A word to the Pollinators and Germinators of the world...

***WARNING!!!***

I am in a perfectly fine, perfectly content mood!
     (Hey there, you handsome readers, you! I've missed you! Have you missed me?)

What a way to jump back into the wonderful world of my blog!
     (What do you MEAN it's been over a year? Surely that can't be right...)

I was just sitting here thinking about all the idiots out there who've donated their seed to humanity.
     (Why yes, I DO happen to be the recipient of such a humanitarian gift. Twice, even!)

And as I sat and pondered, the thought occurred to me (as it often does) to rant about my ponderance in poem form.

Because that's just what I do.

So here it is! An ode to the ogres and ogrettes of the world who've aided in the population expansion of our good species without taking on any of the responsibility that traditionally accompanies such an endeavor.

~h

p.s. I really have missed you!

Ahem, without further ado...

To the Pollinators, To the Germinators

To the pollinators of the world I'd like to say to thee

It's sure the biggest shame of all you thoughtless spilled your seed

I pray that one day when your seed has lost its strength and power

You'll think of what you've done and missed; may those thoughts make you cower

To germinators like the pollinators do I say

I hope the fruit of misspent youth does haunt your soul someday

I hope that you, with womb grown cold, will one sad day recall

That what you, in your youth, brought forth was more precious than all

It might be harsh but I don't care that comfort I do find

In thinking that the price you've paid will grow steeper with time

That one day, when such time has passed, when your bright dreams grow dim

You'll sigh and wonder why on earth you passed on her or him

You'll think you've made the worst mistake, and you'll be right, my friend

But Time's a bitter mistress and you can't begin again

So there you'll sit steeped deep in misery and sore regret

Wishing you'd never missed out on the life you helped beget

And there I'll be, and others, too, with memories forever

Of precious lives and love well-spent and bonds that can't be severed

First words and steps and heartbreaks, first kisses and I love you's

Milestones you can't quite fathom through second and third hand news

Oh sure, maybe some day you'll get a photograph or two

And you'll lay claim since in that face you'll see that there's some you

But all you'll have are someone else's mem'ry that they've shared

With you, the Pollinator, Germinator, who was spared

The messy, unintended, inconvenience of the wild

And bless'd unique experience of helping to raise a child

Pick that bar up off the ground, girl OR Why WOWing Wiener-walkers won't win women

Is it Taco Time yet? It probably should be. The fact that I still have enough men to create an encore song should be proof enough of that.

This next fella I have actually dodged around town a few times. Ducked quickly into the nearest aisle in the grocery store, slinked past him undetected in a department store somewhere, and successfully (so far) evaded while surfing the lonely hearts on the interwebs.

There's not a whole lot to say about this guy, except that I really should raise the bar and be a little less accepting of people/things when I'm deciding whether to go out with someone or not. I mean, let's face it. I've knocked my list of requirements down to the bare bones must haves, and even then that leaves the bar so low that all the guys have to do is step over it. I think it's time for the winds of change to blow over me.

He was a former Marine - oorah! - and in the band, WHICH I didn't mind because I like music and musicians. He was into photography, which I love, and some light (video)gaming, which I can abide. His pictures weren't that unflattering, and his personality seemed completely doable. Not, like do-able do-able. Damnit, I know you know what I mean.

I decided we should just go ahead and meet up. I don't have time for the lengthy, drawn-out rigamarole of dating. Ain't nobody got time fer dat! And because - as you have all borne witness to - I have excellent decision-making skills - we planned to meet up for a hike through the woods at Black Hawk State Park. "Oh, the place where they dumped that poor girls torched and chopped up body?" Why yes! The very same.

Makes great decisions *points at self.

I seriously wasn't worried. I was even less worried when I saw him. I'm going to call him Bear. One, because I think that was his name on the dating site, and Two... because I can't remember his real name anymore.

As I got out of my car and started walking I could see a man walking toward me.

(He was not, for the record, holding any sort of trophy or Golden Globe.)
I foolishly thought for a split second that maybe this was not, in fact, the man I was meeting. That thought quickly faded as I remembered just how awesome my dating track record had been. Bear ambled toward me, looking much more... corpulent... than his pictures might have led me to believe. And, call it the curse of a faded memory or 20/20 hindsight, but looking back I can only see a slightly more modern version of one of the Croods. He was thick - beyond thick - and his head was gi-freaking-normous. A bit of a neanderthalic brow. Yeah, I might have made that word up, but I know you can picture it, can't you? He had chubby wrists. Wrists, I tell you! Wrists should not be chubby unless you are still counting your age by weeks or months. He was a few dozen pounds from being a full on mouth breather. Actually, we were in the vastness of the outside world. He probably was a mouth breather. Hi-five for dodging that one!

That was really all I needed to know about him right there. I know that might seem shallow, but you see, friends, there must be the slightest, tiniest, most miniscule bit of attraction between two people, and in reciprocal fashion, for any sort of relationship to form. Either that or I have serious depth issues, but I don't think that's the case. Anyway... so we started off on our hike. I had my camera with me because it was an picturesque, sunny, midafternoon fall day. The light and shadow was amazing within the trees. I was sure this photographer was going to be as enraptured as I was, furiously snapping picture after picture. "Isn't this just amazing? I mean look at it! I love photographing nature." His response? "I actually just really like studio photography where I can control all the elements."

LAME.

He couldn't even see a fraction of the beauty that I was overwhelmed by. I'm not opposed to dating people with differing opinions, but seriously? Maybe if this guy stepped out of his hobbit hole more often he might find beauty in the brightly lit, unsuffocated external world. Just sayin'.

We trudged through the woods for what after that seemed like an eternity, chatting about the military and finding more and more dissimilarities (in my opinion). The best was when we got back to our cars, though. That's when I found out the most important bit of information.

He lived with his mom.

Of course he did! I mean, why wouldn't he? Okay, here's the thing, and maybe this is my downfall. I am just too damn old - as are the men I'm attempting to woo - to abide dating a man who has become comfortable just kicking with his mama for an undetermined amount of THE REST OF HIS LIFE. Sure, things happen. Parents get sick. We lose our jobs or fall on hard times. Get your ass BACK UP and move back out! Oookay... *slides soapbox away. Sheesh. Yeah, so we had a mini convo about him walking his mom's wiener dog and other boring stuff. And then way too much conversation about Assassin's Creed and video games and at that point I was praying for a stray bold of lightning to part the wispy clouds of that bright blue-skied sunny day and part my skull. Thankfully that strike didn't make its way down from the heavens, but an end to the conversation arrived, and that was good enough for me and we parted ways. With a hug. I can't help it. I hug everyone. I must stop that. Because as Bear wrapped me up he... ugh... I shudder to even recall the memory. As Bear gave me a parting hug, he... moaned. *shudder

Blegh! Who does that? I'm sorry, but it's creepy. Even creepier if you look and act like Bear, and even moreso if you barely know a person. Men - do yourselves and your women and lady friends a favor. Do not - I repeat - DO NOT ever moan audibly as you hug a woman. Unless she has her hand on your naughty bits, in which case that's an entirely different story. Just... just don't, mkay?

So there you have it. The story of Bear and the Woods. Fit to be told around the campfire for scary story sessions. I'm available at a very reasonable rate.

~h

NEXT TACO TIME: Wow, you're muscles are so muscley OR More evidence that Gingers have no souls.

Wow, your bobblehead collection is so cool OR "Don't bring me dow-own... Brrrruuuce!"

One Tuesday ago, in a blogging land far, far away...

"I am getting notoriously un-Tuesday like. Hmm... what to do about that... well, crap. I was hoping somewhere in the world it was still Tuesday. Nope. And since time machines don't exist (that we've seen/experienced yet)(is there a Doctor in the universe?) I'm completely out of luck. But you know what? I don't care. It's all good. You're getting a blog anyway, dammit..."

Just like Alderaan, that blog faded into oblivion a long time ago. But guess what? It's Tuesday! Again! Can you believe it???

(Okay, so now it's Wednesday.) Ahem, so yeah. Let's try to get back into the swing of things, shall we?

 

A

 

long

 

time

 

ago

 

 

... I started to tell you guys about the next fella in Taco Time. And just as a warning, ladies, he is still out there! On okcupid.com. Yessir. And horror of all horrors I accidentally clicked on his profile once. I didn't do it on purpose, I swear. He had a new picture, and on my phone it was so tiny. But I knew as soon as I saw that miniscule picture blow up to...well, a little bit bigger than miniscule, I knew right away that I had made a terrible mistake. Now don't get me wrong, he wasn't abusive, or cruel, or inherently evil or anything. He was just crazy. That's all. A little cuckoo.

 

I first met him as I've met most of the men in Taco Time: on a dating site. I think it was Yahoo personals, which is now defunct after having merged with Match. I should feel worse for knowing that since it means I've been around that dating scene that long (*cough9yearscough) but I'm going to gloss right over that.

 

He had a decently nice looking picture and seemed like a not awful kinda guy. Maybe he was a little too into video games and yeah, maybe he watched a little too much television. Not even the good kind. He lived on a diet of sports center and adult swim. And Aqua Teen Hunger Force? Meatwad? A floating shake with magical powers? Good God, man. (And may God have mercy on the souls of any of you out there who can honestly say you like that show. I'll be praying for you. Just sayin'.) But hey, after talking and/or chatting for a bit and especially after that big reveal that I was currently pregnant - yikes! - he still wanted to meet up and go on a date. I chalked that up as a win and on a date we went.

 

Actually, I'm pretty sure the first time I ever met him was when we met up behind Best Buy in Davenport while he was getting his new radio installed. In his Dodge Neon. That was just like my Dodge Neon. Matching matching! And what a guy. Hell, what a girl! Back door on the first date! Haha. Yeah, no.

 

So after he got his stereo taken care of we went back to his place. His narrow, dank, dark, dusty (the light was so sparse than when it did cut through the space you could see the little dust particles flitting about), cramped apartment. But hey, wow. You've got an awful lot of Mallards bobbleheads all lined up around your tiny kitchen. And wow...

 

 



Why I shouldn't be allowed to watch Parenthood alone OR What happens when I start up to late at night.

***WARNING!!!***
I've spent entirely too much time watching episodes of Parenthood tonight. (It should be noted that the current time as I'm writing this is 0334 on Wednesday.)That damn show should come with a warning label.

What that means to you folks is that I'm emotional, and I oftentimes find myself writing in times such as these.

What you are about to read might be any or all of the following:  sad, sappy, crazy cat lady, tmi, revealing, pathetic, honest, courageous to admit, bold, old news (if you know me well), news to you (if you don't), whiny, empowering, oorah, silly, unnecessary to post for all the world to read, necessary to post for all the world to read... I could go on.

One time there was a friend of mine that said I should stop posting all these whiny sappy blogs, and "maybe that was my problem." That person is no longer a friend (for that and several other reasons). Because this is MY blog, and what better place to put such ramblings? I'm not forcing anyone to read anything, but if they do? Hey, maybe they'll learn a thing or two, about me or even themselves. What can I say? It's cathartic putting these things/feelings out into the cosmos.

I feel the need to announce that I am not depressed, just... in a post-Parenthood reflective state of mind. Like corn, this, too, shall pass.

This is a post on a blog that I haven't opened publicly because all the posts were to a certain person. That person isn't... (it sounds awful to say, but...) deserving of the attention I've been paying him with my precious free time, so I'll be done with that. Or at least done with dedicating it to him. It's possible I'll be sharing some of these past entries here in the future as well. In the meantime, readers, friends and family - read at your own risk. You know, or don't. I'll still love you.

~h

It's not you.

It's not me.

Actually, it's kind of you. 

You, and every other guy that came before you.

Every guy that ever cheated on me. Every guy that never treated me the way I deserved. Every guy that ever left me for another girl. Every guy that wouldn't leave another girl for me. Every guy that ever let me down. Every guy that ever broke my heart. Every guy that ever hurt me, on accident or on purpose. Every guy that swore he'd never hurt me like the ones before and then did anyway. Every guy who tried to hide me. Every guy who wouldn't fight for me. Every guy who never saw me for the amazing person that I am. Every guy who said he saw me for the amazing person that I am and still let me go. Every guy who didn't stay. Every guy who didn't turn out to be the man he said he was. Every guy who didn't turn out to be the man I said he was.

It's all of you who've helped me to doubt myself, sometimes on a daily basis. All of you who've helped make it easy for me, on more than several occasions, to foolishly look past the amazing, wondrous blessings that fill my life and see something missing instead. All of you who've helped me to forget that I actually love the me that you've passed up, and that there's nothing I could have done to make any of you stay because this - look around - this is how things are meant to be. For now.

Okay, so maybe it's a little me. But I've had a lot of help. I don't think I want your help anymore.

~h

Sappy Sunday

So I'm somewhat notorious for my sappy sadsack posts. But I like them. Sometimes. And I like my writing. And I'm trying to hold myself accountable for the things I've set out in this most recent one and by sharing it here with all of you it kind of feels like I'm doing that.

The who doesn't matter. It could honestly be anyone. It's the thoughts behind the words that really matter. I think. Anyway, here goes. The umpteenth and final (hopefully) goodbye to settling for less than I deserve.

It is.

It's seriously pathetic how I wait around to hear from you.

You don't ask me to. You probably don't even know that I do it. But I do. And it pisses me off. Makes me very upset with myself.

It all goes back to this blog I wrote over 6 years ago. The gist is that I always sell myself short in matters of the heart. I have a feeling that this is my lot in life and that I'm destined for nothing but this same old thing forever. Really kind of believe that. Part of me likes that my emotions run so deep and strong, and most of all unrequited. It means that it's truly a gift I'm giving to someone and not just a ploy to get something I want (although I'd be getting love, but that's not what I'm talking about). The other part of me just thinks that I'm an idiot.

I wish I could stop it. I wish I could control who I fall for or attach myself to. I wish I could walk away when I should without feeling like I was making a mistake. I wish I could put my worth and my ultimate happiness in the forefront of my mind and act accordingly. I wish that I could view the men who don't choose me - for all of the many valid and obvious reasons - as passing ships and turn my eyes toward the horizon and wait for the next one to come my way.

I wish I could just not care.

But I can't not care. I don't know how to shut that off. And I certainly can't learn how to care less about or get over someone when they are still around. Even if it's just email. :-(

Sorry.

It's too hard for me to chat with you and think about all that we've done and been and shared, too hard to know the nice things you think about me and to think about the possibly serious things that you don't think about me that I wish you did. Too hard to not spend time with you like we used to. Too hard to watch you choose unhappiness - or at the very least a blase, unfulfilling life that lives below your hopes and dreams - over happiness, no matter what the rationale.

I care about you too much to watch that. And for whatever reason I care about you too much to not be hurt that I wasn't enough to make you choose... me.

It's dumb, I know. Even if you could, if you were in the position to make such a choice, there's no guarantee that you would pick me anyway. You've said before if you were single again you'd want to stay that way for a long while. I didn't change that. It's not my fault, though. I'm trying to remember that, but it's hard. Because I see and think and feel things about you, about us that... clearly aren't there. Call it the curse of the creative mind. No matter how deliberately I steel myself against these feelings and speak truth to my heart about my worth and why I need to move past you, as soon as I get word from you all of that resolve disappears and an unrealistic hope and optimism takes over and I'm lost in thoughts of you and us again.

Who says the things you say to me and acts the way you do with me and chooses something so much less for himself? I don't understand, and I have to stop thinking that it's something wrong with me. Because I don't honestly believe that I'm that flawed. I am, don't get me wrong, but not enough to be unworthy of what other people have and what so many other people seem to take for granted.  I want to be THAT person for someone. That special, that prized, that cherished... THAT person that some man somewhere feels beyond lucky to have found to call his own.

That girl (yes, "girl", because it feels that juvenile).that someone will fight to keep, will fight to have, will fight to NOT have to keep secret. I understand that I am not that girl for you. It's fine. My timing sucks. Luck is not on my side. My dog ate my homework. All of the above. But... I guess it doesn't make anything hurt any less.

You really can't fight for me? Not even to me, just in talking, just between me and you? I told you tonight (silly me, I thought you just wanted to see me and hang out with me)(what DID you think I wanted to talk to you about?) That I was going to say goodbye. "I love you, goodbye", to be exact, and you just took it. Like I was telling you I wanted fries with that. Ok, cool, no problem. Just that simple. No please don't go, no wait, no hey now, let's not be too hasty...nothing.

Ok.

That's it? Ok.

I guess that really must be it. Maybe it's easier for you this way, easier for your life, easier for her. I suppose I get that. Because if I really was any of the things you've ever said that I was, I'd think you wouldn't let me just fade away. Like you are.

I don't think anyone can really know just what it is that I am capable of when it comes to matters of the heart. I'm beginning to think that I'm the only one who ever will.

You've opened up more with me than you have anyone (I think) in recent years. Last chance...what haven't you said? What do you think about this, about me? How does all of this make you feel?

Anyway, answers/thoughts/inputs would be nice, welcome & appreciated. I suppose, however that they aren't necessary. I'm saying goodbye to you because I can't see another way out of this. Typical literary case of unrequited love. Correct me if I'm wrong.

~ h

Oh, THAT girl... episode 3

I've decided to include my THAT girl stories in my book. They'll be inserted randomly throughout as little snippets that might explain why it is that I'm still single. Because let's face it... it's going to take an almost astronomically rare type of man to willingly walk in and sweep this (*gestures to self) off her feet.

I went in town to do laundry last week. I no longer have a washer and dryer here at home, and I honestly can't imagine that the floor in the kitchen of this house (which is where the laundry hookups are) would even be able to bear the weight, so it's probably a good thing I don't. Anyway, laundry tends to pile up with a quickness. I was way overdue to get some laundry done, as is often the case, and I filled up my ridiculous Chevy Cobalt (more stories on that at a later date) and trekked in town to the super huge mega load laundromat.

The place I like to go to is the old local Scrub Pub. They got rid of the bar (which is a damn shame, I'd say) but they have these massive 6 load machines that I love. I didn't grab all my laundry, just the mainstays and all the socks and underwear I dared to dig for. It was nice only using two of the six-ers instead of my usual four.

Now here comes the good part. I just so happened to be wearing my favorite jeans (that do awesome things for my butt, or so I've been told). And my favorite bra. And, as I do every day, underwear. And I really wanted to wash those things. Like, right then. I remembered that I had a running skirt in my car from some day weeks back (yes, I meant weeks) when I was planning to go work out.

Hmmm...

I proceeded to do what any savvy gal in my position would do. I grabbed the running skirt and headed to the 'mat bathroom. "No you didn't." Oh yes I did. I got mahself nekkid and stripped out of my pants and my skivvies and slipped into my running skirt commando. Nobody in the laundromat seemed to care, though, as I strode out of the bathroom in a new outfit, holding the old one in my arms. Maybe it's because it was an amazing idea.

I'm just gonna go with that.

It didn't stop there. After I had finished folding my clothes and tucking them neat and tidy into my baskets in an awe-inspiring fashion - having used less space than when everything was dripping over the sides like when I arrived - I realized it was Free Pie Wednesday at Village Inn. Hell yeah I deserved some pie!

And off I went. My girls swinging free and a breeze between my knees. A commando on a recon mission. My target? Pie. (Okay, so going commando doesn't make me a commando. I am a Marine, though. I think that gets me honorary commando status. )

That's it, really. Laundromat nudity and hippie pie eating. Maybe it's all normal. Hey, that's cool. Normal is... alright. I guess. But if I had to bet, I'd say this was just another instance where THAT girl struck again.

Mmmm... pie...

~h

"What do you mean I have to buy a drink?

The sign says FREE pie!"

Funny Friday! Meet Bobby Ray Bunch! (finally!)

*Note to self: NO MORE PHONE INTERVIEWS. I am ENTIRELY too lazy to transcribe them. That is all. ~h

Hey! Guess what? It's only been like a month since the last one, but it is Friday, people! And a Funny Friday at that! This week I'll be sharing my interview of a very funny man who may or may not prove true the rumor that gingers have no souls.

Ladies and Gentlemen, Bobby Ray Bunch.

me: Okay Bobby, first question. Who are you, in your own words? (whatever that means to you)
BRB: I think I’m not really like anybody else, which sounds like a really arrogant and cocky answer, but it’s just how I feel. When I run into some I know, they’re not just like “Hey Bobby” they’re always like “Bobby Ray Bunch!” My full name.  I am a very cynical, sarcastic person who doesn’t take a lot of things very seriously and I’m ocd about things. I’m a very weird person, I guess. I don’t know.  I don’t like that question.

That's ok, that question is pretty elitist, and it doesn't like a lot of people either.

me: As a kid, what did you dream of being when you grew up?
BRB: A firetruck. (A firetruck, huh?) Yeah, I wanted to be a firetruck. They looked pretty cool. (Must be the red hair.) Ever since I was in third or fourth grade I’ve wanted to be a stand up comedian. But then the older you get the more you realize that you’ve got responsibilities and bills and you realize that maybe you should just sell out and get a job.

Bills, shmills. You worry about those things? Psshh.

me: When did you know you wanted to be a comedian?
BRB: I remember in fourth grade I had just moved to a new school district I would make people laugh in my class. One time I got up to blow my nose and everyone stopped what they were doing and watched me, so I made a big show about it and got in all this trouble because I was distracting the class. Pretty much all throughout the rest of school I would always crack jokes in class, and even in the military I would get in trouble for cracking jokes. Getting out and going to college being the age I am I’m still a class clown. The beginning of every semester I’m always like I’m just gonna keep my mouth shut and not say a word but it’s literally physically impossible to keep my mouth shut.

When I was in the military I got in trouble for smuggling a snake in from Peru. No big deal. Probably just 'cause I was in the Marines. We're hardcore like that. Even the shit we do that gets us in trouble is extra badass.

me: How long have you been doing stand up?
BRB: It’ll be two years in February. My senior year in high school I was in a talent show and I did stand up for that, but it was squeaky clean. Then a year after I got out of the Air Force I went down to Penguins and did an open mic two months in a row. Then they closed. For another year I didn’t do stand up because I didn’t really meet anybody or didn’t know there were any other places to do stand up. So I had been onstage three times total before two years ago when I started doing it consecutively.

Math...ugh...

me: Who are some of your favorite comedians?
BRB: Bill Burr (gasp! a Ginger! It's a conspiracy!) by far is one of my favorite comedians. Brian Regan is amazing, to be that clean, and be able to draw any type of crowd. Of course Louis CK (another Ginger? I'm sensing a trend). I like Stephen Wright (Okay, so he's not a Ginger. But who knows if the curtains match the drapes?) and of course Mitch Hedburg (Ginger?) and Todd Barry (GINGER!) Oh, add Patrice O’Neal to that list, too.

Okay, it was funny at first, but there is a serious trend here. I mean, you stuck Stephen Wright in there and all - nice touch - but you are soooo not throwing me off the trail with the insertion of token non-Ginger Patrice O'Neal. You are a total Ginger elitist! I've got my eye on you, Wasowski... always watching...

me: Describe your brand of comedy, if you can. What's funny to you?
BRB: I would say that making fun of myself I actually get joy out of. Being onstage in front of all those people and being able to make fun of myself in a way that the crowd kinda feels bad for you but yet they’re laughing at you at the same time. I talk about being in the military and stuff, not because I want people to be proud of me (yeah, because you would have joined the Marines if you wanted that. Ooo! I kid). I want people to realize that just because I was in the military doesn’t mean I’m a hero. People call me a hero, but I didn’t run into a burning building and save nine babies. (8. It was 8. I read the news article.) I sat in a truck in front of a plane and watched it and made sure it didn’t go anywhere. I like bringing light to the fact that it’s such a knee jerk reaction when I say I was in the military. People always have to clap and all this stuff. It’s like you don’t even know why you’re clapping (Tourettes?), it’s ridiculous. Just shut up. I wasn’t even that good at it. I don’t consider myself an edgy comedian or an offensive comedian. It’s not because I don’t like that type of comedy, it’s just that I’m not very good at pulling that stuff off. I already come across as an asshole onstage, so I don’t want the audience to totally hate me.

You really kind of are like the grown up boy next door. A little... Eddie Haskel even. Wait, was he a Ginger, too?

me: What does being a comedian mean to you?
BRB: I think there’s a certain level of responsibility that comes with being a comedian. The term comedian is so widely used that it’s almost tough to say anymore. Before Youtube and Facebook and Twitter, being a comedian meant something else, and now anyone can have a Facebook fanpage (even Gingers like Bobby) or a Twitter account (Geez, they let Gingers have everything!) that says they’re a comedian. I don’t think that just because you’ve done an open mic once or twice or because you’ve been on a stage that it means you’re a comedian.  Does that mean that I’m a comedian? (Uhhh...) I don’t know. (Good answer!) Just because I’ve worked the places I’ve worked (Daisy Dooks?) or done what I’ve done that doesn’t necessarily make me a comedian. Because if I were to go to NYC or LA they would probably look at me like I was crazy if I called myself a comedian. To me, being a comedian means that you’ve been paid to do it or you make a living doing it. (I wanna get paid to do it. Wait, are we talking about comedy? Okay, I wanna get paid to do that, too.) I think there’s a certain level of responsibility to anyone doing stand up comedy or who calls themselves a comedian to back it up. I do take stand up seriously ninety nine percent of the time. I don’t wanna go onstage and look ridiculous, because as a comedian your name is your brand and you want people to buy your brand. If you continually go onstage and bomb, then don’t be upset when people don’t want to come see you perform.

I don't really want to get paid to do it. I mean, I wanna get paid to do comedy. And maybe other white or even blue collar work. I just don't want to get paid for... no collar work. Or choke collar work. I... like flowers? Yay butterflies! Ahem... next question?

me: What has been the greatest influence on your comedy?
BRB: Myself? I don’t know. I don’t know if I really have… It’s kind of hard to say, living in Iowa. It’s not like I’m working in a market with a lot of guys who’ve been on the road for a long time or been doing it for 20 years. I think it’s very self-driven. The scene in Iowa City is vastly different. I get a lot of motivation from seeing people who are constantly getting onstage anytime they can, and making sacrifices to live that dream. I respect that, and I kind of draw from that, cause there’ve been times when I’ve been at home and not feeling like getting onstage when I get a text or phone call saying come on, let’s get onstage, let’s go. You have to be self-driven and you also need a group of people around you who are going to motivate you to get onstage. That’s influential to me. You can’t be strong on your own.
(I can. Just sayin'.) You need some type of support system.

I definitely agree. I mean, take my boobs for instance.

me: What is one of your favorite moments (so far) as a comedian?
BRB: I would say one of my favorite moments so far was the first time I ever did stand up at Penguins. I had a whole different idea of what stand up comedy was like, and then I went to the open mic and I saw where everyone gets their start. And I worked so hard and prepared so much for my very first set. I did not think it would go well, and I didn’t understand what the hell I was doing there, but then I did really well for my first time and it was a sigh of relief. Like okay, I can do this. So gaining that confidence after my first time was one of my favorite moments. Probably one of my other favorite moments was when I did a show with Colin Ryan, Andrew Cline, James Draper and I think Chris Starman up in Monticello, Iowa. It was a full room, everyone was there to see comedy and every single comedian just destroyed that room. It was such a fun night, such a fun environment and everyone had such a good time. And afterwards we were all able to just bask in the good, fun feeling of how well we did. If you go on a road trip with a bunch of guys and you do really horribly it’s a quiet ride back. And there really is no better feeling in the world to me than owning a room, just dominating a crowd and then watching all your friends do the same thing, one after the other.

Aww... that is a pretty awesome thing. No funny business there. I mean, except for that bit where you said that everyone was really funny and stuff.

me: If you weren't doing comedy, what would you be doing with your life?
BRB: Well, I do a lot of other things with my life than comedy. (Yeah, like obviously trying to plot a hostile Ginger takeover with your ragtag band of hooligan Gingers. That's just what I'm getting out of this, though.) But I would probably be a lot more alone and angry and cynical than I am now, because now I could have the worst day of my life and go through something horrible and then that night I would still wanna get on stage. It’s just a relief. It’s like therapy almost. (I think I'm going to need some therapy after this. Or at least some Ginger awareness sensitivity training. I didn't know I had such an issue! Sheesh!) And hopefully it works out, and I’m able to continue to do stand up and able to continue to be pretty decent at it, and hopefully just keep getting better at it and keep learning. Maybe one day if, the almighty Allah persists and lets me, I will make a living doing it. Praise be unto him.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, let's not bring religion into this. Wait... are you Muslim?

me: What do your friends and family think of your life as a comedian?
BRB: My friends? (I know, Bobby. Tough question. Just... imagine.) Half of them are sick of hearing about it and the other half think it’s cool. My family… (laughs)… my grandma and my uncle had never seen me do stand up before. This past May I got booked to do a feature set at Diamond Joe Casino, so my grandma and my uncle got all their sons together and came to see me open. I… did not do very well. At all. I did not have a good set. It was not one of my favorite times. After the show, my grandma, of course, was like “You did so wonderful, I love you! You’re the funniest person I’ve ever seen in my life!” And my uncle was like “Tough crowd. Tough, uh… tough night.” And I knew for a fact it wasn’t a good set. So they probably think, well, fuck, anyone can do this. (Granny Bunch! Your language!) But I’m really proud of how far I’ve made it and I wanted to show them “Look at me! I’m good!” And I wasn’t. My dad probably just thinks it’s a phase and I’ll grow out of it. My sister, if you asked her who’s funniest person in the family my name would be near the bottom. I do not make my sister laugh at all. She does not find me funny whatsoever. She’s very supportive in any way she can be, but I could tell her “hey, I did this show” and she’d be like “yeah, who gives a fuck.” My family’s known me my whole life, so they’re not gonna think I’m that funny, ‘cause I’ve been cracking jokes since I was able to at the Thanksgiving dinner table. They probably think I’m a lot funnier off the stage.

me: What is your biggest, wildest, comedic dream you hope comes true someday?
BRB: In my heart of hearts I would love to live out in L.A., and be a writer for either a t.v. show  or comedy writer during the day and do stand up at night. My ultimate dream is to do stand up on Conan, but I better get moving on that because who knows how long he’ll be around. There’s just something about Conan. (HE'S A GODDAM GINGER!!! THAT'S WHAT! I mean... go on...) He’s very unique. He’s not like anybody else. Just his brand of comedy and the fact that he’s not even a stand up and he’s been such a successful talkshow host is fascinating to me. I’d love to meet him and do a set on his show. But I also would love to have a threesome with two Victoria’s Secret models. Female models, let me clarify.

I'm glad you clarified that last bit. Girls, it's okay. He's still swinging toward the ladies.

me: Elvis or the Beatles?
BRB: I don’t like either of them. (Here it is, people. The proof I prayed would never be revealed in the blog. Gingers really DON'T have souls.) I appreciate what the Beatles did for music, but I think they suck. And Elvis… wasn’t this a question at the Republican primary debate? (I'm a bad American. I don't watch smut t.v.) And none of the candidates could answer because they were too afraid to lose voters. Fuck Elvis (I would! But he's dead. And if he was alive he'd be old and fat. I want young elvis. Or at least Aloha from Hawaii Elvis.) and fuck the Beatles. (You can fuck them, I won't fight you on that.)
Fine, so who would you pick as your favorite band or artist? Jimi Hendrix or Stevie Ray Vaughan. Without Jimi Hendrix there wouldn’t have been Stevie Ray Vaughan, but without Stevie Ray Vaughan there wouldn’t be bands like Alice in Chains or the Black Keyes. What they’ve done for the guitar as an instrument let alone what they did for music is unbelievable. And they both liked heroine. One died by the needle and one by the helicopter. Music and comedy are my life. I love both equally, because when I’m in the fetal position in the shower crying… I can listen to any Jimi Hendrix or Stevie Ray Vaughan song and totally immerse myself. If you were to put on Elvis I would grab a rusty butter knife and try to slit my wrist.

Well, It's Now or Never... Ha! I kid. Keep away from the silverware, ginger.

me: What advice would you give to anyone wanting to give stand up comedy a try?
BRB: Stop talking about it and just do it. Do what you think is funny, don’t worry about what anyone else is doing. Comedy is way too subjective for there to be a handbook written about it. There is no real advice anyone can give you about stand up because it is your material, it’s your way that you want to do things. Don’t listen to too many people. Just do what makes you happy, because in the end you’re the one who has to live with it.

                                   

Bobby Ray Bunch, everyone. He's all over the place, Twitter, Facebook, The Mill in Iowa City where he runs a comedy showcase on the regular. There's going to be a you-don't-want-to-miss-this showcase tomorrow night, actually. Headliner Colin Ryan, newcomer Nick Eff, effin' hilarious Tim Majetic and amazing Andrew King. All hosted by your very own Bobby Ray Bunch! Get up there, people!

And wow. This was super fun! For me! Haha... hopefully for you, too. I've missed this. I'll be back. Soon. Like the next time there's a friday and stuff.

~h