I turn 37 later this year, but I’ve certainly felt my mortality with all the losses this year (Tim, George, Bernie), of which Paul Newman is the latest. GQ considered him one of the top 50 gentlemen of the 20th century, and for good reason. I’ve got a page from that issue of GQ on my wall, with nine of those top gents, and Paul is there next to Pacino and above Jack. His Newman’s Own line was a fantastic example of a celebrity committing a significant and lasting act of charity . . . in the private sector. I grew up watching Butch & Sundance. This year I’ve finally embraced the journalist/entertainer in my soul. So I feel like I’ve lost not just a portion of my childhood, but a mentor and hero in Paul Newman. Others spoke, even screamed. He simply and elegantly acted. The results were his quiet eloquence.
At a Barnes and Noble today, I came across “My Lobotomy“. Creepy stuff, especially as it is non-fiction, not the basis for the next horror flick screenplay. Should be required reading for y’all who think “doctor” is the label for someone you can immediately trust.
Obama is smart enough to manage it and he wants to post the plan details on MySpace.
McCain is experienced enough to get to the bottom of it and he wants to write out the plan details in longhand, ’cause he don’t trust them machines.
If Obama is for the little guy and McCain is for free enterprise, why are they both holding hands as they steal from taxpayers and give to those of the wealthy that failed at the game of capitalism?
Not only are the potential emperors wearing no clothes, they are both heading our way with erections and patronizing smiles. I’m not even holding my breath for FEMA to show up in the nick of time with federally-approved lube.
My latest clip on RooftopComedy.com is from my August 25 open mic performance at Tommy T’s in Pleasanton, CA, not a bad sample of my current live performance comedy.
As Mike Peters (early in the movie Swingers) boasts voicemail more pregnant than mine, certainly my legion of fans have awaited the return of my blog posts with more baited breath than the season premiere of Entourage. Nevertheless, with apologies to Mark Twain, the reports of my literary death have been greatly exaggerated. I did not get kicked out of college and earn a spot on the FBI’s subversive list for publishing a newspaper . . . for nothing.
Silly me, I’ve spent my life attempting to sell when I should have been writing, publishing and performing. Greater joy has no man than this, to lay down his new comedy material for a surly and distracted audience. I’m getting a better handle on the tension between my writing and my desire to improvise in the moment on stage. Towards that end, I am delighted to be writing with more matter AND art, endeavoring to better capture and share the fardels and such small wares that stalk my mind. Towards that end, this blog hopes to aid and abet the mischief.
Mark is occupied with “life experiences”. Not to fret, they shall be richly mined in future literary spewings.