Don't Tell Donnell

It was once said of Rembrandt, “He can blend like no one else, reality with mystery, the bestial with the divine, the most subtle and powerful craftsmanship with the greatest, the loneliest depths of feeling that painting has ever expressed”.

Visitors to Capt. Brien’s August 12th and 13th had the opportunity to witness a different kind of master at work, and although his medium is seldom viewed as art, Donnell Rawlings proved that his comedic craftsmanship can move an audience with both a subtle and powerful hand.

From his opening salvo of profanity laced observations on race, society and technology, to his honest and profound opinions on subjects ranging from the President to homosexuality to relationships; Donnell blended the entire range of his artistic palate to create a portrait detailing his viewpoint of contemporary American life.

Watching him use the entire venue as his stage was refreshing, as so many in stand-up these days prefer to remain behind the microphone and perform to an audience as a whole unit. Donnell makes it personal. Interacting with audience members to enhance, reinforce and strengthen the comedic points he is driving home. His energy seems boundless; his connection to the material is flawless.

Catching my eye at one point, he chose to challenge my lack of laughter for a moment following his graphic illustration of B.i.C. T.I.I.T.F. was just the icing on the cake! (you have to see it!). My apologies to Mr. Rawlings, but it was at this point in the show that my writer’s analytical brain kicked in and I sat in envy of his skillful manipulation of the audience. My internal dialogue was speaking to me, “Damn, this mother-fucker is GOOD"! Funny doesn’t do him justice.

Continuing to spin his comedic web, Donnell wrapped the audience in a silken cocoon of inclusiveness, making us all part of the joke, but never feeling that the fragile strand binding us all together would break and the web unravel. The show came to an end far too soon. Donnell left us all wanting more and that is a very good thing. He may not be the most well-known name in comedy today, but you may rest assured that day is coming soon.

Don’t miss an opportunity to see him in action while you can. Check out the show schedule, buy tickets and take all your friends. Donnell Rawlings may very well be the funniest man in America. And anyone who can't handle that can "Take it in the face"!

YMC GAY

A few weeks ago with sixteen weeks until our fifth wedding anniversary, which is just shy of our ten year anniversary of being together, and just past our nine year anniversary of moving to Florida, we decided to get in shape. Not just lose weight, but really get in shape. He wants a six pack, and I want a great can.

So we joined the Y and have been going pretty regularly. And I’m pretty sure it made me gay. I mean I am constantly checking out other women.

“Look at the guns on her; she makes Michelle Obama look like Olive Oyl.”

“I bet she does squats…Her thighs make me sore just looking at her.”

“Have you ever seen boobs like that? I want to touch them. No I don’t. Yes I do, but not the nipple, I’m not that gay.”

“That ass is perfection. A solid gold glute machine and the world’s finest plastic surgeon could not give me an ass like that.”

“Look how much space there is between her legs; you could throw a cat through there.”

I said cat, if you used a different term, then you are a very crude person.

So I asked my husband, who promises he has not been checking out the same women I have, if he thinks I’m gay.

“Baby,” he said, in his sweetest condescending tone, “if you were a lesbian you wouldn’t do what you did to me last night.”

“I might,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he grinned, “but you certainly wouldn’t have been so into it that you stopped in the middle to yell giddy up.”

YMC YAY

Guess who made it through her first ever spin class? Yeah the whole hour! All by herself with no help from paramedics? Yep me. Yay I did it, I rock!

And I wobble; when I got off the bike. But as Richard Simmons is my witness I did not cry… where anybody could see me.

I pedaled and pumped and persevered through sixty minutes of a thigh straining, calf building, cardio workout that made me regret every extra calorie I’d ever eaten and even ever read about.

So after a good long warm up of adding resistance and speed to the bike, when the instructor barked, “Out of those seats, let’s go, pedal faster,” I stood. With my feet strapped in I got up off the seat and pushed those pedals, with all my might.

Wait!... What? Holy crap, what’s that warm feeling? Did I just? NO!

I sat back on the tiny bike seat. Nothing wet, false alarm. I stood on the pedals again. What the? Oh! The warm feeling was the blood rushing back into my, shall we say, junk. Seems those tiny seats restrict the circulation at the South Pole a bit.

It’s now been 29 hours since I completed my first ever spinning class and my girl parts are still stinging.

And my thighs are really pissed.

I need a massage. My poor legs are so sore they deserve it. Hm, what should I use?

Funny thing: The site of me rubbing my own thighs with KY warming massage oil didn’t exactly turn my husband on. Maybe if I replaced the heating pad with a bear skin rug, the bottle of Advil with Cabernet and the tattered tee shirt with a silky nighty, I’d have better luck.

Honey Bitch

I just finished trimming the trees in our yard. I was very respectful of the tree's right to grow, apologizing as I removed only the limbs that threaten to jab out one or both of my eyes when I mow the lawn, and avoiding any limbs with birds’ nests, even the birds that eat all the berries off our guava bush and then mercilessly crap them all over our mail box and windshields.


For my efforts I was stung by a bee.

I am aware of the current plight of the pollinating insect and how we as a world of eaters need them to insure our crops regenerate and our biscuits are good. And I fully sanction their right to live in our yard, but if I catch the bitch that stung me in the face there is going to be some shit!

A SAK of Boobies

We started improv classes at SAK Comedy Lab  where I have been volunteering.

I started going there just to be around funny people, but found a community too. Creative, talented people who are so accepting and supportive of everyone’s artistic interests, despite a staunch refusal to think that I am as funny as I think I am.

They all talked of and recommended the improv classes offered there, but having seen the shows, I never thought I could do what these improv specialists do. (It generally takes me about three days to come up with a witty retort.) Then my husband, who by the way is only one who almost thinks I am as funny as I think I am but always supports me none the less, suggested we take the class together. I so super love him.

Anywho, so the first class went great; so much fun, and we are lucky enough to have Charles as our instructor. His SAK bio:

Charles Frierman

Charles has the longest hair of any of our improvisers. He's also the only improviser at SAK who moonlights as a librarian.

I had met Charles before. Many a night while sweeping the theater after the show, Charles would come off stage and shake hands and thank each of us volunteering for the night, so I was really happy to find out he would be our instructor.

Last Sunday was our first class. We played improvisational games, some to help learn each other’s names and eventually we even got to get up on stage, just like the big kids, and do some improv. Some were better than others, some of us (me) had a case of the nerves and some really, really impressed me (my husband). But Charles made us all feel safe and encouraged every effort.

I can’t wait for the second class tomorrow night even if I do end up rolling around on the stage again. At Charles’ urging students are to be accepting of each other’s scene suggestions when in an improvisational game, so when my fellow student suggested that our characters roll around on the stage, I hesitated but proclaimed “yes lets” and down I went.

But my boobs went up… and out… the top of my best bra. The one that made my bestie at work reply to my wish to have a boob job with, “You mean a reduction?” Yeah, it’s a really good bra, thank you Army Corps of Engineers. But as luck would have it the unruly orbs never made it out my shirt.

So when I stood, trying to make my lack of grace in rising from an awkward, very public spread eagle position, look funny, I pirouetted my back to the audience of fellow students, gave my foundation garments a couple of quick adjustments, (I also had a wedgie), and sashayed into the wings stage left, boobs and granny panties back in their rightful places.

See you tomorrow night SAK improvisational classes… PS, I will be employing duct tape in preparation for whatever positions I may end up in.

Top Shot Vs Dirty Jobs

I love men, manly manly men.

I love my husband, he’s manly, hairy and he cooks. Meat, fire, man, love him. Here he is holding his twelve inch Woody.

Men Men Men Men Manly Men, LOVE LOVE LOVE LOVE them.

And I love my new favorite show Top Shot, but wait…

Dear Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs,

It may seem like I have abandoned you;

I have not. There is room on my DVR for you and Colby Donaldson of Top Shot.

Dear Colby Donaldson of Top Shot; YOU’RE SO HOT.

Don’t tell Mike Rowe… or my husband.

Facebook Funnies

Sometimes people post things that really crack me up:

They laughed when I said I was going to be a comedian. They're not laughing now.
-Bob Monkhouse, comedian

Just saw a 'Buy Local' bumper sticker on a VW Beetle! Guess that doesn't apply to cars.
Wayne

Love staying in hotels... There not my sheets and I don't have to wash them!
Me.

On the way home from work I bought a new trash can. When I reached our driveway, I drove over the old one. It was the funnest thing I did all day.
Me again.

Note to self: next parent teacher night don't take two muscle relaxers before you go.
Terry S.

I just found out I'm a descendant of a guy named Obadiah Belcher. That is quite a name. Yikes.
Sid

Any my most recent fav:

Your World Frightens And Confuses Me

I find the mall overwhelming; sometimes it’s just too much. There are so many choices and few are them are wise.

It begins in the parking lot where I try to maneuver my little Escort into a spot beside the behemoth Suburban or Escalade that can’t, or simply won’t limit itself to the allotted space between the lines. Luckily I am losing inches around my waist and can squeeze through the abbreviated space between my driver’s side door and the vertical toll bridge that serves as a passenger door on the land yacht in the adjacent space.

Once inside I am barraged with coffee possibilities. Champagne problems, I know, but what if I choose poorly and end up blowing two days lunch money on one grande cup of bitter sludge with more calories than a Big Mac.

But I came for some clothes, so let’s begin… Where? I am used to the chubby girl shop in the strip mall. You park right outside, there are four or five things to choose from, you use their credit card and you drive though DQ on the way home. Easy as pie; until you need help out of your car because you have too much pie.

I quit pie! And DQ!

So now I have choices.

For just a moment I feel like the convict in Shawshank Redemption who when let out of prison after so many years is so lost in the real world that he longs to go back to the safe constraints of his cell. Or the unfrozen caveman lawyer from Saturday Night Live, who declared upon being thawed, “Your world frightens and confuses me.” Then something shiny catches my eye.

I fly through the stores, trailing bags of clothes, none of which bear large flowery prints. I move with such speed and determination taking piles of pants without elastic in the waist to the dressing room that I draw the attention of security. I walk so fast from store to store that they surely must think I’ve stolen something, but I did not.

I am just trying to burn extra calories so that one day I can spend time in Victoria’s Secret. A lot of time!

Have You Ever Worn Panty Hose In Florida?

Have you ever worn panty hose in Florida? In the summer? While standing all day behind a teller line where nobody could see them anyway? And there is SO not a gap between your thighs where just a teensy bit of A.C. might happen to waft up your skirt that is supposed to NOT be more than an inch above your knee; no? Then you can’t possibly understand my distain for all things nylon (and spandex too) or why I am sooooo happy with my new job’s dress code.

We can dress casual, not even business casual, but everyday casual, as in shorts, tee shirts, jeans, open toed shoes, and yes we are even allowed to wear hats. I’m not a girl who wears a lot of shorts in public, and my jeans are more of a dress pant made out of denim than the currently popular jeggins, but I do enjoy the freedom to wear whatever I want as long as I am not offensive. Besides, it’s so very convenient to wear my capris, sneakers, oversized T and go straight to the Y after work.

So you would think with all this freedom people would be wearing some pretty over the top, or under the butt crack clothing, but no, not compared to what I’ve seen at past jobs. At all the banks I’ve worked for with business or business casual dress codes, I saw more T&A in a day than my brother saw all through high school. (It’s been a really, really, long time since he went to high school.)

A typical day might yield unwanted glimpses of boobs over a coin drawer desperately searching for the twelve cents needed to make them balance for the day. (Check your cleavage you might even find the rest of your lunch.), or ass crack, (sometimes with lint) emerging out of the top of a pair of “dress” pants whose owner was crouched in front of their floor vault putting away their Ben Franklins. There was the occasional thigh high peeking out from under a pinstriped skirt suit, (PS, if you muffin top your thigh highs, wear a longer skirt) and the ever present CFM shoes, again behind the counter where no one could see them, so why bother.

One time at a job interview I had to double check the address in the day planner I keep in my pleather brief case, because I thought I had accidently shown up to an open call for pole dancers instead of the personal banker interview. I guess they were looking for someone with a lot of experience helping men with their money, because they hired the chick with the pinstriped tassels leaving me to pound the pavement in my sensible shoes.

But I digress.

I am new at this company, so I don’t know how long the lenient dress policy has been in effect, but I hope my co-workers don’t ruin a good thing. Sometimes some people (and by some people I mean those of you under twenty five who think you’re inventing the wheel every time you push what you think is the envelope but really it’s just a piece of returned mail) when given an inch will take it and completely jack it up for the rest of us. If have learned anything in the gazillion day jobs I have had over the years, it’s that if you take a mile then the inch giver is eventually going to get most irked and want it back and then some.

So when at work my friends, remember that modest is the hottest and maybe, just maybe none of us will ever have to wear panty hose again.