This is something I wrote down the other day about stand up. I think it’s a poem. And I’m an 8th grade girl.
Anytime a white guy guy talks about, race he’s edgy
Anytime a black guy talks about race, he’s predictable.
Anytime he points out the difference, he’s angry.
Anyone who points that out is meta.
Anyone who points that out is disturbed.
Anyone who points that out is insane.
Anyone who points that out is deep.
Anyone who points that out is intellectual.
Anyone who points that out is lonely.
Anyone who points that out is intense.
Anyone who points that out is existential.
Anyone who points that out is depressed.
Anyone who points that out is aware.
Anyone who points that out is esoteric.
Anyone who points that out is troubled.
Anyone who points that out is obsessed.
Anyone who points that out is possessed.
Anyone who points that out is manic.
Anyone who points that out is humble.
Anyone who points that out is smart.
Most people I know would take that as an act of sacrilege. “Staying in on a friday night?” But with LOTS of emphasis on “staying in” and “friday night.” Also, the sentence would have the surprised rhetorical question punctuation that has no name. The “!?” or “?!” Let’s call it the questamation mark.
So it would go like this.
BARON: Yeah, I think I’m gonna come home.
FRIEND: (cutting me off) STAYING IN?! On a FRIDAY NIGHT!?
And that statement alone is somehow the ending of their argument. It’s somehow an accusation, but there’s also a sense of “I must save you” in that statement. It conveys “you’re wasting your youth!” Maybe I am, but you don’t understand: I have Dr Pepper and Ho-Hos at home. That reminds me, I need to change my diet.
I’m trying to cut myself a little slack for my antisocial tendencies. When I get down on myself, I just feel guilt about it which makes me tell myself to go out more which fills the idea of going out with more anxiety which makes me not wanna go out. I’ve found that if I just let myself feel ok about not going out, I go out MORE.
What the fuck is the point of this post again? Or right, remembering that I have Ho-Hos.
I really gotta start posting here more. REMEMBER THAT? When people would blog that they were sorry they hadn’t been blogging? I’ve seen people do that with Twitter. “Sorry, I haven’t tweeted in a while…” People used to do that with actual diaries. “Dear Diary, sorry I haven’t written in a while…” No one else was reading that! Who are you apologizing to? Your soul? Oh, ok. I could go along along with that. I think we should all apologize to our souls more. “I’m sorry, soul, that there’s so much reality television. And I’m really sorry I watched that Desperate Housewives marathon.” There are probably cave paintings that are apologizing for slacking off on cave paintings. I’d elaborate more on that, but I feel I’ve already hit the point too hard and for too long in true Baron style.
I just finished watching the Godfather Part 2, and I hate to be that guy, but they don’t make ‘em like that anymore. It’s interesting being an actor these days. Interesting the path I’m on, whatever path that it is I’m on (I talk about being on a “path” so it’s the path of an asshole). Something I’ve said about being on this TV show is that it is really nice to have people that listen to my ideas and opinions. “Ah yes,” I remind myself, “we’re collaborating on a character that I’m creating.” It’s very easy to forget how to act when one spends so much time auditioning. They aren’t the same. People who audition well are sometimes awful actors, and people who are great actors sometimes just don’t audition well.
Those are my random thoughts for this midnight post. Next post will be about an interesting idea that’s been on my mind and is worth discussion and debate: the difference between snark and satire. In general, people who are satirists know the difference; people who are snarky do not.
As I write this post the sleeper comedy hit “Mystery Men” is ending on TV, and of course, the credits are playing us out with Smashmouth’s “All Star.” Luckily, it’s been long enough since I’ve heard that song that it’s cute again. Now it’s the second verse, I take it back. I’m deciding which comedy to watch “New Adventures of Old Christine” or “Sons of Tucson.” Julia Louis-Dreyfus and Wanda Sykes, or Joe Lo Truglio. Hmmph. Channel flipping it is.
I’m in Canada. Yeah, THAT Canada. I’ve been to the others and let me tell you those Canadas just aren’t Canadian enough. Stick with the one true Canada. It’s Canada.
If you can’t tell by that last paragraph, I’ve been very isolated. Mainly because I live alone. That, and I don’t know anyone is Vancouver. Sure, I know the cast and crew of my show, but the crew are locals and after a 14 to 15 hour day, do you wanna hang out with someone from work? No, you wanna go home to your actual friends and family. And the cast? All married. They don’t wanna see me. Either they go back to LA to spend time with their spouse, or their spouse is here visiting. And if neither of those things are happening, married people hang out with other married people – to talk about being married.
Maybe I’m projecting.
Luckily, being isolated leaves me plenty of time to dwell on these things instead of going out and meeting people. What am I talking about? I don’t know how to meet people. Everyone I know was discovered in forced situations like school, work, stand up shows. You’re forced to be around people and gravitate toward people you like at some point. At least that’s how I do it. I believe everyone gets to the age where you no longer make friends, you just lose them. Unless, you’re fortunate enough to have myriad forced situations.
Canadian news is on. Drownings on one channel, stabbing on one, and a shooting on the other. Ah, Feels like home.
I love that this place is called Newport News because they seem to have never gotten any information. WAKKA WAKKA WAKKA! No, it’s fine. Actually, I wouldn’t really know because I haven’t seen anything out side of the airport. I’ve noticed that people do that sometimes: judge a place by the airport.
“Fucking Roanoke sucks man.”
“What part did you go to?”
“No part. Just the airport. Had a layover.”
You can’t do that! I know what you’re thinking, “Roanoke DOES suck,” but that is beside the point!
*SIDENOTE: the places I’ve been to in the Roanoke area, do not suck. Blue ridge foothills: pretty amazing.
My point is my body has turned on me. Not that I think I’m old, but I am at the point where all the awful eating habits I have are really beginning to take a toll. I noticed it last year while having the fortune to shoot a TV pilot in LA. I was chilling at the table with all the free food just imbibing Coke at every moment. My “child” brain gets excited about things like this. “Free Soda! This can’t be true!” It’s the same kind of mind trick that made me have 6 boxes of sugary cereal at any moment during my junior year of college (Cocoa Puffs, Cocoa Pebbles, Fruity Pebbles, Apple Jacks, Waffle Crisps, I have a problem).
Whilst downing my 3rd or 4th beverage that day, I started to feel something very unfamiliar. I just felt big. Like my stomach and sides were just jutting out. I had the thought “I feel fat” for the first time ever. I began describing it to another cast member while in the middle of soft drink.
“Oh, you’re just bloated.”
“Bloated. You feel bloated. Drink some water and when you go to the bathroom you’ll feel better.”
He was right. I drank some water and laid off the Coke. The damage had been done, however, because I KNEW WHAT THE FUCK BLOATED WAS. It’s awful. Women have been feeling this way monthly since they were 12?! Wow, I apologize for everything. I now get where you’re coming from because when I feel that way, it just makes me want to soak my feet and watch Grey’s Anatomy – two things I’ve never done.
I’m also lactose intolerant. I’m sorry – I have lactose malabsorbtion. I’ve recently been told THAT is the correct term…because lactose needs political correctness. Although, I guess it’s true that your body has a problem absorbing enzymes, rather then standing outside a lactose church with torches yelling, “Go back to Lacfrica!”
If you don’t know what it means to be lactose intolerant, let me give you an insiders insight. It means I no longer recognize the smell of my own farts. All my farts are a symptom of my body’s confusion. That’s right, ladies, let’s eat some cheese and spend the night!
Not that I had one fart when my digestion still worked, but I had maybe 5 farts: 5 “go-to” farts. Sure each had their own personality, but they were like a boy band in that they have different styles, but it was still the same group.
FART: That’s the sensitive one.
FART: That’s the bad boy.
FART: That one…seriously needs to come out of the closest already.
Now, every fart is a mystery. Like I said it’s a product of my body’s confusion. It’s like dairy is Calculus and my small intestine is someone who is bad at math. My gas is the equivalent of that bad-matician looking at an equation. Just – “Wow, uh, um, gee, pssh, yeah uh, ffft, guh, ugh, yeah, uh, wow, I don’t know, I DON’T KNOW, I DON’T KNOW!”
Thus my flatulences (that a word?) are unique snowflakes that you DO NOT wanna catch on your tongue. Just nasty and disgusting.
However, if I don’t eat dairy, none of this happens…LADIES?!
*(note: took me over 2 weeks to finish this post.)
Welcome to my blog! I’m saying that to myself really because I haven’t written a blog since 2007. Blogs kinda ARE 2007, but I don’t give a poop! I’m writing one. They keep me writing and on my feet, son!
I just spent the last 3 months living with a cat. I mean, I was living with a roommate that HAD a cat. It wasn’t the cat’s place. That’d be weird. Him showing me around…
CAT (really nonchalant and fratty): Yeah, so this is the bathroom. It’s standard. Shower, sink, covered in litter, you know how it goes. This is your room: 10 by 12. And this is the living room: A NEVER ENDING MAZE OF SCRATCHING POSTS.
I now understand cat ladies better. Since I work at night, I spent a lot of time alone at home with the cat and I realized that if you spend a lot of time alone with an animal, you WILL talk to that animal like it’s another person. At first, it’s a joke. You make eye contact and say, “what are YOU looking at Mr. Funnybottoms?!” And you catch yourself, “He can’t speak English, or other languages.” Then one day you’re watching the news and it seems the cat is too. You say, “What do YOU think about the Public Option.” The cat gives you a look that make you think you need to ask a follow up question.
That’s when you find out the cat is on the opposite end of the political spectrum. He’s REALLY conservative. So ya need to balance it out. You go to the pet store looking for another cat. One says, “I’m a liberal.” So you take him home thinking you can get some other ideas on the floor. Turns out you misheard that cat, he’s a libertarian. Not gonna work. So you go back to the store to get a left leaning centrist that’ll hopefully bring some peace to this ragtag political process. Then you get another cat: he’s a Whig. And another: he’s a Torry. Next thing you know you are surround by cats. You are running Cat-gress. You’re the speaker of the house of house-cats.
This is where you cease being able to communicate with people. You’ve spent all your time debating with cats, making plans for the future with cats, developing alternative energy sources with cats, getting and giving romantic advice to cats. Their world has been reversed. Have you ever seen the look in a cat ladies eyes when a human says something to them? Utter confusion. Know why? Cuz when a person talks to them, all they hear is a series of meows and hisses.