Almost Sucked Doesn't Count

This could have been a different day.

It could have been the day that felt 80 hours long and was so hectic that I had to pee for about two hours before I finally found time to get to the restroom.

It could have been the day I felt like I was busting out of my clothes, my face looked like the Pillsbury Dough Girl with a hooker makeover, and my hair needed coloring so bad I was forced to buy L'Oreal at the Kash 'n' Karry.

It could have been the day I cried at the doctor's office, got a migraine, forgot my Haagen Dazs at the grocery store and had my plans for the weekend crushed by a phone call.

But instead it was the day I got home and found a new copy of the INXS cd that I cracked en route to Iraq last year. My roommate remembered how much I missed it and picked it up 'just because.'

Which made me think that days are like people; very few of them are all bad.

Things I Wish I Understood

How a man can make it through high school, graduate from college, start up his own company, yet still cannot perform the simple set of calculations required to know it is three hours later at my house than at his, and the phone call he's about to make is only going to wake me up from a sound sleep, piss me off, and result in my hanging up on him.

Why guys can't say anything nice about each other to girls, no matter what. Even if the guy I'm asking about is St. Peter himself, and the man I'm asking is happily married to a supermodel, he'll still tell me how horrible Petey is and how that story he told me about his being an apostle is really just a cover for the hooker operation he's running to fund his drug habit.

If the new Pope actually resembles Count Olaf from that Lemony Snicket movie, or if I'm just equally creeped out by both. Something about the eyes…

How an otherwise normal person can carry on an intelligent, fifteen-minute conversation and never notice the theme from the A-Team is blaring from somewhere inside their pants.

How I'm supposed to carry on an intelligent, fifteen-minute conversation with someone while their pants continue to blare the theme from the A-Team.

Why I'm so tired. Oh wait, I know. Early morning phone call.

I Call It My "Barbara Walters" Instinct

When I'm asleep, my first thought when my phone starts ringing (or buzzing or beeping or breaking into a joyful chorus of "Here Comes the Sun") as cell phones are prone to do is, 'If that's [insert name of time-zone illiterate ex boyfriend here], I'm going to [insert sufficiently grumpy threat that makes no sense and leaves said ex in absolutely no danger of any kind].' My second thought is, 'I hope nobody's dead.' Voicemail notifications are generally not as urgent, and therefore rate much higher on the Annoy-O-Meter. Especially if they're from ex-boyfriends.

This morning, when I was awakened by the Super Mario Brother's theme, I assumed an old voice mail message had finally worked its way through f#$%ing Nextel's f#$%ing labyrinthine network to emerge eight f#$%ing hours too late to do any good. But it was a text message from Carlye. Hmmm...

boyfriend and i are done done...for good this time.

Of course I had to call her to find out the detai offer comfort and a listening ear. Hell, what's a couple hours of sleep when there's a good stor friend with a broken heart involved?

Comedy Meeting Night

Tonight Damage Control took our radio show on the road to check out Carla Ulbrich's comedy routine at Skipper's Smokehouse in Tampa(ish). I'd never been before, so I wasn't really expecting the unholy vision of a double-wide on acid that greets Skipper's patrons.

Carla was funny (or at least I thought so. I especially liked the song about killing the ex-boyfriend's girlfriend) and the beer was good. I'm a cheap date, so after two beers I was making my famous, "I'm a happy drunk" speech to Allen, who chivalrously played along, agreeing that indeed, alcohol does remove inhibitions and reveal the true 'you'. Angry Allen and Pissy Missy have found each other at last. Two Yanks in a sea of drawling Southerners, we cling to each other like fresh lox to a bagel. Or not.

I was, however, finally christened with a new nickname, but to hear it, you'll have to listen to our show on New Artist Radio next week. So ha.

Pinch the Peko-chan!

Just when we thought our store windows were once again safe from the sick fascination of doll-napping McCarthyists (that's Andrew, not Joe), it appears a new wave of crime is once again jeopardizing the world's mannequins. Forget the willowy Kim Cattrall version, though; this time it's a short, pudgy, apple-cheeked brunette causing all the trouble.

No matter how hard I try not to, the cheery-looking "Peko-chan" makes me wonder if a wily Bob's Big Boy didn't slip it to Jennifer Tilly one night while she was busy with a Double Decker combo (is that such a stretch for the mistress of Chucky?). And the odd thing is (as if any of this were normal) Peko doesn't look even remotely Japanese. Then again, maybe that's the lure.

At any rate, she's getting to be in such demand that store owners briefly considered chaining her down. The plan was ostensibly nixed as "too cruel" (because why? Her plaster ankles might chafe? Shit, if Martha Stewart can wear one...), but I strongly suspect the real reason is it would make her more of a turn on to the sickos who find oversized 8-year-old statues hot in the first place.

The authorities don't seem to be doing much to discourage them, either, despite the public outcry (sure, we'll suffer the plight of the pygmie weasel, the ozone layer, and our shrinking fossil fuel supply, but gank a couple of dolls and the whole town turns out with pitchforks). One of her kidnappers escaped a nine-year prison sentence after essentially kicking the dirt with the toe of his Converse All Stars and mumbling, "Aw shucks, Wally. I didn't think it would hurt anybody." The store workers he maced, kicked and spray painted during his getaway, however, weren't so lucky.

Actually, We're Just Holding It Overnight for Observation...

How does a lake vanish in eight hours with no one noticing? Evaporation over a long period I can believe, but where does upteen thousand gallons of algae-laced water, fish, worms and goose pooh go in the time it takes to snooze your way through a couple of REM cycles?

I know what the scientists and town officials are saying, but if Mother Earth got thirsty enough to open a lake-sized hole in her face, somebody should ould have heard something. It took down trees with it, for chrissake!

Sure it could have drained silently into an underground river. I guess it's possible too, that it collapsed with a whisper into a giant, uncharted mine beneath the village. But in reality, I think I'm with Granny. I betcha right now there's a spa somewhere in Scottsdale dialing Britney to inform her the "authentic Russian lake" she ordered for her private suite is ready.

Under Construction

It's that time again. The black shit was making me depressed, so I'm in the process of leveling the entire site. I'll probably spend at least a week reorganizing, redesigning, and reposting. It's actually an orgasmic experience for the anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, plastic-storage-container-loving, underwear-bra-and-sock-folding geek in me who, despite my best efforts, escapes two or three times a year.

Usually when this happens, I regain consciousness to discover my CDs have been dusted, my refrigerator alphabetized, and my towels starched, ironed, and filed by thickness in color-coded storage containers. It's like being violated by the Martha Stewart Mafia; I have to eat Spaghetti-Ohs and dry myself with napkins for three weeks until I figure out where I put everything. So check back in a couple of days. Hopefully the geek will stick around long enough to get this done by Memorial Day weekend.

In the meantime, check out the Damage Control Comedy Crew website and podcast a laugh. Then when we're famous, you can say you downloaded "Sack Lickin'" way back when.