"Blessing In Disguise"

Shut the fuck up.

Seriously, this nonsense makes a person going through some shit get even crazier. It is the opposite of empathy, and it minimizes the gravity of ones situation.

I seriously hate this phrase. I can't even begin to emphasize this enough.

Seriously. Seriously. Seriously.

The thing that really frosts my cookies about it is that it negates that the thing that has happened is awful. Just because you might end up in a better place eventually does not mean that this horrible thing was not horrible. Also, if the horrible thing did not occur, that just means that your life is blessed already without the trouble of dealing with a complete bullshit situation.

If this post oozes of frustration and bitterness, my point has been made.

On another note, how hilarious would it be to see like a personified blessing wearing a pair of fake glasses with bushy eyebrows and a big nose? It would be incredibly hilarious is the correct answer.

"An apple a day keeps the doctor away."

Apples, doctors, health?

Please. That's almost as true as the Cosmopolitan magazine theory that eating a yogurt a day keeps yeast infections away. That is to say, it's not true.

Looking back on the reason for this treason, I've considered a few things. The most apt theory implies that apples must not have tasted good when they first became a regular on the kid menu. Such that, mothers everywhere banned together to make up some ridiculous rhyme to get them into bellies.

Rhymes are the first sign that something is askew. Take for example this ditty I just made up: "A mushroom a week will give you a great physique." Maybe if that's the only thing you ate, but mushrooms alone have the potential to make you cracked out of your gourd.

If anything, carry away just this one thing: just because it's a rhyme doesn't mean it's accurate.

Another perfect example: "Hang your clothes up, and I'll get you a pup." Boy, I'm not getting you a dog, even if you hang up my clothes too.

Rhymes are the devils delight. That's a fact.

Out of Breath

If you're reading this, you're alive. You did it! Don't give me this ear full saying you've had enough. Enough life. I told an 80-year-old that I didn't want to live til I was 80. I immediately regretted saying it as it poured out of my regretful face. This woman is so full of life, of breath, air. Sure, every time I see her she's showing some more gums and less teeth, but she's chill.

Every day I see her at work and think, no, you're not out of breath until your body is decomposing in the ground. Out of breath is the same as without breath. So, as long as you're "with it," you have it. The key is to skip wasting it.

"candy, beer, chips and snacks -- that's what makes the tummy fat."

This saying is not in widespread use, BUT IT SHOULD BE. Perhaps the new slogan for Michelle Obama's War on Fat Middle Schoolers? I could see it. A beautifully toned-armed-MO standing beneath a plastic banner, while kids whose parents claim "haven't grown into their bodies" let this non-rhyming life advice sink in.

For nearly 26 years, though I've only paid attention for the last 10, my father has repeated this sentiment time and again. Of course, he's the same turd buying Sara Lee premade cakes and cookies that, while they don't even taste good, you eat because they're still cookies, and they're there, so they're adequate.

There's no ifs, ands, or buts, candy, beer, chips and snacks make the tummy fat. Even if you're a high-metabolism-having-14-year-old boy, eventually those tasty treats will not only bite you in the ass, but create one. And not the good, taut booties coveted by JLo and Beyonce, but rather the rippled messes trailing behind unhappy teachers. Michelle gets it.

"Candy, beer, chips and snacks 2012!"

"It's all in your head."

I spend a great deal of time pouring over The New York Times, CNN, Variety, E!, and basically anything that streams on NPR. Perhaps it's my journalistic inclination to question the world and soak in the news as it's the very vehicle that is for both questioning and answering.

A few weeks ago I spent a great deal of time reading and rereading "What Happened to the Girls in Le Roy," an article published March 7, in the New York  Times.

My favorite part of the piece was a comment by a woman whose daughter was diagnosed with a sort of "hysteria of tics" brought on by stress. She essentially said, "What is this, the 70s?" referring to the years and years where "women's diseases" were prevalent, ranging from Post-Partum to other confidence-surrending ailments.

This article brought back into the public eye this "female disease," but now it's news because it's so out of the ordinary, when back in the day stress sicknesses were buried in psychotherapy appointments. We've all seen Betty Draper on Madmen detail her housewife problems to her therapist, and the subsequent need for attention.To her credit, she was married to a liar. I love Don Draper as a character, but men in the '60s, no thank you.

The notion that your body can manifest a physical ramification of something your mind can't deal with really freaks me out. It's not all in your head once the first crack in the glass creeps through, gradually shattering the facade. So, no, it's not all in your head. Usually when you feel like someone dislikes you, or this that or the other, you're not wrong. You may have blown it out of proportion, sure, but that doesn't make it any less real.

Now is the winter of our discontent

"Discontent is the first necessity of progress."-T. Edison

The downfall of one person is the upswing of another. In Mark Zuckerberg's case, his billionaire status has cost the world hours upon ours of wasting time in front of their Facebook accounts. We're comparing and contrasting ourselves against one another. Looking at the status updates of our "bestfriends" and wondering, "Why wasn't I invited to that A, B or C!?" 


I've spent 365 dicking around on Facebook. On Twitter. Even on LinkedIn. That's when you know there's a problem.


The last sketch I wrote was nearly six months ago. What the fuck is wrong with me? This notion that things just happen. That life takes the reins for a second and you can just sit back licking a snowcone — that's what's wrong with our Facebook nation.


So, here it is. Discontent is on the rise. And thank God. Or Thomas Edison. 


Let's make way for progress.

There's a method to my madness

I'd say check out serial killers if you want to see what fucked up looks like.

But, if you'd like to get down to semantics then there's another story here. Madness implies chaos. It implies a sense of "I-don't-know-what's-happening,-but-it's-happening.-Ahh!-I'm-the-Hulk-now"-sort of mayhem only read about in graphic novels and women's self-help books.


The truth is, it's not madness if there's a method. It's all right there in the sentence, friends.

That said, rage, rage, rage, rage, rage, slam poetry, rage, rage, rage.

Say I'm pretty. Now.

You Can't Have Ice-Cream for Breakfast

Peanut Butter Cup, Cherry Garcia, Mint Chocolate Chip, Cookie Dough, Double Chocolate Brownie Fudge, Sherbet — these aren't good for you at 5pm. They aren't good for you ever. They're good though. So very good.

Why not start your day off "good."

9am — 1/2 cup of Ben & Jerry's. Sounds right, doesn't it? Just put some gummy bears on the side, and you've got yourself the best start to the day. No eggs necessary.

"Cleveland Rocks"

We've all seen it:


Drew Carey Show

We know it:
"I'll move to Cleveland, the day you get that IKEA."
http://www.imdb.com/video/hulu/vi2380267545/
30 Rock

I'm pretty sure that the 2000s got it right. The 90s are out, Carey.

Cleveland does not rock. We're with you Lemon.

dear bike riding.

you are a formidable way to get exercise without paying a gym membership fee.

however. you are not free. nay. you cost my body both time and money. the chiropractor wasn't working out. $250 down the drain. the very cost of a bicycle, upwards of a hundo. a bike light. stolen. or lost. whichever. doesn't matter. fifteen bones cast to the wind.

while you're still the best mode of transport this side of a flat earth, you are no easy feat.

spring, i welcome you. riding will be better. it gets better.

dear nora

My best friend Nora Ephron and I have spent the better part of a week together. It's always fun when a friend arrives from out of town to visit. But I do feel awful that I've been so busy with work and shows. And, yes, of course she understands. What sort of bestie wouldn't? But, what sort of bestie would I be if I didn't feel bad?

I read her book, "I Remember Nothing," and I laughed a lot. But sort of that inwards laugh, that stifled comedian laugh, where I'm jealous that you made my body incapable of resisting reaction. The sort of laughter that a best friend can instigate, one that I wished I could in her.

I'm sure anyone can gather when you have a best friend of such esteem, it's hard to be in the shadow. But, alas, I suppose I understand now how she must have felt with her old best friend, Lillian Helm. I'm jealous of her relationship with Lil as well, I must admit.

It's not fair though. Oh well. I still love her. Even though we're unreciprocated bestfriends.

hiatus

also. sorry for the hiatus. this is directed mostly at my friend rebecca and brother kevin who keep bugging me to write.

If you're 5 feet or below, you're a midget.

This doesn't even make sense, guys. I mean, sure. You're short. Sure, you're petite. — But are you disproportionate? If the answer is no, then you're not a legal midget. I might also add that midget is actually a perjorative term, so maybe say something else.

Acceptable terms include: little person and dwarf. I know, I'm a little surprised too. Those seem worse.

According to Wikipedia, a midget is sometimes described as someone below the height of 4'10. Whew. Just made it.

Inspiration is Creation

Quite the tight rope to walk.

But, alas, we walk it.

Inspiration is what needs to be defined here. Inspiration has the potential to come from even the smallest molecule of energy, thought, or theory. It doesn't have to be one kick in the bum. It's the act of creation that should be inspiration to others that they too must be creators. If you're not creating anything, then you're just taking stock of other people's pasture. It might just be a sad attempt at emulating the vastness of being God, but it's all there is. So, keep doing what you're doing, and at the end of the day, even if your sandcastle fades with the skyline, the memory remains. That's one more point for humanity.

Some people are simply destined for greatness.

--Reading Christopher Buckley's "Losing Mum and Pup," and realizing this sentence is irrefutably true.

One thing is for sure, however, if you live your life in a way that suspends the thought of failure, notice will be taken. For the same reasons people love shows like Mad Men, charm and grace are superior to skill, though surely it's clear that it helps immeasurably. It's more often than not that memoirs cause me to take stock of the life I'm building, reflect and figure out a way to build more by working harder and smarter.

If nothing else, I'm bulleting out talking points.

"It's nothing personal."

It's always something personal. Let's think about this: you're dealing with people. The word "person" resides in the phrase "It's nothing personal."

Boom goes the dynamite. Am I right?

"Better Late than Never"

So, I haven't posted in a while — This Fact or Fiction seemed to fit pretty well, if I say so myself.

Seriously though, it's always better to have something over nothing. And, showing up late versus not showing up at all shows you care, even if it's just a little. Turning in work late, sure not the best thing, but the act of doing it at some point, is better than not at all. And, sure, certain things lose their luster if the "right time" has passed by, but there's got to be something (anything!) said for trying at all.

Time tables matter, but only to a degree. The notion of a right time and place for something often does nothing but stifle whoever is involved. So, do what fits and do it in your time. Screw metronomes and alarm clocks, watches and schedules. We all have to answer to something or someone at the end of the day, and honestly, it's just ourselves. Do what you want, is what I'm saying.

A Clean House is a Happy House

I had a day off work last week. I cleaned a toilet. I tidied my bedroom. I dusted. A lot.

And, it is immaculate.

Indeed, a dirty house is not just unhappy, it's unenjoyable.

"It is the beautiful bird which gets caged."

Here’s my once in a blue moon gander into the political spectrum.

I read recently that China is peeved at the Nobel Peace Prize Committee for awarding a Chinese dissident with this year’s coveted award. (And a few other nations seem to be up in arms as well, among those who are not attending include Russia, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Pakistan, and Iraq.)

Artist and human rights advocate Liu Xiaobo will be honored this year, causing a chain reaction of RSVP declines from Russia to Iraq and Iran, as he is now serving an 11-year sentence for what China calls “inciting subversion of state power.”

Though some countries have said they’re response to not attend doesn’t necessarily have to do with the honoree, there’s enough speculation to wonder. According to CNN.com, “Despite the Nobel committee's announcement that Iraq will not show up at the ceremony, an [Iraqi] official said that might not be true.”

But, let’s face it, Iraq isn’t exactly known for its honesty. Is any country? However, the UN committee announced Iraq was not to join in on the festivities – so, if anything, I’d tend to believe them over anyone else. What have they got to lose? Nothing that's worth keeping.

For more information on Liu Xiaobo go to any and all of these links:
CNN piece on Xiaobo
NYT piece on Xiaobo
Xiaobo's Charter 08: a Manifesto
Nobel Peace Prize 2010 Official Press Release

"Home is where the heart is — "

— unless your whole family ditches you at important holidays like Thanksgiving and Christmas.

At that point there might still be a heart, it's just cold and lifeless.