One down, 999 to go

Another one of my favorite people, Eddie Izzard, says that in order to get good at stand-up, you just have to do it a thousand times. I finally put my mike where my mouth was last night at the Boiler Room. Here's that file:

http://www.badinia.com/boilerroom5.29.mp3

When I first walked in with my glamour posse, I assumed that roughly every third person was there to do a five minute set, but it was clear by midnight that every single person in attendance wanted mike time. Straw fedoras and "wacky" t-shirts abounded. The night was such a sausage party that I sailed into the ladies' room past three anxiously waiting gentlemen, which never happens. As new meat, I was bounced 21 times and finally went on at a quarter of midnight. That explains something about the recording- the reason why it seems like only six people are laughing is that there were only seven in attendance at this point. I was pleased that everything got some kind of laugh, and was winding up for my finish when a cute but very inebriated metrosexual got up and started taking his clothes off, which was okay, but then he started taking my clothes off and putting a flashlight down my shirt, to what end I am not sure. So I took off abruptly, in the midst of the Emcee yelling "You're gonna get kicked out again, Bobby!" All in all, I am fairly happy with how it went - I got a good reception from the few remaining patrons and comedians, and I plan to go back most Mondays and practice some more. But not for the next two weeks, 'cos I'll be in South Korea, Thailand, Singapore, and India.
One comedian there had XM radio, and I talked up to her about Ron and Fez. We're gonna take this coast, one drunk at a time!




Photo credit: Darrell took this shot at the subway station in Tokyo, where we are reminded not to allow our cat's tails to get stuck in the closing train door.

Postscript: That heckling drunk metrosexual wound up being my friend Bobby Hacker!

Wherefore art thou, Famous?

This is a picture of my favorite person in the whole world, the Famous Mysterious Actor. For a brief, shining moment that many consider the "golden age" of Comcast Portland public access, his talk show was broadcast on Sunday nights. Now Famous appearances are few and far between, the website at www.thefmashow.com seems to have fallen fallow, the show at Holocene last Wednesday was ominously plugged as "final", and it has just whet my appetite for more. Say it isn't so, Joe! Guests were strictly single-named, and included human beatbox (and so much more) Fogatron, Shoehorn, who tap danced and played saxophone simultaneously and took hits off a glass bottle of Wild Irish Rose in between, and KUFO radio DJ Marconi. However, there is no writing about this show. Impromptu moon-boot sand dance with Pixie sticks and jumping on a desk to do a re-enactment of Famous' favorite film, Sweet Sal, lays flat on the page. In person, however, it rocks like an avalanche. Or a hurricane. Or some kind of natural disaster that kills people.
It's a group effort, and could not soar without the help of German-speaking Cutter, handsome wingman John Schmitt, security chief Denny, Intern Kris, producer J.D. Fischer, and Joanie loves Chachi the Tiger. However, Famous is the star. He lives up to his name and more- this show is much funnier than anything on network television. So I guess this is just a bottled letter cast adrift on the stormy seas of the interweb- I need more Famous!

POSTSCRIPT: Finally, someone has come to my aid on Youtube and posted a scant minute of Famous' craft, a bit ingeniously entitled Candied Bird Dick:

This is exactly what we're missing, Portland!

...all I wanted from life was to be Famous
I have tried so long, it's all gone wrong
I'll tell you why
I'll tell you why
I'll tell you why
But you wouldn't believe me

Y'all wantin' sweet tea?

I am back from a tour of textile mills in beautiful Greensboro, NC, and am really happy to have something to eat besides salad and potatoes. One night I did make my friend Jeff go to the local veggie Chinese with me and it was lovely. My spidey-sense started tingling on the way to dinner when we saw a vintage clothing store and people playing Hacky-Sack, because I could tell we were in "my" part of town, that is, near a college campus. We saw some fellas kicking back with drinks on the roof of their house, apparently because the porch couch was too stinky to sit on any longer.
The trip made me oddly nostalgic for my Texas origins, although in general I am glad to not live in the South, where "atheist" is commonly read as "Satanist." Same thing with "Feminist" and "Lesbian." However, my secret Texan skills came in handy when translating North Carolinian to Oregonian and back.



What appears to be a blood-covered submarine is in fact a machine that is dyeing red T-shirt fabric.









Cracks in the floor were filled with broken needles and stuff from knitting machines.

I met a nice young man from Belfast who is interning with a local yarn manufacturer, and who wore a green rubber bracelet to show his support for the search for a cure for Irishness. I hope they succeed. Please, Jesus?



We enjoyed staying at the Sheraton Four Seasons, which is apparently the only two-star Four Seasons in the world. It featured something called a "Dessertery", there was a false tooth buried in the outside of my friend Ann's hotel room door, and Tuesday morning brought two CSI vans to deal with the repercussions of a late-night meth party on the 24th floor.

Flying home, I sat next to a young man reading Bowhunter magazine.

Fare thee well, Greensboro! I'll miss the Cheerwine and sweet tea!

Postscript: The very kind tour guide sent me a twelve-pack of Cheerwine to help with the pain! I laughed, I thought I'd die. I have never recieved a gift based on my blog before, and I am going to have to be more careful about what I ask for.

Bug Revenge

It is a fact, well documented by me, that if you ride a bicycle with any kind of regularity, May is the month in which you will eat a bug. It may not be the first or last time that year, but during the month of May, you will definitely find yourself with a bitter, dusty bug in your mouth. I decided that this year I would avoid my own curse, but they are very persistent. They flicker around you and buzz "you've got to breathe sometime." This time, for the sake of variation, I got one in my eye, and I think it's possible that it was worse.

I am spending the bulk of next week in Greensboro, NC for work, so if anything is happening in the world, perhaps you could let me know via carrier pigeon or braille telegram.

Things that Look like French Bulldogs to Me: Pt 1.

Yoda, obviously. Yoda is a bulldog in a potato sack.









Stitch, especially because of his crawl and the way he talks. But my dogs don't play guitar.

And gargoyles. Plus, they're French!

1000 Years of Popular Music

Richard Thompson and his immovable hat did his 1000 Years of Popular Music show at Portland's Aladdin Theatre last night, moving through from the first known round (the extremely timely Sumer is Icumen in) to Britney's pre-Federline hit, "Oops- I did it again." You haven't really lived until you've seen a 57 year old folkie doing Britney moves. The show hit all the high points for me, because it was like going to a rock show and a music history lecture at the same time. Also, attending a show with The Human Fly's target demographic lets a thirtysomething and her husband, who still has quite a bit of his own hair, feel like the new hotness, as opposed to attending an Editors show, which lets us know that we look and dance like Jabba the Hutt. The Boomers went crazy at his Beatles cover, and Beloved Spouse enjoyed his Easybeats and Henry Purcell.
I'd rather hear Richard talk about music than hear almost anyone talk about anything, and I'd rather hear Richard play guitar than anyone else do it. Also, as the Wikipedia article points out, the whole show was born out of RT responding to a Playboy request for 10 Best Songs of the Millenium as a total and utter smart-ass, which I relate to and admire.
1000 Years entry on Wikipedia

Awful Things In History

Today in 1981, IRA soldier Bobby Sands died in prison after his 88th day on a hunger strike.

In 1995, Michael Fay was caned in Singapore.

In 2006, my sister is getting married, far away.

And in 2003, the day that shall live in infamy, this baby was born.

She looks sweet and good, doesn't she? She looks it, but she's bad. She's one hundred percent bad. She's so bad, she'll send your supervisor an email expressing that he looks and smells like dehydrated yak. She'll go through your drawers and mis-match all your socks. She'll cancel your mortgage payment and laugh as she watches you get kicked out onto the street. She'll cover herself in marker at the first opportunity.

And she just turned three.

My Sister, the War Bride

Since I am fairly sure that my sisters are too busy embroidering Smiths lyrics onto household items to check my blog, I am free to gossip about them.
Apparently, my little sister is getting married tomorrow in Scotland. She's not really a war bride, but I like to pretend. You would usually think that if sisters were very, very close, then they would go to each other's weddings, but that is not how it is working out. I enjoyed that my sisters made the trip from Austin to Portland for mine. They were amazing, because we had the pinko atheist wedding at the county courthouse performed by Judge Linda Bergman, (who later married same-sex couples during the month that was legal in Oregon, rock on-) and the whole ceremony took less than a minute, less time than it takes to eat a bagel or try on a pair of shoes, but afterwards I turned around and they were weeping. I don't know how they did it, but they were crying at the speed of sound.
Here is a family shot with my sisters, taken in the park across from the courthouse. Enjoy the homeless guy in the corner. He may have been the guy who grunted "nice couple" as we passed, which was the blessing that got us this far.
However, my sister has decided to marry her English swain overseas, with no invitation to anyone. I guess it doesn't really matter. I like her intended and I want her to be happy. Still and all, as the day looms, knowing we'll be apart when she takes the plunge makes me cry a little.
The important thing is that now I have English in-laws, and at least one of them is completely mad.
Come to think of it, since my other sister is dating the groom's brother, her boyfriend is now her brother-in-law. Ha! You're dating your brother!
I am also now part Brazilian, due to my Uncle's marriage.

Clydesdale Marathoner

This is my bib from the half marathon I ran in San Francisco last November. I was beaten by a guy dressed as a Jack-o-Lantern, someone dressed as a cow, a speed-walker with a Polaroid of his deceased dog pinned to his sleeve, and many, many children, but I finished and did not die. Speed is not what I bring to the sport of distance running. I bring endurance and the willingness to suffer. Since I have not killed myself yet, I am currently training for the Portland Marathon. I am looking for a chick or two to train with, so write if you want to run ten minute miles with me.

When I was visiting with Fez Marie Whatley in NYC, I did mention that if you train for and complete a marathon, you are guaranteed not to have a heart attack for the following year. That is to say, no one ever has completed training and a marathon and had a heart attack in the next 12 months. The downside is that this does not include people who have heart attacks in training or during the race. Fez did not seem overly impressed by my factoid, and visibly shuddered.
I have read a book on marathoning by Hal Higdon, and I have learned many things. One of them is that large people who train for marathons are called "Clydesdales." It is impressive that after completing a hundred marathons, Hal still has the energy to reach out and hurt my feelings.
If you like to run outside, check out this hyper-awesome site where you can map out your runs and track your mileage via Google Maps: http://www.gmap-pedometer.com.