The Urban Erma

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Plunged Into Digital Darkness

Four Netbooks in Two Weeks
© 2011 Leighann Lord

Okay, I’m jealous of Mac People. Mac People have Mac stores, where they can talk to Mac Experts. It’s telling that we don’t have Windows Stores with Windows Experts. We need them. But if we had them it would probably be some poor guy curled up in a corner, crying: “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s wrong. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Listen to a reading of this blog!

Mac people are often referred to as cult-ish, but we Windows folks share a certain solidarity, too. We use an inferior product and we’re proud of it. Windows teaches you a lot of valuable life lessons. You learn to live with:

Loss: Where are my files?

Disappointment: My computer crashed, again.

Irony: Running your computer in “safe mode” makes you feel anything but.

Using Windows is very motivating. It motivates you to buy a Mac. I briefly thought about doing just that when the screen on my two-year-old Acer Aspire One Netbook (running Windows XP) suddenly went black. One minute I’m looking at my desktop, the next I’m plunged into my own personal digital darkness. Since Windows has taught me the necessity of being my own geek squad I began trouble shooting. I checked power sources, connections, and settings, but to no avail. Note to self: no matter how frustrated you are, taking a hammer to your hard drive will most likely violate the warranty. I instead vigorously shook my computer like it was a crying baby.

Clearly It was time to see a professional. I briefly considered bringing my little computer into a Mac Store, hoping they wouldn’t notice, but I was afraid I might set off some sort of Windows loser alarm. They might even smell me coming. Windows users stink of fear and frustration. Mac users smell of candy and cupcakes. But it’s entirely possible Mac Experts don’t actually know how to fix anything since nothing ever goes wrong with a Mac.

So I went to my Local Computer Guy. (I think of him more as my Digital Therapist.) His diagnosis: a dead motherboard. Fixing it would have cost more than the $300 netbook was worth. And so, just like that, it was over. All that was left was the extracted 120 gig hard drive.

We’d had a nice run and I’m going to miss My Precious. I’ve written almost 100 blog posts on it as I toured and performed in Iraq, Haiti, Germany, Kosovo, Singapore and Brooklyn. The latter, of course, being the most exotic. I was actually very lucky my motherboard didn’t expire while I was on the road. Like a salmon, it came home to die. Having technology fail far from home is what we call in the trade, fucked up.

My friends suggested that maybe it was time to get a laptop. I have both Mac and Windows friends because I am very progressive, open minded and hip. When we all get together, we simply avoid talking about technology, and stick with less volatile subjects such as sex, religion and politics.

I am not so tolerant when it comes to mobile phones. There are BlackBerry people. There are iPhone people. And then there are people who use both. These people are whores. I know the politically correct term is multi-technical but by god, have some loyalty.

All of my computer friends agreed I should bite the bullet and get a MacBook Pro. In fact, the Windows faction was most insistent: “You’re free now! Save yourself! Run! Run and don’t look back!” But I’m paraphrasing.

I am told that MacBooks are expensive, but worth every penny. Unfortunately, at this point, I can only afford the excitement and insecurity that a Windows machine can provide.

I also much prefer netbooks to laptops. I still have an old Dell that’s big, slow and heavy enough for a little impromptu bench pressing. Netbooks are inexpensive and compact enough to fit in my purse. Perfect. The amount of traveling I do requires my gadgets to be small and portable with ample battery life.

I didn’t have a lot of shopping around to do when I bought my Acer two years ago. There just weren’t that many netbooks on the market then, but things have changed. I hoped a rare two-week stretch at home would be more than enough time to find a replacement. Twelve days and four computers later I think I have a winner.

My first thought was to go back to the well and buy another Acer, this time in red. It was cute and I looked cute with it, but a measly three hours of battery life and one gig of memory is a deal-breaker.

My second choice, an Asus EEE PC would have been great without the schizophrenic cursor that jumped around at will due to a hypersensitive touch pad. It was also very frustrating that I couldn’t remove the pre-installed virus software. Despite five hours of “live computer chatting” with seven technicians (Rod, Kiran, Frederick, Rod (again), Melvin, Anna Katrina and Randy) the software remained, confirming my suspicions that it wasn’t installed to protect me from a virus. It was a virus.

Maybe that’s the real reason why most computer customer support has moved to India. If it were any closer, say within a two-hour drive, there’d be violence. Next time, the price of airfare and length of the flight may not deter me.

Amazon and CNET had great things to say about Toshiba. So, with the clock ticking, I bought one. Well actually I bought two. I had to return the first one because after only 24 hours of use it stopped booting up. The programs wouldn’t load and I got more Windows Update errors than I could count, forcing a system restore. I should have known something was wrong when I saw I had both a C and a D drive. In this case, two is not better than one.

I suspect someone bought the Toshiba, tried to partition the hard drive — which made Windows 7 (Starter) freak out — and then returned it. The store simply repackaged it and put it back on the shelf.

Why bother exchanging it? Because butchered hard drive aside, the specs weren’t bad: two gigs of memory, 250 gig hard drive, and a dual core processor. Sweet. As a writer the nicely spaced, un-cramped keyboard is a dream and the cursor doesn’t go anywhere I don’t want it to. If it was available in red, it’d be perfect but that’s what skins are for.

In the end, I don’t know what’s been more stressful: dealing with a computer crash, shopping for a replacement or watching my Mac friends struggle not to say, “I told you so.”

Leighann Lord is a stand-up comedian, who's style is best described as "Thinking Cap Comedy." If comedy were music, she'd be Jazz. Check out her upcoming shows @ www.VeryFunnyLady.com. Join her on FaceBook. Follow her on Twitter.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Beyond Scared Straight

Before I was married, I used to love falling asleep with the TV on. Just set the timer for 30 minutes and drift off. However, when my husband goes to bed he needs complete silence and utter darkness. He is not remotely comforted by the glow of the flat screen or the lilt of late night commercials. He can't even drift off to TV shows he likes. That actually makes it worse. If he likes the show he gets caught up and then has to see it through to the end. So when I travel it’s a treat for me to turn on the TV and wait for Morpheus. That’s how I happened upon A&E's "Beyond Scared Straight." It's the 2.0 version for a new generation of wayward teenagers brought to a prison to see their future if they don't get it together in the present. Not exactly a new concept but this particular episode featuring teenage girls had me rivetted.

Listen to a reading of this post on Podbean!

They looked like ordinary girls. They could have been anybody's daughter, niece, sister, cousin. But these young ladies were stealing, fighting, drinking, doing drugs or as they put it: "Just smoking a little weed. What’s wrong with that?" Apparently nowadays, girls will be girls.

Well, these Young Ladies had run afoul of the law so many times they’d earned themselves invitations to "Beyond Scared Straight" and an opportunity to parade their pain in prime time. It could be worse. They could be hoarders, ice truckers, 16 and pregnant, or little people in a big world. But these were street smart chics. A trip to the local penitentiary would be like a day at the mall, right?

When the Young Ladies arrived on site, I was confused. "Wait a minute," I thought, "Why are they taking them to a mens prison? Oh, wait. Those aren't men." Severe fades and tattoos aside, these are the hardest women I've ever seen. They may have played it up a bit for the camera, but it wasn’t that much of a stretch.

At this point, if it had been me, it would have been a very short show. I’d of stayed in the car, seat belt securely fastened. "No, thanks, I'm good, deeply sorry for any trouble I’ve caused. I'd like to go home now, read a book, get a job and pretend this never happened. You had me at 'Beyond.'"

But the Young Ladies, full of bravado, still thought they could tough it out. I guess they had to. Signed releases notwithstanding, just because your mouth writes a check that your ass can't cash, doesn't stop people from trying to collect on it. As someone said on the show, "It's one thing to act like a stone cold killer. It's another to meet one."

I felt bad for one Young Lady whose face seemed plagued by a perpetual faint smile. Clearly an involuntary nervous reaction, the Inmates thought she wasn't taking the program seriously. "Oh you think this is funny?" said a woman pulling an 18-to-life stretch for first degree murder. "I will fold you like a piece of paper." I get chills just typing the words. See, this wouldn’t have happened if Smiley had stayed with me in the car.

Another Little Toughie who was giving her father and step mother a hard time thought life would be so much better if she could go live with her mother. Turns out, her Mom was back in prison and just in time for her daughter’s “Scared Straight” visit. This is TV gold. I bet the producers of the show practically peed themselves silly when they learned of their good luck. Emmys all around.

As the Young Ladies stood silently on the yard — at a distance not nearly big enough for my liking — The Inmates mercilessly teased and taunted them. In the cacophony, Little Toughie's Mom cried out to her daughter: "This is not what I wanted for you! This place is hell! You don't know what goes on in here! Don't be like me."

Seriously, can we just get back in the car? At this point I dropped all pretense and turned off the TV timer. I was officially caught up.

Part of the process was determining whether or not the Young Ladies had learned anything from their visit. If they could demonstrate they had, they'd get to go home at the end of the day. If not they'd get an orange jump suit of their very own and stay at the prison for another 72 hours. One by one, they each appeared before an American Idol-style prison panel of judges.

The oldest of the visiting group, Miss Mouth, was a 17-year willful, wild child with an alcohol problem who'd been verbally and physically abusive to her mother. The Inmates questioned M&M about this. Not surprisingly, she didn't have a lot to say by way of a credible defense, which earned her an orange jumpsuit. Her new cell mate promised to “be both Mother and Father,” and to deliver the ass whupping her parents had clearly neglected to give her. When brought back before The Panel, a shaken and teary eyed Miss Mouth mumbled, "I want my Mom." So did I.

As with all TV shows like this you wonder if the right people are really watching. After all, this show wasn’t for me. Or was it? Sometimes I wonder how much I’ve missed out on by being Ms. Goody Two Shoes. Not all roads lead to prison but if it’s possible, I was scared even straighter.

With such an effective format, they should consider developing a version for potential white collar criminals. Perhaps a chastened Bernie Madoff scaring young, up and coming fraudsters. “Don’t be like me! It’s not worth it! Oh, you think this is amusing? I will drop you like a bad investment! Put on the orange blazer!”

Dude, you should have stayed in the Lexus.

The Inmates participating in “Beyond Scared Straight” weren't all rough neck lesbians, most looked like ordinary women. They could have been anybody's mother, aunt, sister, daughter. I don't know what they received by way of compensation for being part of the program, but it wasn't freedom. Their message was loud and clear: Learn from my mistakes or be prepared to put on the orange jumpsuit.

I didn’t fall asleep until long after this show was over. I was wide awake thinking of all the people who had been a positive influence in my life. They took the time to put me on the right path, and hoped I had the good sense to follow it because there are no guarantees. We each make our own choices. Next time, I might choose to read before I go to bed.

Tuesday, February 8, 2011

Praise the Lord & Pass the Ammunition

Last month The Atlanta Journal ran an article about a group of folks planning to appeal a ruling against guns in church. Maybe I’m a tad too citified for my own good but do you need a law telling you not to bring a gun to church? That has lack of faith written all over it. There are just certain things you should know to leave at home before going to church: gun, skepticism, porn collection.

Click Here to Listen to this Blog Post Read by the Author!

I live in New York City and while we have the reputation of being a rough and tumble town it’s actually illegal to carry a gun here and that’s probably a good thing. With our quick tempers and lack of patience with piss poor service, things could get dangerous for people working at say, Best Buy. I’m kidding. Nobody actually “works” at Best Buy. The only person who might get hurt is some random guy who walked in wearing a blue polo shirt.

But are guns in church really a bad thing? Historically many conversions have happened at gunpoint so why break with tradition? I don’t go to church myself. My brain gets in the way. But this is just the sort of thing that would make it interesting. Having a piece at a peace service has certain intrinsic advantages.

First, shorter sermons. Nobody likes a long-winded preacher. And nothing will make him cut to the chase quicker than addressing an armed and restless congregation. I would’ve loved to have been locked and loaded the first time I had the displeasure of hearing St. Peter’s: “Wives be submissive to your husbands.” I fantasize about standing, Dirty Harry style, clicking the safety off my .44 Magnum and saying, “No, we’re not reading that today.”

“Women should remain silent in the churches.”

“Really? So you’re saying I get to use a silencer? Sweet.”

And then there are the fashion implications. You can’t show up to church on Sunday with a Saturday night special. What would Jesus think? You’re gonna need a dress gun. Concealed or unconcealed means “will my Sunday-go-to-meeting gun fit in my purse or match my outfit.” How else will god know you really care except by how well you coordinate your ensemble? And wearing a side arm makes things a little more complicated, as in: “Baby, does this gun make my butt look big?” And what does a man say to a woman who’s got her finger on the trigger of a Taurus 85 Revolver with a custom ruby red rubber grip? Let us pray.

Finally, fair or not, a gun gets you the little courtesies like seconds on the wine and wafers. Who’s gonna say, no? Leverage during confession: “Ten Hail Mary’s? I don’t think so, padre. Let’s call it an even five, and me and my little friend will see you on Sunday.”
And let’s face it, armed altar boys are a game-changer.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Cliche But Cool: Eating Alaskan King Crab Legs in Alaska

To say that I’m a picky eater is like saying Barack Obama is having a tough presidency. It began in childhood and it was a chore getting me to eat. I sat for hours rearranging the food on my plate, more of it going on the floor than in my mouth. Yeah, I was “that” kid.

*******

Listen to this Week's Urban Erma on Podbean!

or Subscribe to the Blogcast in iTunes!

*******

Much to the bewilderment of my West Indian family, I don’t like nor can I tolerate spicy food. As a second-generation American I seem to have lost any inherent genetic ability to handle anything hot or curry. This doesn’t bother me though. I figure if I am kind to my colon, my colon will be kind to me.

As an adult I’m still rather picky. Cheese? No. Carrots? No. Chocolate? No, not really. Unlike the majority of my gender, I can survive without it. I’m way more likely to scarf down food I’m familiar with rather than trying something new. That’s why I’ve eaten at Pizza Hut in Rotterdam, KFC in England and McDonald’s in the Bahamas. When I went to Alaska, the locals were eager to tell me about the regional specialities: deer, moose, halibut. No, no, do I have to? (There’s nothing wrong with deer or moose it’s just that I didn’t grow up on it.) I opted instead for the Make-Your-Own-Slam at Denny’s. Yeah, I’m “that” girl.

In Fairbanks however, we went to eat at a lovely place called Lavelle’s Bistro. Highly recommended by natives and friends, the decor, ambiance and service were on par with any of Manhattan’s finest. As I perused the menu lots of stuff looked good, but about midway down the entrees page, everything changed when I saw:

Wild Caught Alaskan King Crab Legs

To my mind’s eye it was written in glitter. I gasped so audibly, my dinner companions thought I was in distress. And I was. The last time I had crab legs Britney Spears was a sweet young thing, ever so gently pushing the envelope of good taste.
The internal debate began: should I or shouldn’t I? Yes, I love crab legs. No, they’re too expensive. Could I really spend $45 on a plate of crab legs? But these weren’t just any old crab legs. These were (drum roll, please):

Wild Caught Alaskan King Crab Legs!

I don’t know what “wild caught” means, but I can only assume The Crab didn’t go quietly. Would the struggle make it taste better? God, I hoped so.

I mean, how often would I get the chance to have Alaskan King Crab Legs in freakin’ Alaska? I’ve always assumed my crab leg experience would be limited to The Red Lobster on Sunrise Highway. I had to order them. My Husband always says, when you’re on the road you deserve to have at least one really good meal, and I don’t think he meant Denny’s.

But on the other hand, it was so cliche. It’s like the people who come to New York and order a New York Strip steak, or the people who go to England and order bangers and mash. The latter are profoundly sorry for doing so, unless it was their goal to commit suicide by taste bud.

But was I really going to be that much of a tourist and order Alaskan King Crab Legs in Alaska? Yes, I was. Given my choices of other traditional Alaskan things to do — ice fishing, moose tipping, alcoholism — the crab legs at least seemed doable. (I don’t know if there’s really such a thing as moose tipping, but with the average male moose clocking in at eight feet tall and fifteen hundred pounds I wouldn’t advise it. That’s a “Darwin Award” waiting to happen.)

As a precursor to the crab, my friend Gina and I split a plate of calamari, and it was good to a fault. It made me realize I’ve never had really good calamari before. Clearly, hitherto Lavelle’s, I’ve been eating deep fried crap with the chewy consistency of a worn out, rubber tire. Oh good grief, why did I agree to share?

And then came the Crab Legs.

I was breaking all the rules here. There are certain foods I don’t like eating in public: ribs, hot wings, crab legs. They’re messy and I’m a vain, neat freak. Moreover I think it’s unseemly to fight with your food, but this was a brawl I couldn’t miss. Between nut cracker and bare hands, I wolfed down one pound of Crab Legs — baked potato and butter on the side — like it was chow time at the prison mess hall. Those crab legs were wild caught, wild eaten and will be fondly remembered. How were they? People, please. Red Lobster should be ashamed.

The After Math

I so didn’t want to stand up and do stand-up after a meal like that. But much to my surprise, we were treated to dinner by our gracious MWR Host at Fort Wainwright. It would’ve been totally rude to miss the show because I was back at my hotel room sleeping it off. I may not be able to hold my liquor, but I can damn sure hold my crab legs. Oh yeah, I’m “that” girl.

Sunday, January 23, 2011

Going To Alaska, It’s The Long Johns Tour

Listen to this Episode on PodBean

Thanks to stand-up comedy I’ve traveled to and performed in 46 of the 50 United States, plus Guam. I’m missing Alaska, Kentucky, Montana and Washington. Under less than ideal circumstances I’m finally going to Alaska. That less than ideal circumstance? Winter. I’ll be doing shows at military bases in and around Anchorage and Fairbanks. I’m excited about getting closer to my goal of performing in all 50 states, but it’s butting up against my desire to be comfortable and by comfortable, I mean warm.

I get cold very easily. I carry a sweater in the Summer time because air conditioning is too chilly for me. I begin donning hats and leggings in September. And if I had my way, my house would be a balmy 80 degrees from October to April, but I live with a white guy who begins wilting at 70.

I’ve been watching the Weather Channel which, by the way, doesn’t include Hawaii, Alaska or Guam in its national forecast. Apparently we’re to assume it’s respectively hot, cold and who cares. The more inclusive Weather.com told me the local temperature in Anchorage is about 20 degrees. Okay, that’s manageable. Fairbanks: Minus 30. MINUS THIRTY?!? Is that a typo?

I seriously began worrying that I wouldn’t be warm enough. And by worry I mean panic. Everyone says it’s best to dress in layers, but how practical is that? I buy clothes to fit me, not some bigger, outsized version of me. That would, however, be a handy excuse: “I’m not fat, I’m layering.”

In preparation I’ve been stocking up on thermal underwear, wool socks and hand warmers. This is literally the time to cover your ass. So, no, I won’t be packing a thong. January in Alaska is great granny panty time. I need maximum skin coverage. At this point, I even regret shaving my arm pits.

I’m worried now about my outerwear. Everybody, and by everybody I mean Google, says down coats are best. I thought I had one, but when I fished it out of the attic, the label said, “Lining: 100% polyester.” Fantastic! I’ll freeze to death but at least I’ll be wrinkle free.

So that’s how I found myself, three days before take off, trolling through The Burlington Coat Factory looking for something to fit over multiple layers but didn’t make me feel like the abominable snow man. To their credit, BCF had a lovely selection of coats but the down linings topped out at 60%. Surely a January jaunt to Alaska warrants 80 to 90.

Shopaholic that I am, my attention soon wandered to a sexy, bright red, plastic rain coat that perfectly matched a red, patent leather handbag that I recently scored at Nine West for $10. Just as I began imagining how cute I’d look in the coat/bag combo, my Husband – who I brought along to keep me focused – whispered a gentle weather reminder: “Minus 40 degrees, but the wind chill makes it feel like, FUCK!”

And we’re back.

I don’t know why I never realized it before, but trying on a coat inside the store is somewhat pointless. You can judge look and fit, but not warmth. Wouldn’t it make more sense for there to be an outdoor dressing room where you can try on coats in the cold?

I eventually found a coat that has native New Yorker written all over it: black, full-length, slightly tapered at the waist. It’s no red rain coat, but I dare say it’s stylish. While there’s no standardized Zagat’s-type rating for outer wear, a tag on the coat sleeve read:

“Garments made of ARCTIC WARMTH™ have been specially designed for comfort and heat retention to keep you warm during moderate physical activity such as walking during Canadian winters.”

Translation, “Keep moving!” But that should be good enough for Alaska as well since it would have been part of Canada if Canada could have gotten her money together. Oddly though, the makers of the coat still hedged their bets a bit:

“For best results with ARCTIC WARMTH™ it is recommended to dress in layers in extreme cold weather in order to ensure better heat conservation.”

So much for “high tech fillers.”

Luckily a cold snap in New York has allowed me to field test the coat. So far so good, but 18 degrees in The Big Apple may not feel the same as 18 in The Big Chill. I hope I fair well in Fairbanks and by fair well I mean not end up a stylishly dressed ice sculpture.

Monday, January 17, 2011

A Hater and A Coward

The Narcissist Gets Called Out!

I didn’t think anyone was actually reading my blog until I got some hate mail. Well, I shouldn’t overstate it. It was only one email but I’m hopeful. They say, “all publicity is good publicity” but harsh criticism hurts, especially when it has a grain of truth to it. My friends on Facebook were very supportive. Without knowing the content of the email they took my side and even suggested that I report the sender to the police. (Love you, Facebook Family!) I don’t know what my enemies think of the missive. I haven’t checked Friendster.

Here’s the email:

"From: Jackie Kannon

You make me sick. You always go on and on about who snubbed you, who did not give you good service, who did not pay attention to you as a comic, and how you've been maligned, ignored or disrespected. I think you take your last name a tad too seriously. Yet, at a comedy school grad show, with several new comics struggling and trying their best to do well, you sat your back to them as they performed while you sat at the bar in the Vintage Room at Gotham playing with your laptop.

And, even your husband, the great professor or comedy, had left the room and did not have the decency to stay and watch "his students." The two of you are despicable people, completely and utterly self-centered, self-absorbed, narcissitic shits, who are unworthy of performing for an audience. Oh yes, and neither of you are funny.

And for a comedian who bills himself as having "written the bible of comedy writing," perhaps some day he will explain why he steals jokes. For example, the joke that goes "My wife is so neat, that when I come back from going to the bathroom in the middle of the night, my bed is made."....I can trace that back to the Tonight Show with JACK PAAR!...It was said by Phil Harris when talking about his wife, actress Alice Faye. Circa 1960...What a couple of pretentious phony never beens/never will be....”

[I guess that last line is supposed to hurt, but all it does is beg the question: “And you are?”]

My response:

Hi Jackie,
I guess I should start by saying, thanks for reading. You're absolutely right. I am self-centered, self-absorbed and narcissistic. And yes, it was pretty rude of me to be working on my laptop in the back of the room while a show was going on. My deadlines are no one-else’s problem but mine. I honestly thought no one was paying me any mind. We never know how others see us do we.

As far as joke stealing goes: neither of us ever has nor will. I can't speak to the sources you cite, I can only tell you that the event actually happened and as comics we talk about our personal experiences on stage. Given the common events of the human condition, there is bound to be some overlap. Should a comedian not talk about dating, marriage, buying a home, having kids, owning a dog, taking a trip, getting hate mail, just because others have done it before them? I know you may not be so generous as to say great minds think alike, but there is such a thing as parallel thought.

Honestly though, if this is what affects you to the point of illness, you must be in very poor health. Hopefully the new congress won't derail health care reform.

I'd say I'll try not to complain so much, but that's what I do, and apparently what you do too.

All the best to you (Really),
Leighann

There are a few other things I could have addressed in “Jackie’s” note, but in retrospect I’m glad I’m didn’t since the response I sent to ratfinkroom@yahoo.com bounced back. I guess if she can’t spell “narcissistic,” then giving her correct email address might be beyond her ken as well. At the very least though, if you’re gonna take the time to craft and send angry correspondence, you should have the stones to leave a real email address. Not doing so makes you both a hater and a coward. Yahoo? Apparently, in more ways than one.

And just so we’re clear, “The Comedy Bible” was written by Judy Carter. I’d be happy to forward “Jackie’s” email to Judy, but in all fairness, she should probably get her own. Who knows what helpful insights “Jackie” could share when she’s not too sick to reach the keyboard.

I wish “Jackie” had been wrong about my narcissism, but unfortunately that was spot-on, guilty as charged. I guess that’s why I’m a comedian and not a member of The Peace Corps. I wish “Jackie” could get to know me better and realize that being “self absorbed” is just one of my many flaws. I’m also a vain, judgmental elitist.

I do wonder when “Jackie” found time to watch the show she speaks of since she was so aware of everything else that was going on in the room. I’m surprised she didn’t know that Jim was managing the show that night as well, which necessitated him leaving the room. He had to keep the club’s manager abreast of the show’s progress in order to make sure that checks weren’t given out to the audience while his students were on stage. Jim was keeping his eye on the bigger picture, making sure his students got the best possible performance environment.

I’ll restrain myself from further defending the honor of my Beloved since he is more than capable of fighting his own battles. I’m sure he’s eagerly awaiting a personal email from “Jackie,” which he will probably answer when he’s not busy stealing prehistoric jokes from ancient TV shows or dead comics.

If I may be so bold as to ask: What were YOU doing the night of the show, “Jackie,” besides being an inattentive audience member? Were the “new comics struggling and trying their best to do well” not holding your attention? Did you wish you were sitting in the back of the room working on your laptop, perhaps firing off irate emails? Considering that I haven’t been to a Gotham grad show in months, you must have been holding onto this for a while. Might I suggest blogging about what makes you mad? I find it a great way to vent. Holding it in and spewing it out long after something’s happened just makes you seem . . . unstable.

All writers want readers but selfishly I want it to be a fan base of the willing. Did someone tie you down, pin your eyes open and force you to read my blog? As far as I know, I’m not yet required reading. For the love of my last name, woman, save yourself! The cloud is big. Feel free to get lost in it.

On the real though, “J,” I’m grateful for your email since I was stuck for a topic for this week’s blog. I guess the universe loves rude, unfunny, self absorbed, entitled whiners.

Podcast Powered By Podbean

Pages