The other night I farted and my baby started crying. Do you hear what I’m saying? I startled and frightened my own child with my powerful gas. It triggered his fight or flight response. And I can just picture my baby trying to fight my fart. That would be hilarious. Someone please put that shit on YouTube.
And I don’t know if it was the sound or the smell that scared him the most. It was not super loud or strange or high pitched. Just a good ol’ fashioned American fart. Your classic rip. Plus, I don’t know if you have heard this about babies, but they are kind of light sleepers. SO waking them up, even with a good excuse, is a huge pain in the ass. Let’s all just keep quiet about this when he’s old enough to read this.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Friday, March 26, 2010
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Become my fan on Facebook
Is that lame to ask for fans? Well I'm not gonna beat around the bush. As Anthony Michael Hall said in Breakfast Club, "My mom always said if you want something, you gotta ask for it." (RIP John Hughes!)
Check out this cool FB widget and become a fan. It's a good way to hear about my upcoming shows and happenings and read my terribly witty updates - I guarantee it's 10 times funnier than Sarah Palin's facebook page.
Check out this cool FB widget and become a fan. It's a good way to hear about my upcoming shows and happenings and read my terribly witty updates - I guarantee it's 10 times funnier than Sarah Palin's facebook page.
Mandy Donovan on Facebook
Friday, June 05, 2009
It's all downhill from here. In a good way.
Ever since I was 22, I’ve been feeling like it’s all-downhill. That sounds illogical, I know. At 22, there's more in front of you than there is behind. But logic and being 22 mix like oil and water that thinks it knows everything.
I just couldn't help it. It was like life had hit a high note and the soprano had left the building.
It was a little while later that I realized the ages of 22 through 26 were going to be definitively, empirically, without a doubt, the best years of my life. I lived in Manhattan. I worked on Madison Avenue. I made enough money to go out to trendy bars and buy my share of rounds for friends whose names I can’t remember now. I bumped into celebrities in Starbucks. They filmed movies on my block. Anything was possible.
At 25, I went to grad school. I borrowed magic money I could never conceive of paying back and my job was only to learn, to share ideas, and to write them down. I ate French fries with gravy and drank chocolate milk shakes at diners at 2 am without worrying about the calories. I hadn’t quite yet figured out that smoking was bad, and drinking didn’t lead to the all-day hangovers I experience today (after three, okay two, measly beers.) I sat in coffeeshops, wrote deep thoughts in notebooks and tried to appear mysterious. And succeeded. I met friends I still have today and lovers I still tell stories about. I had summers off.
Then I turned 27 and moved to New England, where the weather and the people are sometimes colder than seems necessary. I got a real job, a 401(k) and a student loan repayment plan. And as predicated, it’s been all-downhill since.
But then again...I got married last year. In Italy. On a terrace over looking the Mediterranean Ocean. To a guy who everyone falls in love with about 3 minutes and 12 seconds after meeting him. Or maybe it's 3 minutes and 30 seconds. But less than 5, I’m sure. We got married on a Thursday at 4:30pm. (That is absolutely the coolest thing you can possibly do on a Thursday at 4:30pm.) It was just the two of us and two dear friends and a gorgeous May afternoon.
The day before the wedding, we arrived in Positano, which is beautiful even under buckets of rain – a different kind of wild, restless beauty. We climbed down the steps through the tiny ancient village, even the dirt we picked up on our shoes was romantic. We checked into our extravagant hotel room, snuggled against the lashing rain, then went down to the hotel restaurant, ate fresh fish and drank wine made right there on the Amalfi Coast - on a hill we could see out our window. Then we stopped by the church, the one with the famous golden dome that lets you know you’re in Positano. My husband-to-be thought I was crazy, because I’m not Catholic and hate the concept of sin, but I got down on my knees and prayed for the sun to shine on our wedding day. I think I may have even crossed myself (which I think is a sin if you’re not Catholic.) When we woke up in the morning, I felt the sun shining on my eyes before I opened them. And it was as if I never doubted it would.
So 33 then? 33 and all-downhill after that? Maybe this will be the one that sticks. It’s a double digit. A nice-looking number. It’s a third of my life (if all the rumors about red wine and antioxidants making us live to be 99 are true.)
These days, I’m staring 35 in the face and thinking yep. 33. That was it. Doesn’t get any better than that. Of course, just yesterday I was sitting on the sofa next to the instantly loveable husband, who put his arm around me as I pet my dog whose fur is as soft and delicate as a dandelion you can blow on. That was pretty good, too. If that’s on the downhill, maybe it’s not going to be such a bad ride.
I just couldn't help it. It was like life had hit a high note and the soprano had left the building.
It was a little while later that I realized the ages of 22 through 26 were going to be definitively, empirically, without a doubt, the best years of my life. I lived in Manhattan. I worked on Madison Avenue. I made enough money to go out to trendy bars and buy my share of rounds for friends whose names I can’t remember now. I bumped into celebrities in Starbucks. They filmed movies on my block. Anything was possible.
At 25, I went to grad school. I borrowed magic money I could never conceive of paying back and my job was only to learn, to share ideas, and to write them down. I ate French fries with gravy and drank chocolate milk shakes at diners at 2 am without worrying about the calories. I hadn’t quite yet figured out that smoking was bad, and drinking didn’t lead to the all-day hangovers I experience today (after three, okay two, measly beers.) I sat in coffeeshops, wrote deep thoughts in notebooks and tried to appear mysterious. And succeeded. I met friends I still have today and lovers I still tell stories about. I had summers off.
Then I turned 27 and moved to New England, where the weather and the people are sometimes colder than seems necessary. I got a real job, a 401(k) and a student loan repayment plan. And as predicated, it’s been all-downhill since.
But then again...I got married last year. In Italy. On a terrace over looking the Mediterranean Ocean. To a guy who everyone falls in love with about 3 minutes and 12 seconds after meeting him. Or maybe it's 3 minutes and 30 seconds. But less than 5, I’m sure. We got married on a Thursday at 4:30pm. (That is absolutely the coolest thing you can possibly do on a Thursday at 4:30pm.) It was just the two of us and two dear friends and a gorgeous May afternoon.
The day before the wedding, we arrived in Positano, which is beautiful even under buckets of rain – a different kind of wild, restless beauty. We climbed down the steps through the tiny ancient village, even the dirt we picked up on our shoes was romantic. We checked into our extravagant hotel room, snuggled against the lashing rain, then went down to the hotel restaurant, ate fresh fish and drank wine made right there on the Amalfi Coast - on a hill we could see out our window. Then we stopped by the church, the one with the famous golden dome that lets you know you’re in Positano. My husband-to-be thought I was crazy, because I’m not Catholic and hate the concept of sin, but I got down on my knees and prayed for the sun to shine on our wedding day. I think I may have even crossed myself (which I think is a sin if you’re not Catholic.) When we woke up in the morning, I felt the sun shining on my eyes before I opened them. And it was as if I never doubted it would.
So 33 then? 33 and all-downhill after that? Maybe this will be the one that sticks. It’s a double digit. A nice-looking number. It’s a third of my life (if all the rumors about red wine and antioxidants making us live to be 99 are true.)
These days, I’m staring 35 in the face and thinking yep. 33. That was it. Doesn’t get any better than that. Of course, just yesterday I was sitting on the sofa next to the instantly loveable husband, who put his arm around me as I pet my dog whose fur is as soft and delicate as a dandelion you can blow on. That was pretty good, too. If that’s on the downhill, maybe it’s not going to be such a bad ride.
Wednesday, November 05, 2008
The Change We Seek
There was cheering, actual cheering in the streets at 11:01pm EST when the words “President Elect Obama” appeared on screens in homes across America. In Boston, it looked like the Red Sox had won another World Series. How proud I felt that finally my sport (politics) received the same kind of lavish celebration. A tear touched my check when I heard a car had been overturned in Brooklyn.
We deserve to be celebrating, feeling proud to be Americans, overjoyed that we have gone from enslaving African Americans to electing one our President in just 150 years.
Last night was powerful. And Barack Obama is a transformational figure for sure. But most powerful of all is the realization that it was not Barack Obama creating this change. It was us.
I was skeptical when Hillary and Barack both latched on to the word “Change” as a campaign theme. Those six letters fit nicely on a lawn sign, but “change” is not really an ideology to get behind…change into what? It’s the political equivalent of my favorite bumper sticker: “Anyone but this guy.”
But as the debates, speeches, interviews and SNL sketches made clear, things in America have gone so wrong that it’s funny. Without knowing how long or how far we’d been falling, we landed here. Here, the place and time where simply pointing out the need to do something (anything!) but what we have been doing for the last 8 years takes a certain amount of courage. Asking for change becomes a bold statement.
After the Primaries, I realized the c word (the nice one) wasn’t going away. John McCain jumped on the Change-wagon as well. “Yeah. Change. What they said.” He realized a while back that he better get on board, and that it was probably already too late. You could tell when he gave his concession speech that he’d been practicing it—a lot. Probably for about 7 months.
When I think of McCain’s campaign and the state of the country over the last 8 years, I think of another charming aphorism: “When you realize you’re in a hole, stop digging.” Maybe we needed someone as articulate as Barack Obama to very eloquently tell us, “Hey Jackasses! Stop digging.”
Actually he phrased it more like this…“We are the change we seek in the world.” He’s one smart man. He seemed to get it long before the rest of us did. And that’s possibly the greatest gift Obama gave us…the courage to change the things we can.
The last 20 months weren’t easy, but we survived it. The grunting frat boy chants of “USA.” The crazy white haired lady who picked 400 random Floridians out of the phone book and sent them letters telling them that Obama is an A-rab. (Classy.) And empassioned statements that don’t actually mean anything (like Joe the Plumber’s outrage at his tax hike when we later discover he’s neither a plumber, nor will he receive a tax hike).
No one knows what the right answer is, but finally more than 50% of the country realized that this ain’t it. It’s like we all took one of those V8 juice smacks in the head….Ohhhh. We coulda’ had change. And now, we will.
As we continue to heal from the paralysis of fear after 9/11, we are finally, joyfully, taking our first wobbly steps toward the America we all just realized was still there.
We deserve to be celebrating, feeling proud to be Americans, overjoyed that we have gone from enslaving African Americans to electing one our President in just 150 years.
Last night was powerful. And Barack Obama is a transformational figure for sure. But most powerful of all is the realization that it was not Barack Obama creating this change. It was us.
I was skeptical when Hillary and Barack both latched on to the word “Change” as a campaign theme. Those six letters fit nicely on a lawn sign, but “change” is not really an ideology to get behind…change into what? It’s the political equivalent of my favorite bumper sticker: “Anyone but this guy.”
But as the debates, speeches, interviews and SNL sketches made clear, things in America have gone so wrong that it’s funny. Without knowing how long or how far we’d been falling, we landed here. Here, the place and time where simply pointing out the need to do something (anything!) but what we have been doing for the last 8 years takes a certain amount of courage. Asking for change becomes a bold statement.
After the Primaries, I realized the c word (the nice one) wasn’t going away. John McCain jumped on the Change-wagon as well. “Yeah. Change. What they said.” He realized a while back that he better get on board, and that it was probably already too late. You could tell when he gave his concession speech that he’d been practicing it—a lot. Probably for about 7 months.
When I think of McCain’s campaign and the state of the country over the last 8 years, I think of another charming aphorism: “When you realize you’re in a hole, stop digging.” Maybe we needed someone as articulate as Barack Obama to very eloquently tell us, “Hey Jackasses! Stop digging.”
Actually he phrased it more like this…“We are the change we seek in the world.” He’s one smart man. He seemed to get it long before the rest of us did. And that’s possibly the greatest gift Obama gave us…the courage to change the things we can.
The last 20 months weren’t easy, but we survived it. The grunting frat boy chants of “USA.” The crazy white haired lady who picked 400 random Floridians out of the phone book and sent them letters telling them that Obama is an A-rab. (Classy.) And empassioned statements that don’t actually mean anything (like Joe the Plumber’s outrage at his tax hike when we later discover he’s neither a plumber, nor will he receive a tax hike).
No one knows what the right answer is, but finally more than 50% of the country realized that this ain’t it. It’s like we all took one of those V8 juice smacks in the head….Ohhhh. We coulda’ had change. And now, we will.
As we continue to heal from the paralysis of fear after 9/11, we are finally, joyfully, taking our first wobbly steps toward the America we all just realized was still there.
Monday, April 07, 2008
Men are Dogs.
Looking at him, laying there asleep on the couch in front of the TV, snoring, I am reminded that my dog is indeed—a man. Another species, yes, but I believe gender roles transcend species. Sometimes he looks at me, and I swear he is thinking that I talk too much. The moment I come home, I can see the question in his eyes, the question no man of the 21st century dare speak…”Where’s my dinner?” While Rusty was chasing cats, inhaling rawhide bones, and peeing on everything in sight, the sexual revolution came and went. Every day I take him out for walks. Has he once offered to take me anywhere? Nope. I buy him expensive toys. Have I ever returned home to find him clutching a dozen roses in his teeth. Of course not. I look in his eyes and see how he views me. I’m a cook, a maid, a personal assistant. Certainly not an equal partner in this life we share. No wonder man is a dog’s best friend. I am coming to realize they have everything in common.
Thursday, April 03, 2008
Pre-Presidential Syndrome
Some men say they can’t trust a woman president because she could get PMS, go psycho and push the button. That’s ridiculous. We don’t want to kill everybody when we have PMS. Just men.
Friday, May 18, 2007
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Laughing Liberally Boston, 1/17
Hey Y'all,
We've convinced the Laughing Liberally folks to let us start a spin-off version in Boston. If all goes well at this show, we're hoping to hold one once a month. So tell your friends, cause we need to pack the house!
Laughing Liberally @ The Comedy Studio
8pm
Mass. Ave. in Harvard Sq.
Check thecomedystudio.com for more info.
We've convinced the Laughing Liberally folks to let us start a spin-off version in Boston. If all goes well at this show, we're hoping to hold one once a month. So tell your friends, cause we need to pack the house!
Laughing Liberally @ The Comedy Studio
8pm
Mass. Ave. in Harvard Sq.
Check thecomedystudio.com for more info.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Happy Birthday, Jesus. Now cut the crap.
Dear Jesus,
I know your birthday is coming up so I feel compelled to mention something that’s been bothering me for a long time. This whole Christmas thing…it’s a little self-indulgent, don’t you think? I mean, I know your birthday is special to you, but does the WHOLE WORLD have to celebrate it? I swear. Paris Hilton’s four 21st birthday parties in one weekend seem tastefully appropriate when compared to the month-long Bacchanalia surrounding your big day. Okay, you were a great man in life and a savior in death…I get it. You rose from the dead. Yes, it’s amazing. But come on. It’s two days after Halloween and already CVS is asking me to start decorating for your birthday party. And it’s a birth-DAY, Jesus. Not a birth-MONTH. I’m just asking for a little maturity and some of that putting others before yourself stuff you’re so famous for. Thanks.
Yours truly,
Mandy
P.S. I still love you. Please don’t send me to hell.
I know your birthday is coming up so I feel compelled to mention something that’s been bothering me for a long time. This whole Christmas thing…it’s a little self-indulgent, don’t you think? I mean, I know your birthday is special to you, but does the WHOLE WORLD have to celebrate it? I swear. Paris Hilton’s four 21st birthday parties in one weekend seem tastefully appropriate when compared to the month-long Bacchanalia surrounding your big day. Okay, you were a great man in life and a savior in death…I get it. You rose from the dead. Yes, it’s amazing. But come on. It’s two days after Halloween and already CVS is asking me to start decorating for your birthday party. And it’s a birth-DAY, Jesus. Not a birth-MONTH. I’m just asking for a little maturity and some of that putting others before yourself stuff you’re so famous for. Thanks.
Yours truly,
Mandy
P.S. I still love you. Please don’t send me to hell.
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Comedy Updates
Come out to see me if you can...
November 20, Laughing Liberally in NYC
45th St. Theater
Liberals get their groove on with dinner and a show, starring me w/Julie Goldman, from Rosie O produced The Big Gay Show
and Sam Seder from Air America Radio!
November 26, Comedy Connection, Boston
in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace
7pm, $15 w/ 2 drink min.
National headliners perform here and when they're booked, I do!
November 29, The Comedy Studio, Cambridge
Harvard Sq, 3rd floor above Hong Kong Restaurant
8pm, $9
This is the best show in town, fresh, funny, provacative and liberal!
November 20, Laughing Liberally in NYC
45th St. Theater
Liberals get their groove on with dinner and a show, starring me w/Julie Goldman, from Rosie O produced The Big Gay Show
and Sam Seder from Air America Radio!
November 26, Comedy Connection, Boston
in the Faneuil Hall Marketplace
7pm, $15 w/ 2 drink min.
National headliners perform here and when they're booked, I do!
November 29, The Comedy Studio, Cambridge
Harvard Sq, 3rd floor above Hong Kong Restaurant
8pm, $9
This is the best show in town, fresh, funny, provacative and liberal!
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Walmart Wine
Walmart has come out with $2 wine. I have written some taglines for them.
Walmart Wine. For the classiest trailers in the park.
Walmart Wine. Finally, a wine just for the homeless!
Walmart Wine. Treat your hooker to something special.
Walmart Wine. It’s vinegar that gets you drunk!
Walmart Wine. Available in red and white trash.
Walmart Wine. The casual alternative to boxed wine.
Walmart Wine. Use your loose change to get drunk!
Walmart Wine. Works great as a weapon if you’re getting date-raped.
Walmart Wine. Make a toast to welfare.
Walmart Wine. This is how memories are made…in the shelter.
Walmart Wine. The best nights start with Walmart wine and end in a pool of vomit.
Walmart Wine. For the price of adopting an Indonesian child, you can get drunk.
Walmart Wine. The taste of America.
Walmart Wine. For the classiest trailers in the park.
Walmart Wine. Finally, a wine just for the homeless!
Walmart Wine. Treat your hooker to something special.
Walmart Wine. It’s vinegar that gets you drunk!
Walmart Wine. Available in red and white trash.
Walmart Wine. The casual alternative to boxed wine.
Walmart Wine. Use your loose change to get drunk!
Walmart Wine. Works great as a weapon if you’re getting date-raped.
Walmart Wine. Make a toast to welfare.
Walmart Wine. This is how memories are made…in the shelter.
Walmart Wine. The best nights start with Walmart wine and end in a pool of vomit.
Walmart Wine. For the price of adopting an Indonesian child, you can get drunk.
Walmart Wine. The taste of America.
Tuesday, October 31, 2006
The REAL meaning of Halloween.
This is the first year I've had friends with kids dressing up in cutesy Halloween costumes. The parents probably love it more than the babies, but the toddlers and older kids really seem to have a blast. I realize now that Halloween is not all about dressing like a slutty witch, getting trashed and hooking up with a guy in a hockey mask who you call Jason because you can't remember his real name. That's what Halloween means to me. But this year, it started to mean something more. Now it also means putting a baby in a cow costume and trying desperately to get her to say Moo. Now that's fun.
Sunday, October 29, 2006
I won!
Last night I won a comedy contest! Okay, last night I had a dream that I won a comedy contest. I don't care. I'm putting it on my resume!
Monday, August 21, 2006
FALL COMEDY CALENDAR
Come check me out at one of these reputable establishments.
Mandy's Calendar
Sept 30 6:00P
Gotham Comedy Club, 23rd + 8th in NYC
Oct 7 7:00P
Comedy Central Showcase
The Laugh Lounge, 151 Essex St. @ Stanton, NYC
Oct 14 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq, Cambridge
Oct 15 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Oct 27 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Oct 30 8:00P
The Comedy Connection @ Faneuil Hall Boston, MA
Nov 16 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Nov 18 8:00P
Mt. Holyoke College
Nov. 26 7:00P
The Comedy Connection @ Faneuil Hall Boston, MA
Nov. 29 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Mandy's Calendar
Sept 30 6:00P
Gotham Comedy Club, 23rd + 8th in NYC
Oct 7 7:00P
Comedy Central Showcase
The Laugh Lounge, 151 Essex St. @ Stanton, NYC
Oct 14 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq, Cambridge
Oct 15 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Oct 27 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Oct 30 8:00P
The Comedy Connection @ Faneuil Hall Boston, MA
Nov 16 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Nov 18 8:00P
Mt. Holyoke College
Nov. 26 7:00P
The Comedy Connection @ Faneuil Hall Boston, MA
Nov. 29 8:00P
The Comedy Studio @ Harvard Sq. Cambridge
Friday, August 18, 2006
My Dream Gig
I’m behind the curtain of a very tiny stage at the First Baptist Church in Medford, Massachusetts, about to perform stand-up comedy at a church fundraiser / variety show. And If I ever felt like a star, I’m a long way from that feeling right now.
“Variety show” is a kind word for this hodgepodge of theater, music and excruciatingly awkward pauses. I am the opening act, followed by Debbie Dooley — a rhythmically-challenged, 12-year old tap dancer; the Pacemakers — four 80-year old jazz musicians who are all off synch, probably because they’re following the beat of they’re own pacemakers, and Mrs. O'Reilly — the Pastor’s wife, who can play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” by blowing across the tops of partially-filled bottles.
And that’s just the top 3. The other performances I can’t explain without diagrams.
A woman I barely know asked me to perform and since I have a speech impediment that makes it impossible to utter the word no, I said yes. I did not realize that I would be performing with the cast of Waiting For Guffman, complete with an all-cast sign along of Give My Regards to Broadway (which I haven’t sung since 6th grade music class and my performance has clearly suffered over time.)
So here I am. Hanging out behind the curtain with Dot. Dot’s job is walk out on stage, holding up signs that say “Cheer and Clap”, “Quiet Please”, and “Sigh.” I tell her to get the “Laugh” sign ready in case this senior citizen crowd doesn’t get my jokes about Internet dating or how I secretly think my boyfriend may be gay. Dot laughs and says, “I’ve never been to a comedy show, but my daughter has once.” I wonder if I’ve entered an alternate universe.
I’m only ten miles from Harvard Square but feel like I must have taken a wrong turn at Mass. Ave. and wound up stumbling down a wormhole, transcending time and space to land at a similar church variety show, but in Davenport, Iowa, 1952. I look down at my notes and cross of the gay boyfriend joke.
When Fred, Dot’s husband, introduces me as a “lovely lady from Sum-ah-vull” his Cliff Clavin accent jolts me back to the suburbs of Beantown, 2003. I realize I haven’t slipped down a wormhole, only my career has.
I decide I’m going to be as professional as possible, despite the girl with braces tap dancing in the back hallway, despite the Pacemakers inability to play as a group, and despite Dot smiling at me, ready with her cheesy signs.
I walk out onto the stage, pretending I’m in front of a packed house at Carnegie Hall…no Madison Square Garden! And I realize: It’s Saturday night, these people probably haven’t been out of the house since the big liquidation sale at BJ’s, and they actually believe I’m a professional comedian. And you know what? These God-fearing, Christian shut-ins deserve a good show! And by golly, I am proud and honored to do my very best to give it to them!
And if anybody asks what I did Saturday night, I was at the movies.
“Variety show” is a kind word for this hodgepodge of theater, music and excruciatingly awkward pauses. I am the opening act, followed by Debbie Dooley — a rhythmically-challenged, 12-year old tap dancer; the Pacemakers — four 80-year old jazz musicians who are all off synch, probably because they’re following the beat of they’re own pacemakers, and Mrs. O'Reilly — the Pastor’s wife, who can play “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” by blowing across the tops of partially-filled bottles.
And that’s just the top 3. The other performances I can’t explain without diagrams.
A woman I barely know asked me to perform and since I have a speech impediment that makes it impossible to utter the word no, I said yes. I did not realize that I would be performing with the cast of Waiting For Guffman, complete with an all-cast sign along of Give My Regards to Broadway (which I haven’t sung since 6th grade music class and my performance has clearly suffered over time.)
So here I am. Hanging out behind the curtain with Dot. Dot’s job is walk out on stage, holding up signs that say “Cheer and Clap”, “Quiet Please”, and “Sigh.” I tell her to get the “Laugh” sign ready in case this senior citizen crowd doesn’t get my jokes about Internet dating or how I secretly think my boyfriend may be gay. Dot laughs and says, “I’ve never been to a comedy show, but my daughter has once.” I wonder if I’ve entered an alternate universe.
I’m only ten miles from Harvard Square but feel like I must have taken a wrong turn at Mass. Ave. and wound up stumbling down a wormhole, transcending time and space to land at a similar church variety show, but in Davenport, Iowa, 1952. I look down at my notes and cross of the gay boyfriend joke.
When Fred, Dot’s husband, introduces me as a “lovely lady from Sum-ah-vull” his Cliff Clavin accent jolts me back to the suburbs of Beantown, 2003. I realize I haven’t slipped down a wormhole, only my career has.
I decide I’m going to be as professional as possible, despite the girl with braces tap dancing in the back hallway, despite the Pacemakers inability to play as a group, and despite Dot smiling at me, ready with her cheesy signs.
I walk out onto the stage, pretending I’m in front of a packed house at Carnegie Hall…no Madison Square Garden! And I realize: It’s Saturday night, these people probably haven’t been out of the house since the big liquidation sale at BJ’s, and they actually believe I’m a professional comedian. And you know what? These God-fearing, Christian shut-ins deserve a good show! And by golly, I am proud and honored to do my very best to give it to them!
And if anybody asks what I did Saturday night, I was at the movies.
Laugh Lounge 9/1
New Yorkers: Come check me out at the Laugh Lounge. You'll snarf your two drink minimum.
September 1, 7pm
Laugh Lounge NYC
151 Essex St, New York, NY 10002
$12 after 6:45, $10 if you show up early
For Reservations call 212-614-2500
September 1, 7pm
Laugh Lounge NYC
151 Essex St, New York, NY 10002
$12 after 6:45, $10 if you show up early
For Reservations call 212-614-2500
Mr. Lee
Mr. Lee is my downstairs neighbor. He's weird. Not in any clinical, diagnosable way, just your general weird.
At least once a month, at about 11:30pm, my roommates and I can hear him moving furniture around downstairs. It sounds like he's pushing dressers and barcaloungers across the room to see where they look best, and then pushing everything back to its original position, for no reason whatsoever.
Sometimes he's out in the yard with a leaf blower, ferreting out errant leaves from his garden. I realize the desire to beautify one's lawn is not strange behavior in and of itself. However, Mr. Lee is usually struck with the hankering to do yard work at midnight on a Tuesday. And it doesnt even matter whether or not it's fall. We've heard him out there in late May, blowing petals off flowers. Why? Who the hell knows?
See? Weird.
Mr. Lee has a Korean accent so strong we can hardly understand a thing he says. Usually we just say, Hi, Mr. Lee, and rush into the house.
He's about 52, plump, and bald. Oddly, he likes to ride motorcycles.
The other morning he started up his hog at 8:15 am. It was Sunday. I love Sunday mornings, reading the paper, lazily drinking coffee, not showering. I dont like being woken up by the sound of the little Lee-man in his skin-tight leather jumpsuit revving up his Harley Davidson Road King for a nice long ride.
In fact, I dont even want to picture it.
I discovered Mr. Lee had a drinking problem one summer night when I was meandering up the walkway to our shared duplex and heard a bottle roll off the porch and smash onto the ground. As I got to the top of the steps I saw him sprawled on a beach chair wearing only a pair of shorts. It might have been acceptable if it was the middle of the day and the sun was out, or if he had a nice bod. But it was midnight, and ew.
Plus, he was singing. Slurry, sloppy lyrics, but I could make them out. "You got to know when to hor em, know when to for em." The Gambler. Oh no. You killed Kenny.
Clearly, you got to know when to walk away and know when to run.
As I hurried into the house, I knew things from then on would be different between us. He would likely be embarrassed that I'd seen him drunk, half-dressed, and way off-key. Plus, the vision of his round, hairless torso had been involuntarily hard-wired into my cerebral cortex, and I glimpsed a great deal of dry heaving in my future.
That night I had a nightmare. A complete music video. Mr. Lee, topless, slow-dancing in our front yard air humping his leaf blower and singing the Gambler. Then he jumps on his Harley and tears off down our street. But first, he winks at me. Ew.
Which brings me to the ultimate purpose of this missive. Great one bedroom apartment available in Davis Square. Rent negotiable. Please call Mandy. As soon as possible. 617-616-8792.
At least once a month, at about 11:30pm, my roommates and I can hear him moving furniture around downstairs. It sounds like he's pushing dressers and barcaloungers across the room to see where they look best, and then pushing everything back to its original position, for no reason whatsoever.
Sometimes he's out in the yard with a leaf blower, ferreting out errant leaves from his garden. I realize the desire to beautify one's lawn is not strange behavior in and of itself. However, Mr. Lee is usually struck with the hankering to do yard work at midnight on a Tuesday. And it doesnt even matter whether or not it's fall. We've heard him out there in late May, blowing petals off flowers. Why? Who the hell knows?
See? Weird.
Mr. Lee has a Korean accent so strong we can hardly understand a thing he says. Usually we just say, Hi, Mr. Lee, and rush into the house.
He's about 52, plump, and bald. Oddly, he likes to ride motorcycles.
The other morning he started up his hog at 8:15 am. It was Sunday. I love Sunday mornings, reading the paper, lazily drinking coffee, not showering. I dont like being woken up by the sound of the little Lee-man in his skin-tight leather jumpsuit revving up his Harley Davidson Road King for a nice long ride.
In fact, I dont even want to picture it.
I discovered Mr. Lee had a drinking problem one summer night when I was meandering up the walkway to our shared duplex and heard a bottle roll off the porch and smash onto the ground. As I got to the top of the steps I saw him sprawled on a beach chair wearing only a pair of shorts. It might have been acceptable if it was the middle of the day and the sun was out, or if he had a nice bod. But it was midnight, and ew.
Plus, he was singing. Slurry, sloppy lyrics, but I could make them out. "You got to know when to hor em, know when to for em." The Gambler. Oh no. You killed Kenny.
Clearly, you got to know when to walk away and know when to run.
As I hurried into the house, I knew things from then on would be different between us. He would likely be embarrassed that I'd seen him drunk, half-dressed, and way off-key. Plus, the vision of his round, hairless torso had been involuntarily hard-wired into my cerebral cortex, and I glimpsed a great deal of dry heaving in my future.
That night I had a nightmare. A complete music video. Mr. Lee, topless, slow-dancing in our front yard air humping his leaf blower and singing the Gambler. Then he jumps on his Harley and tears off down our street. But first, he winks at me. Ew.
Which brings me to the ultimate purpose of this missive. Great one bedroom apartment available in Davis Square. Rent negotiable. Please call Mandy. As soon as possible. 617-616-8792.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Random joke
Okay, I think this is really funny, but it just doesn't fit into my act. Comments?
I bet if Thomas Edison knew that everyone thought sliced bread was the best invention ever, he’d be like: “This is bullshit!” Try slicing bread in the dark, assholes!!!
I bet if Thomas Edison knew that everyone thought sliced bread was the best invention ever, he’d be like: “This is bullshit!” Try slicing bread in the dark, assholes!!!
Thursday, July 06, 2006
The Great Fluffernutter Debate!
As July 4th passes, I’m reminded of the great minds who debated the laws that govern us today. Madison, Hamilton, Lincoln and Douglas. The empassioned quarrels over slavery, the purpose and purview of government, the inalienable rights of man. Powerful stuff.
Today, in Massachusetts— cradle of liberty— the debate has turned to Fluff.
The Great Fluffernutter Debate of 2006 got whipped into a goey mess when Sen. Jarrett Barrios, D-Cambridge, introduced legislation to ban Marshmallow Fluff from being served in school cafeterias after his son, a third-grader, made the mistake of telling his Dad all about the gooey indulgence he ate at school one day.
Then, Rep. Kathi-Anne Reinstein (hard at work for the town of Revere) decided to counter the Fluff-cott, instead proposing the Fluffernutter be named: the Official Sandwich of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. A high honor indeed.
Now, put aside your fears of whether or not Fluff will be able to fulfill the challenging duties of State Sandwich, and if not, which sandwich will rise up to take its place (the Monte Cristo, perhaps?) For now, let’s just focus on the thrilling interplay of state government.
Rep. Reinstein wrote a letter to fellow lawmakers today, urging fluff supporters to gather from far and wide:
“Dear Colleagues,
“I will be filing legislation to make the Fluffernutter the official sandwich of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I believe we need to preserve the legacy of this local delicacy. I invite you to sign on to this legislation by Friday, June 23, 2006 at 12 noon.
“FYI: Fluff contains no fat, and is one point on the Weight Watchers diet program. According to the Fluff website, there are no artificial preservatives, stabilizers, emulsifiers, or colorings in Marshmallow Fluff.
“I have included a link which will hopefully provide more information on this nutritious treat.
“http://www.marshmallowfluff.com/pages/fluffernutter.html
“Thanks for your consideration in this important matter.”
The last line is the funniest. We’ve got 150,000 troops in Iraq, polar bears stranded on melting icebergs, and $3 a gallon gas. And the fluffernutter is an important matter?
Correction: it would be funny if it wasn’t so infernally enraging. Please, stop wasting our time. Stop wasting our money. Stop goofing around and start governing.
“I’m going to fight to the death for Fluff,” Reinstein told The Associated Press.
Wow, that’s a slap in the face to the last soldier from Massachusetts who died fighting the “War on Terror” in Iraq. If anyone knows about fighting to the death for fluff, it’s him.
We can’t really blame Senator Barrios, this whole debacle started out with a legitimate concern: the nutritional value of the food served in public schools. Of course, now, we find Barrios mired in the sticky muck himself, backpedaling to appease the Fluff-noscenti.
“He loves Fluff as much as the next legislator,” aide Colin Durrant said.
Come on! Does political correctness really prevent us from insulting whipped marshmallow topping? Who, exactly, is the Senator concerned about offending? Fans of Fluff? Is this a significant portion of the electorate?
With childhood obesity out of control, I believe removing the Fluffernutter from school lunch menus is probably a good idea. Fact: marshmallow fluff is not a nutritious meal. It’s technically not even food!
What I don’t understand is why can’t this much energy be focused on removing the fluff from our school curricula?
Opposing Fluff is silly, defending Fluff is idiotic, but the amount of time and money our elected representatives have whipped it into mallow over this is despicable.
Today, in Massachusetts— cradle of liberty— the debate has turned to Fluff.
The Great Fluffernutter Debate of 2006 got whipped into a goey mess when Sen. Jarrett Barrios, D-Cambridge, introduced legislation to ban Marshmallow Fluff from being served in school cafeterias after his son, a third-grader, made the mistake of telling his Dad all about the gooey indulgence he ate at school one day.
Then, Rep. Kathi-Anne Reinstein (hard at work for the town of Revere) decided to counter the Fluff-cott, instead proposing the Fluffernutter be named: the Official Sandwich of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. A high honor indeed.
Now, put aside your fears of whether or not Fluff will be able to fulfill the challenging duties of State Sandwich, and if not, which sandwich will rise up to take its place (the Monte Cristo, perhaps?) For now, let’s just focus on the thrilling interplay of state government.
Rep. Reinstein wrote a letter to fellow lawmakers today, urging fluff supporters to gather from far and wide:
“Dear Colleagues,
“I will be filing legislation to make the Fluffernutter the official sandwich of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. I believe we need to preserve the legacy of this local delicacy. I invite you to sign on to this legislation by Friday, June 23, 2006 at 12 noon.
“FYI: Fluff contains no fat, and is one point on the Weight Watchers diet program. According to the Fluff website, there are no artificial preservatives, stabilizers, emulsifiers, or colorings in Marshmallow Fluff.
“I have included a link which will hopefully provide more information on this nutritious treat.
“http://www.marshmallowfluff.com/pages/fluffernutter.html
“Thanks for your consideration in this important matter.”
The last line is the funniest. We’ve got 150,000 troops in Iraq, polar bears stranded on melting icebergs, and $3 a gallon gas. And the fluffernutter is an important matter?
Correction: it would be funny if it wasn’t so infernally enraging. Please, stop wasting our time. Stop wasting our money. Stop goofing around and start governing.
“I’m going to fight to the death for Fluff,” Reinstein told The Associated Press.
Wow, that’s a slap in the face to the last soldier from Massachusetts who died fighting the “War on Terror” in Iraq. If anyone knows about fighting to the death for fluff, it’s him.
We can’t really blame Senator Barrios, this whole debacle started out with a legitimate concern: the nutritional value of the food served in public schools. Of course, now, we find Barrios mired in the sticky muck himself, backpedaling to appease the Fluff-noscenti.
“He loves Fluff as much as the next legislator,” aide Colin Durrant said.
Come on! Does political correctness really prevent us from insulting whipped marshmallow topping? Who, exactly, is the Senator concerned about offending? Fans of Fluff? Is this a significant portion of the electorate?
With childhood obesity out of control, I believe removing the Fluffernutter from school lunch menus is probably a good idea. Fact: marshmallow fluff is not a nutritious meal. It’s technically not even food!
What I don’t understand is why can’t this much energy be focused on removing the fluff from our school curricula?
Opposing Fluff is silly, defending Fluff is idiotic, but the amount of time and money our elected representatives have whipped it into mallow over this is despicable.
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