" ...in my acting class, I had to speak at the funeral of someone I loved. I picked my Dad..."
My Ten Seconds, March 23, 1999
The Dow hit 10,000 this week. I hope you're all making enough money to support
a comedian. It costs only 50 dollars a day to feed a comedian, unless he/she
is overweight and maintaining a series of fat jokes. Alcoholic comedians
cost less, because alcoholics don't eat and drinking is free if the comedian
is sleeping with the right waitress. (Any waitress who's been working at
the club for less than two months is the right waitress).
I missed the St Patrick's Day parade, but I went out later that night long enough to be disgusted by the very public I claim to love to entertain. Earlier in the day at work, I had been subjected to a series of Irish jokes. Dear reader, there's nothing lower than ethnic jokes, especially when told by a Polack. At least we have a culture to mock, you palooka. Everyone's Irish on St Patrick's Day, except homosexuals, who are English.
My roommate Laura's twin sister Leslie came to town. Of all the identical twins I've misidentifed, Leslie and Laura look the least alike. Their voices and speech patterns are indecipherable, however, and if you don't look up, it sounds like Laura is having an intense conversation with herself, complete with answered questions, blessed sneezes and overlapping dialogue.
I'm not the only one driven crazy by the city. I go to the post office to mail pictures to my agent. Her office is 7 blocks away from where I am standing on line (yes, they say
on linehere, not
in line), but New Yorkers will agree that it's easier to mail these things than to walk from 34th to 41st during rush hour. A window opens, I walk up with my package and the postal worker stares at me, dumfounded.
"You look surprised," I say.
He stares.
"Are you supposed to go on your lunch break right now?"
"You didn't let me say 'next.'" he says. "I'm supposed to get ten seconds between customers."
Aha.
"Would you like me to return to the line so your last transaction has closure?"
"No, but you'll have to wait a few seconds."
"Of course."
I made all the usual medical appointments when I was home last month. Dental, gynelogical, highlights. My dad emailed me this week with good news, saying the lab called to say my "Pabst test" came back ok. While I am still awaiting the results of my Pap smear, I am thrilled to know that I passed the cheap beer quiz. I have a Blue Ribbon vagina. Thanks, Dad!
In my acting class, I had to speak at the funeral of someone I loved. I picked my Dad. I told the congregation that my Dad was a very good man, so good that the IRS audited him and found nothing. So good that he'd wave an unanswered hello to the Gilmores, a family of Catholic hating evangilists who lived down the street and wouldn't open the door when we sang Christmas carols. My dad thought that maybe, one day, they'd wave back. My Dad is so good, that for the rest of our lives, my mom, sister and I can be assholes and when we die, we can say, "oh, we're with Ron," and we'll be waved right in, quite possibly by a repentetant Gilmore.
After my class, an actor said, "I'm down with Ron."
Me too.
