me so nervous, I should just quit. At the time, I loved the idea. Now however, I feel like I have to keep doing it - at least until I'm not nervous anymore. Or maybe I have to keep doing it as some kind of feminist stance or some other nonsense. At any rate, for the time being I shall continue to put myself through the pain and torment that is stand-up comedy for a while longer.

Maybe I can even start an all-girl comedy gang!!

5.12.2006

Addendum

So luckily now I am only going to be performing with the other comedians. I will go up between their sets. They want me to do somewhere between 15 - 20 minutes, which is terrifying.

Don't worry, everyone. There is still plenty of room for this to be a disaster.

Maybe if I Regularly Post, They Will Come.

Well, now I've done it. I went and tried my hand at stand-up just, you know, because. Then I did it a few more times, you know, because I like the attention. Now I have successful fooled the real comedians into thinking that I know what the f*** I am doing. What do they do with this complete misinterpretation of my being a sucker for an audience? The idiots ask me - me! - to host their bigtime stand-up show tonight!! Man, this all has phenomenal disaster potential.

5.11.2006

Some Days I’m Shocked that I'm Able to Leave the House

A couple of weeks ago I went to a Pirate Party. You know - one of those parties where the host decides that the best way of socializing their different groups of friends is to force them all to dress up in half-assed theme costumes in a vain attempt to put them all on the same playing field – a playing field where everyone looks like idiots. Yeeeah – you got it. And, furthermore, I am one of those people who hates meeting new people. Especially when there is a bunch of new people. AND even more when I am dressed like a weak attempt at something I deemed a “Parisian Pirate”. So at this point it seems needless to say that I was a little less than ready to make my grand entrĂ©e onto the jolly deck of this merrymaking-shindig. The day building up to the big event for me was filled with apprehension and high hopes of a mysterious last minute pirate cancellation. (“I know, who would’ve guessed that there would be a massive recall on all things pirates on today of all days?!”) Too clarify this wasn’t because I don’t like the people throwing the Pirate Premise Party (I am actually quite fond of them); it has much more to do with the slew of neuroses and unjustified anxieties that inhabit my body every second of every day.

Consequently a day of anxious anticipation slipped into a nerve-racking evening which skidded into a night of dread. A beret, black and white striped shirt, eye patch, boots, and a two and an half foot long alligator accessory complete with alarm clock later, I found myself standing on the porch of the Buccaneer Bash with my well-respected, fairly dignified genius of a friend urging me to be the first to walk in – all while staring me down with his un-eye patched eye, his hand placed ready to run me through with his Plastic Pirate Dagger tm. Neither of us wanting to be the first one to cross the threshold to find out the answer to the question: Are we overdressed, underdressed, or at the wrong house?

“Do we just walk in?”

“I don’t know. Probably. Well, we could just ring the doorbell.”

“Ok – go ahead.”

(A moment after no one responds to the doorbell) “Uhhh . . . we should probably just walk in.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.”

“Okay, so go ahead.”

“Me? It was your idea!”

“I drove! You go in first!”

“Um, how about I’ll just send the hostess a text message for her to let us in?”

(Unmoving and making no motion to resolve the situation) “Now you’re being ridiculous.” (Eagerly awaiting a response.)

And so on and so forth until I heard what sounded like peg-legged, unscrupulous rogues making their way down the street preparing, I’m sure, to make a much more calm and composed arrival.

“Quick!” I panickedly pleaded. “Just go in before they get here!”



Moral of the story: If a genius cannot function at a Pirate Party in the same way in which I am unable, then I’m doing alright.

5.07.2006

Whoa, Man! Dude’s packin’ a Rubber Chicken!

Who knew that amateur stand-up comedy was worth starting a gang-war? I certainly didn’t. And I love comedy. I work my butt off for the sake of comedy – and yet apparently, since I am not willing to “Throw down” in order to start a comedy-turf-war, I don’t care as much as other people.

Last week’s open-mike night at the club turned into something out of an awful parody of 8 Mile when one of the last comedians for the night got on stage and starting laying down his mad, hatin’ jokes – making fun of the other the comedians of the night and the audience. Once off the stage he started calling out for one of the other comics that occasions our happy little ha-ha hut only to find that he wasn’t even there. The host then took the stage, or should I say soapbox and starts in with what I have come to call his “I Love Comedy” speech:

“I don’t know about you – but comedy means something to me. I do comedy for comedy-sake. I’ll do comedy for an empty house – I’ll do comedy for the empty chairs, for the air – for myself! That’s how much comedy means to me. You may think that comedy is something you do to make yourself feel important. That’s where you and I are different. I do it for the love.”*

At that point, a single comedy-shaped tear rolled down his face followed by a smattering of applause. (I’m assuming the applause was from the audience members not terrified/confused out of their minds by what was taking place before them.)

Truly disgusted by what we were witnessing, my joke-buddy, Liz and I made a beeline for the bar. While there, someone was able to explain the background behind the ensuing comedy battle taking place in the theater behind us. It seems that the new comedian (we’ll call him “Fighty”) was wanting to fight this other joke-smith (we’ll call him “Careless”) over a joke that Careless does in which he uses the N-word. Now, I went to an extremely liberally minded – hence quite politically correct – college, and I think that I have heard the questionable joke before. While I thought it not particularly funny, I did not notice it being particularly racist.

A few minutes later, the comedy was done, and the theater was emptying out. One of the comedians of whom Fighty made fun (we’ll call him “Yelly”) was talking to Liz and me when Fighty and his comedy posse stepped through the bewildered crowd leaving the club. As Fighty and co. headed towards the door, Yelly gives him a sassy “Goodbye.” Oh course Fighty turns around and starts threatening Yelly, which lasts only a few seconds before Fighty turns again to leave. Yelly again says something smart-alecky causing Fighty to once more turn and threaten. At this point, Liz gets panicked and jumps up to hide in the nearby hallway. I, however, sit stuck in the middle of this escalating comedy throw-down. Finally Fighty turns to seems to toss out his last cut-down – first sarcastically complimenting Yelly on his jacket then telling him “When I’m done with you, I’ll make that jacket fit tighter!”

Pause.

I sit hoping that Yelly will not say exactly what I know he wants to say.

Pause.

Yelly: “What does that even mean??”

More threats. More puffed up chests and ideal threats. And scene. Fighty out.


*This speech is totally paraphrased or rather the way that I remember it/want it to be remembered.