Mondays are really depressing, so much so that I am writing about them on Wednesday.
Every week begins with one of two notions, a) I Am going to change the world, or, b) The world is going to destroy me and all that I love... I wish the week would start off quiet and sweet like, the world is gonna buy me a coke this time.
I wonder if I am at a crossroads in my career(or life). I love this Jokee joke thing, I do... But it is soo hard and soo full of disappointment. Kinda like a whore blowing a tied off speed addicts penis...No?
So I trudge forward to call indifferent people and bask in their indifference.
So world what should I do?
I ask, should I go against everything I was raised to believe is important, and just blindly sell myself like I am the greatest talent on earth, or should I wait until I am the greatest talent on earth?
HMMM... I hate this external monologue in blog form. It's so freakin self indulgent. It's like that crappy writing on Sex in the city, its imitating the fake form of communication used as an example in popular media for human interaction. Nobody talks this way! Nobody chit chats like TV anchors, nobody is as excited about shit as the correspondents on Entertainment Tonight, nobody would ask people such lowball questions as Barbara Walters.. We just accept this crap. A realistic question to ask somebody is What the fuck? - That would always get a realistic answer. George Bush, what the fuck? Cher, i been meaning to ask you, What the Fuck? Head of production for FoX motion picture I understand you spent 100 million to make Garfield the move...What the fuck?
Alright where was I , or that's right rambling on about nothin in particular.
I heard some gossip today that Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt are breaking up. I tried to care, I imagined myself in bed with her, but it kept dissolving into some friends like farce. Sitcoms took away my ability to have really sexy fantasies. Now they start off sexy, but then we hit heads together, or we can't find a prophylactic or Joey keeps walkin in.
OK, here's what I am gonna do. I'm gonna call three people I am afraid to call, about my career and see if they can help me. What's the worst that could happen? Uhm.. They could very well kill everyone I love and care about(read: me).
I am an action star!, a slightly out of shape, mildly winded, scared of bees, dislike bright sunlight or hard work, unfocused, and really not into helping others ...Action star! Come see me in my new summer blockbuster "The problem that I took credit for solving" It was a disaster film about a horrible weather front that just missed a populated area, and everything just kinda worked itself out.
Speaking of which, I need to shoot my short film Idea, its a short animated film about 2 minutes long based on one of my best jokes...Which one you ask? And I reply, What the fuck?

An awful luck weekend. Lost $180US playing poker to a guy missing three fingers and had a big toe for a thumb. He looked like that guy you just hate. That seedy Eric Roberts sorta look, never really washed, a thin film of perspiration and a golf shirt with dulling stripes. He's the guy that gives you directions to a place that will get you killed or beat up, and thinks its your fault for trusting him... Well fuck me for not following my instinct and folding against this guy.
Instead I thought this guy must be a loser, so I in turn lost to his endless flushes and full houses. I kept thinking that this might be how I end up losing my fingers.
The night before I experienced all that we can be out next to the China Lake Navy Pilot training and testing place or thing. I performed a little jokee show to an assortment of desert riff raff. A bizarre show to say the least.
I enjoyed the crowd... at first. They seemed to love my show. But I did poke a little fun at a contingent of her majesty's pilots on loan from England who were throwing back some suds...And interestingly enough, the Brits displayed a characteristic oft thrown in the direction of this great land. Not having a sense of humor about themselves. These Union jackers were steamed when I pointed out that they would be speaking a fine dialect of Kraut if it wasn't for our boys back in WWII. This provoked a series of wails and moans after the show, culminating in a rather pasty faced chubby pilot, full of ale and cornish pastries to inform me that my show was shit! Everything about it was shit.
Now this is where most people would boast about a witty comeback or dance on their testosterone fueled response. I simply stated that the other two hundred plus patrons that applauded and laughed all through my exhibition, were the ones he really had the problem with. I backed out of the mean crowd of navy hooligans and found the vocal majority who enjoyed my act.
But... I felt bad. Really bad. I did a great show, but a small section hated me.
This is of course a mental problem of my own creation, my own desperate need for all to praise and champion me, but I felt really bad that they didn't get that it was a joke. A joke that was considerably less mean or full of vitriol than the average anti Yank crap that I heard on a daily basis being spewed from every Limey comic across that mighty cold divide of the Atlantic.
It was almost as though these pilots were let down. That I opened up the audience to let them down. That I set them up to show these brits that we really just don't care about them as much as the glory of the old empire would have them believe. Like a prom queen that found out she wasn't really pretty, and she wasn't really at a prom just a diner with some bikers who made her a hat out of tinfoil and remembrance day poppies...Hmm poor metaphor.
Regardless I felt bad all night about the show, and I guess Karma wise losing the money I made to a three fingered card shark was ultimately the balance of the universe taking shape in the fact I never got so much as two pairs all night.