First, a spooky ‘Ween to all… May your toilet paper fly freely, your pumpkins splatter, and your bags of dog poo burn like beacons in the night. Favorite costumes so far: Martha Stewart (complete with handmade ankle beeper)… George W. Bush as the Hamburgular… and, my favorite, the Ghost of Tara Reid’s diginity and self-respect…may it only possess her once a year.
I’ve recently been faced with the horrors of being a homeowner. I’m getting used to the subtle nuances that make my new place “special”…retarded special, not extraordinary special. My apartment drools. Or it did, anyway. The second time I ran the dishwasher, it almost flooded the kitchen. And, recently, when I ran my dryer, it rained in my den. I’ve discovered that I’m handier around the house when faced with using an umbrella indoors…
Yesterday, standing on a chair to wipe off my ceiling, I found that the top of my dryer was cloaked in a blanket of lint and dust. Apparently, this was keeping the heat from venting properly, and creating a tropical depression in my den. I yanked it off, a la Ghostbusters (and the flowers are still standing…) and the problem has subsided. This goes a long way toward correcting a theory that I formulated when I was 5 years old…clouds are not made of cotton candy…they’re made of lint. Somebody call Sesame Street…get me Oscar the Grouch on the phone.
I need to be careful, though…just because I can use a Swiffer doesn’t exactly make me Bob Vila. When some real shit goes down, I doubt I’ll be able to correct it with a paper towel.
Oh…speaking of coming back from the dead (sorry for alienating any non-DC comedy folk here)… Raise your hand if you remember Joe Springer…ok…a few of you… He was a fixture of the DC scene back in ’02-’03, when there was still comedy at Chief Ike’s and Zoo Bar. Chris White and I ran into him on the streets of Adams Morgan while barking for a Staccato show…and that was the last anyone ever saw of Joe Springer. *POOF* And like that he was gone. Underground. Nobody has ever seen him since. He becomes a myth, a spook story that open-mikers tell their kids at night. “Tell a cancer joke, and Joe Springer will get you.” And no-one ever really believes… The greatest trick Joe Springer ever pulled was convincing the world he didn’t exist.
Well, a couple weeks ago, out of the blue, I get an email from Joe. No explanation of where he’s been. Like he was swallowed by a wrinkle in time and, to him, it’s only been a week. Odd. Freaky. Just to me? Got it. Move on? Ok.
I’ll be making a rare appearance at Topaz on Thursday. The room is always tons o’ fun. There promises to be a stocked roster of talented comics…and me *sigh*
To be continued…