Check out the promo video for Jerry Rider's new show -- Shady AF Comedy -- every month at Shady Park in Tempe.
Jerry was kind enough to include me on the inaugural show, and I had an absolute blast! If you haven't been to Shady Park yet, you must go. The venue is beautiful, both inside and out, complete with killer pizza and drink specials, a front row made entirely of bean bags, and a DJ in a treehouse providing pre- and post-show beats.
I hope to share the full set soon, but in the meantime, take a peek, judge me harshly, and make plans to attend the next show on Wednesday, May 11th at 8:30 pm.
I'm at a cafe in North Phoenix right now trying to enjoy a scone and some decaf coffee before I hit my cube. They've got Maroon 5 in a pretty heavy rotation on their morning playlist. Every time they come on, I start getting really emotional -- like deep-in-my-gut, ouch-that-actually-physically-hurts emotional -- and I'm not even ovulating or anything.
This worries me.
Should I call some sort of helpline?
Bird City Radio comes to you from the desert metropolis of the American Southwest, promoting all things cool that make up our beloved Bird City. It's hosted by two awesome guys named Michael -- Michael Palladino and Michael Paul Kohn. In this episode, I appear with Eric Sobczak, one of my favorite performers to watch on stage.
By the first 10 minutes, I was pretty positive that we all now appear on an internet watch list somewhere. Join us on that list, won't ya?
Also, please partake in our little Standgebläse game. No, really. You'll understand more when you listen. Post your submission on my Facebook page -- either a video or audio recording will work. It's more fun if you don't reveal the motivating emotion; guessing is the best part.
The cat wouldn't let me sleep this morning. That's her thing now that the sun is rising earlier. She likes to wake me before it comes up, just to remind me, in case I forgot, that I need to feed her and my other cat their breakfast. I think she started her ritual sometime around 3:30 this morning. It was pitch black still, and I was lost in some dream I can't quite recall other than the fact that I would rather live there than here in the "real world." She does the same things every, single morning, and these things make me lose, on average, 1 1/2–2 hours of sleep every, single day. I have no control over it, and I have no idea how to adjust her behavior. The only thing I can come up with is pleading with her to stop, calmly and sweetly asking her to come back to bed, and sometimes, although very rarely, pretending like I'm going to throw a pillow at her. Don't worry, the pillow throw is just a fake-out, but it's in these moments that I realize, I would make a terrible, terrible mom. I mean, shit, kids have to eat too, right? Maybe even more than cats. I don't know the actual statistics. I haven't had time to look them up because I've been too busy googling my horoscope and prison tattoos.
This morning, this adorable feline-human ritual continued for at least a couple hours. She would go to the plastic bags where I have my loads of clean laundry and lick the bags. LICK THE BAGS! She does this because the sound drives me absolutely crazy. And because she knows that in my head, when she's licking those plastic bags, I imagine one of those little plastic tabs from where the bags connect to the metal holder at the store breaking off and ending up in her little kitty mouth, and the unexpected shock of that plastic tab in her little kitty mouth makes her take a great ingressive breath, like a gasp, and that little plastic tab then ends up at the back of her little kitty throat where she can't get it out, and she tries and tries and tries and tries, moving her little kitty paws as if they were hands, cursing the heavens for not giving her thumbs -- why god, why have you given such lesser creatures thumbs -- becoming increasingly panicked and terrified until she collapses, looking up at me still in bed, and she tries to meow for help, but she's out of breath, and her little no-thumb kitty paw reaches out for me, her protector, but she's too far away, and I'm too selfish to pay attention, and she chokes and dies right there, taking her last, untimely kitty breath on the cold tile floor next to her favorite little kitty toy, my back turned to her in a desperate attempt to return to some stupid dream where I can see my ex-boyfriend again,
You might be thinking to yourself, well why is the clean laundry in plastic bags in the first place; and furthermore, why don't you just take the clean laundry out of the plastic bags, or move the clean laundry that's in the plastic bags to a place where your cat can't reach them? I imagine it's only natural for someone like you to ask something like that, and I'd love to give you those answers, but quite frankly, I don't think either of us want to take the time to get to the bottom of that right now. I have a show at 7 tonight, so there's just not enough time.
Since I didn't want to live through that scenario as well as the internet backlash that would follow -- #DStandsForDeath -- I decided to just get up and get their breakfast. I checked the time: it was 5:30. I figured I could just feed them then go right back to bed. If I kept my eyes half-closed the whole time maybe I wouldn't really wake up, and I could just fall back into bed and that fabulous dream where I could see his beautiful face and his eyes and his smile, right as he turned to leave with another girl. (This is a real dream, not a dream-dream, people. Sometimes you take what you can get.) I feasted them fancily while squinting and went back to bed, but it was no use. I was up for the day. So I decided to get ready and head out for some coffee or something, just enjoy the morning, with the intent of napping later.
I originally wanted to go to my favorite local coffee shop, but it took me longer than I expected to get ready -- time sure flies when you're berating yourself in the mirror! By the time I made it out of the house, the patio of that coffee shop was packed. Since the weather's so nice, and triple-digits are fast approaching, I decided to go somewhere else where there'd be space to sit outside. So now, I'm currently posted up on an ant-infested patio at a Starbucks near my house, about eight feet from where the cars in the drive-thru place their order.
What could be more peaceful than that for my morning?
A few things come to mind as I sit here perched for all the world to see. First of all, I'm pretty glad I went back into the house last minute to put underwear on because my skirt is kinda short, and I have to sit with my legs in a funky position to avoid getting bitten by the ants. I'm even more glad that I went back into the house last minute to put underwear on because I don't want an ant bite on my labia. Labial ant bites totally suck, but they're just an unfortunate side effect of free-muffin' it in summer. Underneath it all though, I'm actually kinda bummed that I went back into the house last minute to put underwear on because it's perfect free-muffin' weather right now. I highly doubt that the ants could've gotten through my bush to bite me anyways. I guess it's just another one of those lessons in following your heart and not caring what anyone else might think -- conservative coffee drinkers and their social mores of not having your muff out in the morning be damned! Most of all though, I'm realizing that people ordering at Starbucks use their drink request as a way to feel as if they have some sort of power in their otherwise powerless existence.
Now excuse me while I go inside to order something that will help me gain control over this cat wake-up call situation. I imagine they have something on the menu to cure that ail. If not, I'm going to fill up every, single box on the side of that cup like a god damn czar hell-bent on world domination to forget what a horrible, powerless cat mom I truly am.
You can usually find me here, sitting in the back, contemplating ordering cajun fries, then not ordering cajun fries, then wondering whether or not I should've ordered cajun fries, then wishing I would've ordered cajun fries, then figuring it's too late to order cajun fries, then telling myself it's probably best I didn't order cajun fries because I really don't need cajun fries because I'm getting pudgy, then I realize oh my god I'm getting so pudgy, then I think I'm such a pudgy piece of shit -- why am I such a pudgy piece of shit -- maybe I should order some cajun fries . . .
I'm currently having lunch alone at a diner. My peach lemonade is getting dangerously close to the bottom, and I only get one free refill. This is tragic to me at the moment because I fell instantly in love with this beverage at first sip. It's everything I was ever looking for in liquid refreshment but didn't even know it. The waitress has just come back and taken my cup for my refill, even though there was about 1/4 inch left. This means I've lost a 1/4 inch of peach lemonade -- that's 1/4 inch of enjoyment I just won't get to enjoy. Not to be petty or anything, but joy comes in such small spurts these days that I have to take it where I can, and then not be grateful for what I do have when I have it and spend my precious time wanting more, more, MORE!!!!
But I digress . . .
I'm eating alone in a cute diner not far from my house. It's the kind of place with black-and-white tile on the floor and different people coming by every couple minutes to see if I'm doing alright. I like it here, just me in my booth made for two, trying to savor my peach lemonade. There's a young couple in the booth next to me, making use of its ultimate purpose, a cozy face-to-face place for conversation to occur. I wanted to pretend they were enjoying a post-coital meal together because I'm a creep like that, but by the conversation as well as their lack of hangovers and continued interest in what each other has to say, I have struck that possibility from my mind.
The young woman is talking about her internship with a big, fancy corporation while the young man cuts in every once in awhile with exclamations of being impressed. She says she always laughs in awkward situations, and he laughs, his entire body dipping to the side, never taking his eyes from his partner in diner-date crime. Her eyes meet his gaze, and they talk about his first tattoo and whether he has regrets. She keeps her eyes on him the entire time with a gaze of confidence only those with their whole lives ahead of them and a desire to still connect intimately with other human beings can feign. Youth is so cocky with their forward-motion and giggles and cleavage and new eye makeup, not just leftover from the night before, on their face at 1:29 on a Saturday afternoon . . .
My string of inappropriate projection is prematurely interrupted as my check is placed on the table before me. The total? Lucky $13.13.
As I grab my wallet, and another couple takes a seat on the other side of me to talk about their wedding, I realize that even bad luck comes as a couple in the world around me. I'm learning things about myself here alone at the diner where Elton John plays faintly above me: I'm learning perhaps I'm a bit bitter. And next time, I'm going to put my hash browns inside my burrito.
I love my city -- from North to South, from East to West.
In honor of that love, and this weekend's Bird City Comedy Festival, I just couldn't help myself. Let me present you #myjam for the weekend. I can't lie, this song can get me a little emotional at times, not only because I always want nothing more than to put on for my city, but because it also used to be in heavy rotation on me and an ex's shower bonin' playlist. It's a song that reminds of these Sonoran Desert streets, slick tile on my skin, and those sounds that leave you unsure whether you're at a basketball game or the club, but regardless, there's going to be some pretty fancy ballwork going on.
Phoenix, I love you. Now be a lamb and rinse off my back, will ya?
Circa 2007 maybe
Here's a shopping list I came across in an old notebook. It looks like winter may have been on its way, and I just needed to pick up some domestic essentials.
And yes, that is a drawing of me and my boner. I used to draw myself with a boner rather frequently, so there is quite an extensive collection out there, especially in Steve Maxwell's notebooks.
Oh yeah . . . Diiiiiiiiiiiiiiick!
Hey, don't judge me. For centuries we've gotta hear about whether or not mermaids have lady parts and blah blah blah, and now you're all up in arms because I have specific criteria for a merman's junk? Talk about double standards. Geez.
Anyhoo . . .
This show promises to possibly be THE BEST SHOW of the entire Bird City Comedy Festival. Don't miss it, or you'll be flopping around in bed with regret Sunday night like a merman I just dropped off at the bus stop 15 cents shy of correct bus fare. Don't blame me. It's a mer-eat-mer world out there. Well, if we're lucky. Am I right, ladies? What?!
Get your tickets here. Use promo code DINGLEHOPPER to know what I used to comb my hair before the show.
Sunday, April 10 at the Renaissance Hotel -- 6:00 pm
I'm super excited to be a part of this show at the The Bird City Comedy Festival! The theme of this edition is DESTINY, and I must say, I've gotten very sidetracked when writing for the event. I'm discovering some stone cold truths about life, love, and the vast emptiness that has been my existence.
For those of you unfamiliar with the format, performers are given topics that fall underneath the main theme and then given the opportunity to present their comedic findings. The kicker? Matt Storrs and his co-sounsel Hattie Jean Hayes can -- and will -- interrupt at any time to fact check material or otherwise object to us as human beings. It's gonna be awesome.
Get your tickets for the madness here. Use promo code: HESAIDHEWASMYDENSITYTHENHECRASHEDINTOMYCARONOPIATES to be glad that you've had a string of healthy relationships, unlike me.
In Case You Were Wondering . . .
Sometimes Ronnie D writes funny stuff. Sometimes she writes desperate teenage prose. Most times she just slams her feeble, little woman-hand onto the keyboard in an attempt to feel something, anything.