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Tuesday, Jun. 15, 2004 | link
Holy wackamoly, Jill and I sure went and saw the shit out some comedy on Saturday night. Through an elaborate series of phone calls and "would you ask him to ask them to ask him"s we found ourselves on the list to go see Patton Oswalt at Cobb's Comedy Club, home of the magical no-touch, drunk-flummoxing paper towel dispenser and two drink minimum, two drink minimum, TWO DRINK MINIMUM! Sadly for my sake, there was no drink maximum, an oversight I blame for finding myself mumbling drunk in the teensy hours of the morning. And for the hangover that trapped me in bed the next day and left me without the strength to change the channel when Punchline came on. And for the panic portion of popcorn I ordered (at the new Harry Potter, which turned out to be nothing like Y Tu Mama Tambien?) and then mechanically continued to eat beyond all sense of fullness and happiness. I didn't really feel right again until we went over to Sunny's for pizza, ice cream, and the season premiere of "Six Feet Under." The end!
Oh except Patton Oswalt was truly righteous. I saw him at an 826 fundraiser maybe a month ago, and he made me laugh harder than any comedian ever, never, ever, which is especially awesome as usually comedians just make me cry.
Seriously, he brings on that kind of long and deep laughter that twists your face beyond a smile into something primal and ugly, and pulls these alien, guttural deepsea sounds out of you. After ten minutes solid of that, your body actually starts to hurt a little bit, and even then you can't stop. And that lack of body control starts to make you feel a little worried, like what next, is my ass going to explode? And yet even that, the fear of a ripped-and-torn ass, isn't enough to make you stop with the laughing. Or stop you from taking two buses to Cobb's Comedy Club, inconveniently located North of North Beach, for the privilege of another round of ass-tear fear, etc.
And I'm not just saying so because Jill and I wound up hanging out with Comedian Patton Oswalt until way past Cobb's closing, listening to his iPod and drinking his drinks and then sharing a cab home on his dime. Yes, laugh-worthy AND nice, also smart and generally well-formed. I celebrate you, Patton Oswalt!
And ... that's it. Except wait, I have to tell you! My birthday is this Saturday (34 ... thirty-SNORE) and I've already received more presents than I rightfully deserve. First, the full "Freaks and Geeks" DVD set from Josh. Oh Josh! Then Librarian Michael sent me the cutest battery-fueled mini-faux-aquarium which bobs and bubbles ("This product," the box reads, "is awesome and interesting. Just like a group of real fishes swimming in the ocean"). Also he sent a birthday card featuring a fuzzy, softly three-dimensional smiling cupcake! And Jill got me the cutest nurse pant-pant-panties. And then, craziest of all, Steve gave me my very own nine-pound SEWING MACHINE with cute retro-forward carrying case! Isn't that insanely nice? I sure am happy and lucky.
Except I accidentally set fire to my coffee maker regarding: an ill-conceived move of the maker from its usual spot in the middle of the stove over to the top back burner (huh?) followd by me blondly turning on the wrong burner and leaving the room to watch television, only to return after a mysterious, chemical smell I initially waved off as someone's bad BBQ turned into a more pointed smell of smoke. And there sat my coffee maker, already melted down to its metal Terminator skeleton but with flames still quietly stretching three feet into the air above it. I raced to cover the fire with a pot, but it only seemed to make the flames crabbier. I poured a glass of water on them (the water pressure has gone so weirdly anemic in my apartment due to recent plumbing problems that simply filling that glass of water took an excruciating, comicly loooooong, Benny Hilly 30 seconds), but that made the flames surge ever higher. So finally, after tearing through two cupboards, I managed to locate the cute stocking-stuffer extinguisher that my mom gave me this year, and that ... three hours after the fire began ... really worked like a dream. Maybe 34 is too young and retarded to be living on my own, unsupervised? Yay.