Dizzy Dizzy

 "Kids, have I ever told you about the time that I was dizzy for a week and a half? No? Good. I thought I may have, we've been sitting here for like 11 years or something, I think. I... What?... No, who gives a shit where your mother was. This is a better story. Anyway, I went to bed gently toking on some old, old Mary Jane that actually still worked, surprisingly, but not as well. Side note, you're much to young to mess with that stuff. Stay in school. When I awoke, I was dizzy. The walls were doing that inception thing where they fold in on themselves. It was the morning, and I didn't think that I was still lightly high from the night before. I did get really excited, briefly, because kids, I thought I was goddamn Leo DiCaprio. When I looked in the mirrors, I realized I wasn't and got scared because we only had one mirror. So why we're there 4 of me? Hold on, here's a commercial."

"Barney, Robin, Lily, and uncle whats-his-face were all at work, doing whatever it is they do, we never found out. Anyway, this dragged on for a day and I got worried because it was worse the next day, almost like I dropped a level in Inception canon. What I decided was that I needed to see a doctor, so I went to my PCP. She tested me neurologically, which meant we played patty cake for a couple of minutes, from which she reasoned that I was fine. How she got all of that from my hands touching hers is beyond me. Then, she looked me in my two eyes and I looked her in all 8 of hers and she said 'Haaavvveee... you had vertigo before?' I said 'No' and she said 'You probably have that. Let's get you sea sickness pills and an MRI.' Another commercial break, kids. It pays for that couch you're on."

"Where was I? These stories tend to drag on with no real point. Oh yeah, the MRI went fine. I'm ok and my brain is unremarkable, which I tried to argue wasn't true, but the doctors shut me down. It's funny, I got the MRI way after I stopped being dizzy. The dizziness lasted for a week and a half and then disappeared. That was a week and a half of feeling buzzed, which I'll tell you about when you're older. As quickly as it came, it went, like Barney and one of his nightly guests. No explanation given. It put the 'go' in Vertigo... Ok, sorry, I'll get on with it. We never actually found out what made me dizzy. Let's call it stress. Kind of like the stress you feel while you wait for me to tell you how I met, well, my wife. She was my wife before she was your mother. Did you know that, kids?"

Roll credits.

Del Closed

Well, I'm still finding my footing in this new 2.0 world, but look: this last weekend of June saw the conclusion of the Del Close Marathon in New York City. It, like countless other New Yorkers looking for work, is moving to LA next year. Sources report that it will soon go out for commercial auditions and sit in a room of other festivals and marathons that look just like it. Also, it's borrowing it's Dad's four door Acura and driving out there, cross country. City of Stars, baby

Will I follow it to LA next year? Maybe... but probably not. But that's not why I'm here today, to speculate on my living situation. No. I'm here to give a review of the whole thing this year. Leggo!

I slept everyday. I had to, I've been feeling burnt out since before this whole thing started, but we'll get to that later, once I nail down what it is. It all started with ASSSSCAT at Carnegie Hall on Thursday. If you've ever wanted to watch improv but not hear improv, then Carnegie Hall is for you. I was ok because I had headphones and those fancy tiny binoculars, but for the rest of the audience, I doubt they enjoyed it. Kind of like watching a TV on mute. I needed Tina Fey to write (Del) close(d) captioning. Anyway, it was a good show (or so I'm told by the front row) and I enjoyed being in that iconic hall for that iconic show. It just goes to show us that if we practice, practice, practice in sweaty studios, we to can get to Carnegie Hall doing improv.

The lines at DCM tend to be long. I'm no stranger to camping on the pavements of NYC, so this is always a sidewalk in the park for me. With the new UCB being basically on the Intrepid, it's tough to wrap lines around buildings without alerting the residential neighborhood that too many white people in their 20's and 30's are laying on the ground waiting to see celebrities bullshit their way through thirty minutes of empty stage time. People were confused but ok with it

Celebrities showed up in full force, at all hours of the day. There was McBrayer, Mantzoukas, Scheer, St. Clair, Parham, Kroll, Byer, Walsh, Besser, Roberts, Poehler, Gemberling, Antamanuik, Gabrus, and so many others. My head nearly exploded. But, it does that every year, so I'm never concerned.

I wasn't picked to volunteer, probably to let the new guys/gals do it before DCM moves to Tinsel Town. I'm ok with that, but my wallet isn't. If I listen really close, at night, I can still hear it whining when I sleep. It's either that, or I have tinnitus from the cheering and applause. Because I didn't volunteer or perform (Thank You, Del), I had no access to the party space, which is this magical place full of beer and dancing, like a bar that has the layout of an art gallery. Guess I'll have to go when I get to LA next year... (wink)

They're Back!!!

Sorry I've been gone so long. It took me forever to update my terms and conditions. You should be a receiving an email shortly. Man, these European COPD laws are no joke. Whatever the case, it's been updated, resolved, and concluded. Come at me, Cambridge Analytica! You won't do it, no balls! No, I don't mean all of the data of the people that you have whose last names are Balls, I mean courage. (I'm currently being infiltrated by Cambridge Analytica. Send help!)

What I wanted to talk about today is something that's kind of topical. Why, as culture, do we have to reboot and reuse everything we've created before? I'm very content to let sleeping dogs lie, unless Sleeping Dogs was a hit TV show in the 80's; then, by all means, reboot it. I'd love to see Alan Alda again! With everything else, though, let's just let it exist. Is the star of the show a racist, rapist, or rakist (doesn't like fall yardwork)? Then, at the very least, we had that art that someone made. We can still enjoy it. Let's not invite this person back to make it again, and uncover new theories about how Rosanne likes Trump. This much, we knew. Seems like we're trying to beat a dead horse. Kind of like watching a remake of Mr. Ed.

I'm happy to let the newcomers in; the hes and shes and theys who have something to say. Fresh faces = new places! (So glad I got to write that here. I've een pitching it to L'Oréal for months but they won't respond to my DMs.) The time is now! Seize it while you can. If you work in any type of media, please employ new people. Don't let the crazy old people make you think that the landscape is garbage. The young ones might surprise you. Unless you want to reboot the old.

In fact, that's what's happened here. This is People Say I'm Funny 2: Electric Bugaloo! This is the rebooted PSIF, where we brought back all of the same characters you know and love, except Becky is played by a different white actress and Mary-Kate and Ashley Olson are busy (spending the money they made their parents twenty years ago). Tune in! We're. Back!

Let It Go

Recently, I've been using the mobile application letgo to sell a few things. For those who don't know, letgo is an item selling app that lets you communicate and exchange belongings for money with interested people. Their slogan is "letgo: For when a yard sale doesn't feel enough like a drug deal." Don't get it confused with my actual drug dealing app called Let'sGo!, which is where you meet someone for drugs, and after a few minutes, a siren alarm goes off and makes everyone leave.

Letgo is pretty good. In a city like New York, people always want old junk or white-elephant-gone-wrong gifts. If you have any of these, I urge you to sell them on the internet to strangers who live near you but not near any public transportation. I like to meet folks at a Dunkin Donuts or a Starbucks because they are everywhere, and because there are witnesses. The other day, I met someone in the Manhattan Mall in front of the Starbucks kiosk. When the barista asked if I wanted anything, I said "You to promise that you're watching me." I didn't have to specify; the barista understood that it was a tall order.

It's kind of like Craigslist but with less cuddling, if that makes any sense. They've now done that annoying thing where it's all linked up with Facebook, and they pester you with your "friends" using it. But I don't need to use letgo to sell things to friends. I need it to sell things to people who just have a name and a zip code. Kisha 11223. And people who want the dumb shit that I have in my apartment that my friends have given me. Don't tell me my friends want something. I'll ask them myself.

I guess what I'm trying to say is sponsor me, letgo, so that when you decide to not sponsor me anymore, I can say "I don't know what happened, they let me go." That'll be good for a few guffaws. Anyway, we'll see if I can sell anything else to random Brooklynites looking for plates and bowls or a loft bed. Because I'm Brooklyn, one man's trash is another man's clutter. 

Fraud Protection?

I bank with PNC, which basically means that I went to college. In New York, using PNC is not an easy thing to do, since there aren't very many branches or ATMs. I feel like PNC modeled their business off of Chik Fil-A, except PNC doesn't hate the LGBTQIA community. But both are hard to find and closed on Sundays and both have a lot of my money. (I couldn't care less about what they think of me and my lifestyle habits, I just need those tasty, tasty nuggets. But, I digest. [I've made that joke before, I think. It's hard to keep track. Yell at me on twitter for it.])

Why I am telling you where I bank? Cause it doesn't matter anymore. Facebook already sold all of my information to Cambridge Analytica, so they know everything. (And all because one of my friends clicked on a silly questions quiz, or so they told me when I clicked the mysterious link that appeared last week on Facebook.) The cat's out of the money bag, as it were. (Side note: I love Cambridge Analytica. Best encyclopedia I've ever owned. Their software really paired well with Encarta Online when I was a kid.) The main reason I even mention the Pittsburghian Native Casholder (PNC?) is because recently, they've thought that my card has been fraught with frauds (better title).

I recently booked an AirBnB upstate for half of a week over the summer to "take care of something." I got an automated call letting me know that suspected fraud had occurred on my credit card. Oh not so, Personal 'N'ytime Cash (P'n'C?) credit card. I made the purchase. With the tax return I just received, I payed you down and charged more on. That's your one job: to send and receive virtual money, like the OG bitcoin. Don't ask me about train tickets to New Jersey or my journey to upstate New York. I live in this area. I live in New York City.

I don't want to have to call and verify purchases with a robot. It's embarrassing and slightly unsettling as a person. Oh, what? This robot thinks its right and now has full jurisdiction over me and my debt, cause let's face it, that's what's in the bank. Anyway, guess I need to fill out a travel form when I go out of state to one over or stay in one state, just go to the other edge of it. Sheesh!

On the plus side though, fraud protection really does do good work, and I should be thanking the Permanent New Checking (PNC???) system. I love knowing that they always have my back. Also, I still have a student account, and it's been four years since I graduated. I'll let you know when that scam hits the fan. That's the fraud they should be seeing. But no, they see Oswego, NY, and think "Is his card stolen?" Boy, Oswego must be really bad. I guess I'll find out when I'm doing my "business by a river and lake upstate." (Nothing illegal or fraudulent, of course. Just going to a Renaissance Faire.)

Returning to my Flow

This past weekend, I did yoga for the first time. Huh, feels more like yoga did me, actually. I'm still sore in places that I didn't know I had. As part of the pressure of being "the new kid in school", I could feel myself bending over backwards to impress this room of all women, and also because I had to bend over backwards for these... what would you call them... elaborate stretches? I've never put my arm around and under my leg before and most likely never will again. It hurt, a lot. I was like "My body doesn't do this!" but the yoga teacher didn't hear me over the collective "Ahhh" exhale that everyone else was doing. That's the thing about yoga. It's very inwardly reflective. Lots of "Ahhhs" and "Shhhs" My favorite pose was the one where we layed down. That was nice. 

I brought my own mat, which I didn't know I had. I remembered that I drunkenly family stened one out of those leftover packing peanuts and some bubble rap that Amazon sends. It was a bit noisy at first, but after a while, most people had synced their movements to it. To be honest, I hadn't seen that many women sync up their flows since the last time I watched The View. It was incredible. 

In a way, a yoga session is like a fine wine... it ends with you doing acrobatics on the floor. I've never sweat more standing in one place than I did on that mat. Afterwards, I was pooped and it was popped. Speaking of pooping, I'm at the doctors now. Like right now as I write this. It's about an hour and fifteen minutes past my appointment on Tuesday and I'm tired. Ooh! Maybe I should do yoga right here. Anyone can teach it, the teacher over the weekend said so repeatedly. Alright, here goes... "Everyone, please move these chairs out of the way, and I guess, lay on the rug..." I'll let you know how this goes later. I was finally seen by the doctor around 8 pm on Tuesday. We didn't speak, but I know he saw me because he waved on the way by the door. That was nice, too.

When Will the Madness End?

The answer is tonight, actually. But, I guess I'm talking about a different type of madness than March Madness. I won't money this with my brackets, which if you know me is exciting because I choose basketball teams like your mom. "That one, with the colors." Sure, there's the general sense of world madness, but I wouldn't touch that situation even if you paid me me Stormy Daniels-type money. And threatened me in a parking lot. What I'm talking about is the crazy situation happening down south, past my belly button and above my kidneys. If you hit my balls, you've gone too far (or in some rare cases, not far enough!).

Now, I'm not alone in thinking that my brain might be controlling my stomach. I once heard that the world was gonna end in 2012, and then my stomach hurt for months. The world didn't end in 2012 cause the Mayans don't know crap! More like Nostradumbass! (I get hit by lightning after writing this.) No, what I'm clamoring on about is my psyche. There's so much wrong with me mentally that my therapist thinks there's nothing wrong with me. I said "You're confusing unwillingness to share with nothing to share," and he said... nothing because I didn't say that to him. I probably said something like "Ok." I gotta get better at that. Personal growth, Charlie. Stay in your lane. Talk to the guy. He's taking your money.

Anyway, Happy Pesach and Happy Easter! Easter? I hardly know her. Haha, just kidding, I know her. She went to school with me. Easter and Passover fell on nearly the same day this year. And no one was more confused than the staff at Walgreens. "How come the shelves are empty? Did people actually buy that crappy bread? And hey look, the Matzah's gone too." That was a Peeps joke. Nailed it like Jesus to the cross. It's ok, he lived or something.  We don't quite know. What we do know is that both holidays involve eggs and looking for hidden things, which, if you think about it, is what life is truly about... Man, eggs are so good. And hidden things are good too. Sometimes. That's for my therapist to decide.

Spring Cleaning Spree

Ok, what did I miss?

Wow, I gotta stop going away for so long. I basically forgot my password to get back on here. Remembered it at the last second, though, good 'ole 123456 hasn't let me down yet.

I've been busy in my absence from this far away place, deep cleaning my apartment and my colon. That's right, I had a colonscopy, which, in Latin, roughly tranlates to colon guided tour. (I had a really spunky freshman leading the way. High hopes I'll get into Colon College.) I got one because people dying around me hasn't made me feel old enough yet. And that's including the fact that I was born a forty year old woman who is slowly self-realizing that right now. I cleaned my bathroom right after because after you prepare for a colonoscopy, you need to clean your bathroom.

The preparation is the worst part, followed by the 2.5 hour wait to be seen by a "licensed professional." You know how much hungry and tired people love to wait, right? Because the night before, you basically drink a gallon of human approved Draino and then try to go to sleep. Alternatively, tide pods will clean you out as well. Life hack! #tidead Around glass 12 or 13, you get good at drinking the stuff, only to find out that you have like 1 glass left. Practice makes perfect, and this stuff makes you poop. Well, it's more like peeing out of your ass. You've heard of talking out of your ass; well, this is everything out of your ass.

The procedure itself is really no big deal. Someone sticks a camera up your butt and takes pictures, a person I'm calling "the pooparazzi." The hardest part was reconfirming my birthday for every God damn person I met. It hasn't changed, you morons. For the rest of it, they administer Propofol and you're out cold. That's the drug Michael Jackson died from. I didn't die, but I did wake up and learn that I had starred in a Pepsi commercial. Turns out, I'd been hit by a "Poop Criminal."

When you wake up, you fart for a while and feel squeaky clean. Or as I call it, Wednesday. You grab whatever drink they've given you, and then someone takes you home to eat something. Everything tastes good cause it's all food. Remember food? So good, that stuff. When all is said and done, you've been violated with a camera and charged $200, or as I call it, Wednesday. 

The results of my stomach thing came back fine, so now we think it's stress. That's probably it. I am a nervous person. Always have been. Always will be. So we will see, I guess. I'll figure it out. How hard can managing stress be, guys? Guys? GUYS?!!

The bathroom was its own beast, needing some absolutely warranted tender love and care, or TLC, only in this case, we wanted scrubs. And I took every cleaning solution we had and scrubbed my watery colonoscopy poop from the windows. There's no more more hair down the sink drain or up my butt. Just kidding, there's still a lot of hair up my butt. I do not manscape. Sometimes, I flick the hairs down there in the shower and watch them go down the drain. That's called flickscaping, and it sounds less like a grooming technique and more like a movie streaming platform. I'll make that for next week. I've gotten the bathroom cleaned, and I've been eating regular meals off of the floor ever since. That won't affect my stomach at all, will it? Let's wait till next week to find out.  Bye!!

Where the Hell Have I Been?

Hi! Hello! How are you? No, you're not crazy. I've been MIA for the month of February, and by that I mean I've been recording music. I know I missed Valentine's Day. I wanted to say that I did buy a single rose for my girlfriend. Because nothing screams LOVE like watching a plant die together. Besides that, I missed the Olympics. I just didn't watch any of it. If I were to win a medal, it would be in 'not watching the olympics.' There, I said it!

The reason I've been MIA is that I've been  trying to get my stomach under control. Last year, it was cancer; this year, it's like severe IBS or something. No one knows. I'll be pushing more out about this in the following weeks, but suffice to say that I got a colonoscopy and that wasn't fun. It wasn't funny either. And that's what we're here to try to be, isn't it?

Let me figure some stuff out and get back to you. I'll be the butt of the joke in no time. Butt first, let me figure a few things out about the stomach I now have. It's the same one from before, only it's hangrier. You get it!

DIY Guy: Clogged Sink

Well, I'm from Philadelphia, so when I woke up at noon on Monday after partying all night, the first thing I said was "Ew, I need to clean up in here. And whose ceramic goat is this?" I don't normally buy ceramic goats, so I knew it wasn't mine. One thing that I did know, however, was that I had to fix, almost immediately, the bathroom sink. It's been clogged since way before the Super Bowl. Maybe I should've called the Eagles over and told them that the drain was every other team in the NFL. They would've knocked that clog right outta there. #flyeaglesfly #slipperywhengreased

Now, I can't afford Drano, the good stuff, so I went online and looked up what I could do that I had at home, like an old wives tale, as the misogynistic saying goes. I remembered watching a video a few months back about unclogging a drain, but my hungover brain couldn't find it in my Facebook activity. The internet came to the rescue and immediately showed me how to use salt, vinegar, lemon/lime juice, and boiling water to unclog a drain.

It's not hard. You mix the salt and vinegar (equal parts) and add the lemon/lime juice for acidity. (Note: the salt will not dissolve. Don't waste time by not understanding chemistry and stirring for 10 minutes. Afterwards, I had to do what I did in chemistry class and fall asleep.) Then, you pour it down whatever drain is clogged, and let it sit for 15-30 minutes. The clog marinates in the ersatz vinaigrette that you've created and breaks up like unfaithful spouses; in the bathroom. Finally, you just need to pour boiling hot water down the drain. Careful of splash back. I've literally been burned before.

You're wondering if it works right now. I can report that, yes, it kind of works. The water used to sit in the sink and now goes down. I should say that I did two rounds of it, but I think I took a page out of the government's playbook and partially fixed the issue. I was impressed, because basically, I took things from the kitchen and fixed it. I threw everything but the kitchen sink at it, because two clogs don't make a right. I didn't follow all the rules because I'm not a cuck. I am my own person. But hey, moral of the story is that it kind of works, if you don't mind the number one complaint on the Titanic today: a salty sink.

Join me next time on DIY Guy, a segment that I'm starting right here, right now. Maybe next time, I'll tell you how to remove a stain from a shirt. #TideAd It's helpful, sort of.

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