Chicago Comedian : Scott Derenger

The Daily Derenger

7/01/2009 11:48:00 PM

Living With a Married Man

Sorry I haven't written in a while. I've been helping out a friend who shattered her ankle in three places. As luck would have it, all I had to do these last three days was play softball, which I sucked at. 1-10 with three errors in right field. I'm more like Milton Bradley than he is. But I did safely slide headfirst three times, much to the delight of Bene and Jon from Tuesday night's Big Momma's House. That was the only game I won this week, 16-6. Monday was a pathetic 14-1 loss in coed, underhand, slow-pitch, theater league softball. No team should ever score fewer than three runs in such competition. Sad, sad, sad.

Tonight, like on Monday, I boycotted the bars in favor of drinking at home. No wait in line to pee this way.

I'd love to write more and post pictures, but I need to wake up in five hours to take my friend for surgery. My mother would be so proud of me, and really, that's all that matters in life, right?

Hopefully more today. I promise. To try, that is.

6/29/2009 08:05:00 AM

Two of the newest JUST SHAVE IT fans from Battle Creek, MI.

Jen, her new panties, her sexy tan legs, and her diamond-studded heels. And some bald asshole to ruin the shot.

With Steve at his "shooting range" outside Grand Rapids, MI.

With Monica and an unhappy and tired baby Leah.

My how happy our four generations of family look. I, for a change, am the only one smiling. Stop the presses.

On the Road with Scott Derenger
Joliet, Illinois and some of my old stompin' grounds.

I'm at the Panera in the Louis Joliet Mall. I think it's called Westfield something, but to me it will always be "the mall," or the "Louis Mall." Even when the dim and dreary Jefferson Mall was around, the Louis Mall was considered "the mall." The place to go. Unless you wanted drugs. Or to count stores outta business.

My literary intentions may never come to fruition today. You see, I'm sitting in the corner, on a booth near the entrance from inside the mall. However, only the old mall walkers are "shopping" right now; Actual businesses don't open till 10. Except for Panera, which opened at 7, an hour later than most Paneras.

It's slow right now and my location affords me the hearing of all conversations between employees. One guy with spiked hair just arrived for training. He's prepping salads for the lunch rush. Two younger girls are acting as cashiers, wondering if the other has seen "The Hangover" yet. A few minutes later one girl asked the other how to say 'ten' in Spanish. It's rich material like this that keeps my writing alive. Clearly.

A small herd of old men sat in the middle of Panera when I first arrived. They talked about all the famous people who died last week. First Ed McMahon, then Farrah Fawcett, and finally Michael Jackson.

"And yesterday morning that Billy Mays died?"
"Who?" a man in a cowboy hat asked loudly.
"BILLY MAYS," another man shouted, leaning in and tapping his coffee mug on the table.
"Willie Mays? The ball player?"
"Nooooooo, damnit. BILLY. BILLY Mays. With a 'bee'. He does those TV commercials for goofy shit people buy. He's excited all the time. My daughter bought some of that Oxy stuff. She swears by it. I don't bother with it."
"Oh," the corrected man said. Then a 10-second pause ensued. "I gotta hit the john."

Then the cast from Cocoon shared Michael Jackson jokes. Within a minute or so, the employees started to share some jokes, too. I wanted to share the ones I heard over the weekend, but they were miles below PC. (The walking crowd is getting bigger and bigger by the minute. A trio of old broads, two of whom have on fanny packs, is trying to set a record or something. Their pace is actually making me sweat. And I hope I don't ever feel the need or desire to pull my pants up that fuckin' high. No ass and all gut on most of these old farts. Viagra wouldn't even help that look.)

I walked here. My car's being fixed at Honda across the street. They asked if I wanted a ride. "On a day like this?" I asked Roger. "It's gorgeous. Besides, I hung around some fat people yesterday, so I need to walk."

And here I found all these people walking ... INSIDE the fuckin' mall. I know they're old and have routines, but for shit's sake, breathe in some fresh air, put on some sunglasses, rub SPF 85 on your melanoma, and become one with Mother Nature.

Before you meet St. Peter, that is.

********

Yesterday I attended my best friend's first child's baptism. Let's just say that Jim and Monica and their families have been through enough in the last few years to last all of eternity. If the adage, "What doesn't kill you makes you stronger" is true, each one of them automatically wins the World's Stronger Person contest.

"Put down the front end of that bus, Magnus. And stop playin' catch with the sofa-sleepers. You don't stand a chance."

(The Panera manager is telling the new guy about To-Go orders. They're sitting right beside me. I might as well be interviewed, too.

"Don't ask the customer if you can call them back. They're gonna call Jimmy Johns.)

*******

The Baptism was at St. Mary Nativity in Joliet, where I attended K through 8. I got pulled over on my way there for three moving violations, the officer told me.

"Well, sir, that's three more than I thought I had committed." I told him I was going to church and that my car was gonna die if it sat idle for too long. He didn't seem to care, and after all, it was the end of the month and quotas are due. To get one bald asshole on: speeding, failing to signal when changing lanes, and blowing a red light is a triply successful whammy.

All he gave me was a warning, though. I was guilty as a pedophile with crayon on his crank, but somehow Scott made it off Scott-free.

(Panera is packed now. And I was wrong about the mall opening at 10. It's actually 9. I'm surrounded on three sides by people of all shapes and sizes. Three old ladies, like The Golden Girls without Sophia, are talking about the expensive boots girls wear these days. They all have two coffee cups stacked together because this Panera is short on coffee cup sleeves. Wait. Sophia just joined. And one of their granddaughters.)

I attended noon mass yesterday because I thought Monica's family would be there, too. I didn't have her cell number saved, so I didn't call to confirm. Plus I had plenty of time and no excuse not to go to mass. Besides, we all know I need all the help I can get.

There was only one altar boy. His hair was kinda long, covering his ears, the way the kids wear it today. I used to comb mine nicely back when I had some, but this kid didn't seem to care much for his appearance. (Just as I write about this, the granddaughter is talking about serving her very first mass, something we never had back in my altar serving days. It was a "boys only" club, which is how the priests liked it. Or maybe they simply had no choice.

I recently found out a friend of mine left the priesthood because he admittedly desired the opposite sex too much. Quite a refreshing revelation in today's world.

And then I heard about altar girls.

Yesterday's altar boy yawned a few times. He didn't even try to cover his mouth. He fiddled around in his pocket, the side facing the congregation, no less. I wondered what he was doing, and just then my phone vibrated. Maybe his phone did, too, another difference in today's world.

A quandary presented itself: to check the text message instead of giving myself the sign of the cross OR to just ignore it and even turn the phone off?

"What if something's wrong?" I thought. So I checked.

Two messages. One from a friend inviting me to the beach and the second from a friend with an extra ticket to the Cubs-White Sox game. While each were appreciated offers, there was no way I was missing Leah's baptism. Plus I was right there in the church where it would take place. Had I been in Chicago en route to Joliet, maybe things would have been different, but I'd like to think my intentions would stay purely the best.

(A man, probably about 60 and wearing headphones beneath his ball cap, is holding tightly to a door handle and stretching his legs by kicking them in the air. As if he's getting ready for a triathlon instead of a brisk jaunt past LensCrafters and then through the food court.

Also, an male asshole in a wheelchair has a laugh that makes Gilbert Gottfreid and Fran Drescher COMBINED seem normal. He also has on a earring in one ear and a blue tooth in the other. I now loathe him for more than his laugh. But what's he gonna do, run after me?

I wonder why people with gut wrenchingly obnoxious laughs don't change the F*CKIN' laugh. I mean, snoring is one thing - you're sleeping & it's usually uncontrollable & sometimes even requires surgery to fix. But laughing happens while awake, you A$$holes. Please be considerate of those around you who don't think you or your friends are even mildly amusing. Thanks.)

Now back to mass. It was my first time back to St. Mary Nativity since May of 2002, when Monica and Jim were married. I stood up in the wedding, Monica's only male friend. I stood on Jim's side, though, because Monica didn't think I looked good in a bride's maid dress. Maybe the shoulder tattoo and fuzzy shoulders did me in?

At first I sat in the back on the far left of the church yesterday. My mind was consumed with the past. I remembered going to many masses - as a student, an altar boy, with my parents and then with my friends when I was actually old enough to drive. When I was in grade school, I was quite the chatterbox. In class, in church, in the hallway, in the bathroom. We actually had to be quiet when taking class bathroom breaks. A student was assigned to take names of those who talked in the bathroom. Now I know there's not much to say while peeing as a 10 year-old, but still, if a kid lets one rip, it can't go ignored. And they always tell you to go to the bathroom when you have to do that. So we did. And farts are really funny at 10. Then again, they're pretty damn hysterical at 34, too. Especially on the wooden benches at mass.

If I talked in class before mass back in the day, I'd have to sit near the teacher the whole mass. That sucked. That meant I had to sing; I couldn't just mouth the words. While the nuns were kinda old, they surely weren't deaf.

I hated to sing. Still do. Unless it's on my terms. Only a few songs I belted out while wearing my powdered blue shirt and dark blue uniform pants: "On Eagle's Wings #206"; "One Bread, One Body", # 207, I think, which I renamed "One Bed, Two Bodies", which then got me in trouble every time its name was announced. Especially by Sr. Celene, the music teacher who talked and walked like a creature more than like a woman of God. The boys always made fun of her voice and portly meandering through the halls. She missed her calling as a Star Wars character, for sure.

My other holy faves were: "Peace is Flowing Like a River", #214; and "Anthem", #16. Remember that smash hit? "We are called, we are chosen, we are Christ for one another ..." All that tuition money did some good, I guess.

Too many thoughts raced through my head, so I left my seat to look for a pen and paper. I figured there was one in back near the offering envelopes and bulletins. BAM! Only one pen. I took it. I mean borrowed it. No taking in church. The bulletin had eight pages and served nicely as a notebook. Many people read the whole thing during mass instead of listening to a single spoken word, so why not write on it?

I gave $10 at offertory time. Figured that was generous enough. But since it came from selling JUST SHAVE IT thongs to Michigan muff trimmers, seemed disturbingly sacrilegious.

But my donation was nothing like the $2 million given to St. Mary Nativity last month. That could buy all the alumni for the next 100 years plenty of panties.

A short while later the bored altar boy rang the bells during the consecration. That was my favorite part of serving mass, the most holy highlight. For those two ringing sessions - take my body and then take my blood - all eyes and ears were on us. Usually the most senior server rang the bells. At first we knelt on either side of the altar, and then that changed over the years, and we were relocated to the bottom of the stairs, side by side. If I felt generous, I'd let a rookie ring the bells. Or a kid dorkier than me, which there weren't many of.

And some 20 years later, I tell dirty jokes as the center of attention. Go figure.

Okay. This is way too long for anyone to actually read, word for word. I'm goin' to walk around the mall. Maybe hit the arcade. And then Sbarro pizza for lunch.

Just like when I was 15 and sweatpants were the coolest attire here. Gotta love J-Town.

Nevermind. Car's ready for the road. Chicago beaches, here I come!

6/26/2009 09:37:00 AM

On the Road with Scott Derenger
Rockford, Michigan

This morning's free breakfast was enjoyed with a tinge of reluctance. It was free so I ate it, making it with about seven minutes to spare. I didn't even have anything hot - no waffles, no bacon, no eggs. The lady insisted she should make more eggs but I told her the cereal and donuts would be perfect for this fat guy. She laughed.

So aside from the celebrity deaths yesterday, it was an odd day which lasted that way through the night. A gorgeous day in western Michigan, I figured nobody was gonna come to last night's show at the Crazy Horse Saloon, a place I had been to like three times before. Always a great time, just hadn't been there for about four years.

The show was slated to begin at 8, which is insane in the Michigan summers. It's daylight till like 9:30, and with warm weather, who wants to come inside? Even if there is beer and hot waitresses bringing it to you.

A small but mighty crowd of blue-collar rednecks filled the dance floor. Once on stage I made sure none of 'em had on cleats or spurs, per the sign on the front door. People laughed. Some sat and stared. An older couple in the front row, wearing their "Thursday Night Best" tank-tops, ate dinner and talked to each other, paying little attention to the live performance three feet in front of them.

"Really? Taco salads and tank tops? I'm so glad I ironed my jeans."

I did some Michael Jackson jokes while his body was still warm at UCLA's Medical Center. Nothing special for the jokes, either. I found it coincidental that as I was getting ready to "beat it," Michael Jackson was pronounced dead.

"I wanted to sleep but my friends kept on texting me, 'MJ is dead. MJ is dead.' HOLY SHIT! Michael Jordan is dead!!?? Then I realized it was Michael Jackson and order was restored. He hasn't had a hit in like 15 years; I thought he WAS dead."

Topical humor isn't my strength, clearly. Shepherd Smith was interviewing Joe Pesci yesterday about Jackson's death. Because really, when The King of Pop - the most influential entertainer of my lifetime - dies, I wanna hear what a burglar from "Home Alone" has to say.

As I stood on stage about five minutes into my set, two guys, probably 25 or so, came and sat at the front table, to my right, a few feet down from the tank-toppers. And instead of wearing said shirts, they each had on ... JUST SHAVE IT shirts. For real. They'd seen me in downtown Grand Rapids back in 2007 with a huge group, including two really cute girls. Now one of 'em's married and the other is pregnant. Oh well.

After the show the two Scott Derenger fans invited me to go shoot guns today on their lunch break. I'm not kidding. One of 'em just called to make sure I was still in. His name's Steve Kidder. He's on my Facebook page. If I don't make it to my show tonight, ask him why.

I've only ever shot prematurely - more times than I'd care to admit - or the big-ass guns in Iraq. Water guns and cap guns, too, but nothing real. Nothing dangerous. So why not let my first time in America be with two dudes I barely know out back of an auto-body repair shop in the Michigan sticks? I'm sure some ladies have a similar story of their first time.

I ate this fat and wet burrito for dinner. And once again I have left apology notes for the housekeeper throughout this hotel room. It's a nice room, too. King-size bed with a fridge and microwave, a couch, four mirrors, good light, nice desk. A sad reality for just me to enjoy.

At the bar I visited with a married couple after the show, he nine years older than her. She was actually in high school when they first met. He was a coach and a teacher. She was a student and a cheerleader. Very naughty role playing. Today is his birthday. Last night he tied one on at the bar, almost getting into two different fights. I just sat and visited with his wife, learning that their children were named Boston and Jetta, two names I had never before heard for people. For cities and cars, yes. But not for American human beings.

"How can you be a die-hard Detroit sports fan and name your son Boston? And how can you name your daughter after a car that's NOT a Ford model?" Just seemed very odd, that's all. They didn't look like people who'd name their kids Boston and Jetta. Maybe Trevor and Destin. Not cities and cars. Wait. Destin is a city in Florida. Nevermind then. I'm the one without kids so what the fuck do I know?

I drank Jack and water all night. The burrito filled me up greatly so I felt nary a buzz this morning. The water helped clean me out, I guess. As if the burrito didn't have that under control already. For the health-conscious alcoholic always on the go.

Back at my hotel, I entered the lobby and said hello to the front desk girl around 3 a.m. "Good morning. How ya doin'?" Simple enough.

"Peachy keen," she said. That made me stop in my tracks and ask why. "Why not good or okay? Why peachy keen?"

"You're one of the comedians, aren't you?" she wondered. I was wearing a kinda tight black tee shirt that reads "GO NAKED," so perhaps that was the dead give-away. Or maybe it was simply my analyzing of her phrase "peachy keen." While I've heard it said before, I never myself have said it.

"You comedians all ask questions and wonder about shit like that. It's your job, isn't it?" She had a point and we continued to banter back and forth across the front lobby. Then it was time to reheat my burrito and get fatter.

Earlier in the day, as I checked into the hotel, a flock of folks stood on the left side of the desk. I thought my wait would be a long one. And just then a man asked if he could help me. We talked for maybe a minute about the Cubs-Tigers, since I was wearing a Cubs shirt.

"You're a comedian, I bet," an older lady said from the middle of the desk.

"Um, maybe. But why would you think that?" In addition to the shirt, I had on sunglasses, my blue, floral swim trunks and Cubbie crocs. I guess that's the look of a comedian to the locals in suburban Grand Rapids, Michigan.

Speaking of locals, time to go shoot some shit with two strangers. Wish me luck.

4 shows this weekend at Gary Fields' Comedy Club in Battle Creek.

Go Cubs. Fuck the White Sox and their fans! In a good way, that is.

6/25/2009 09:39:00 AM

Spending a portion of my day at Little Sable Point Light House in Michigan. I got many stares during this photo shoot in the dunes.

I share a story about my only trip to Lake Havasu, Arizona. It's kinda dirty - shocking, I know - so beware.

6/24/2009 08:40:00 AM

Cinnamon rolls & holes for "the first guy."
On the Road with Scott Derenger

Good morning from gorgeous Pentwater, Michigan, along the coast of Lake Michigan, right in the middle. Small touristy town that only blossoms in the summer. I drove to last night's show and passed about a dozen deer, half of which were dead. The live ones trembled slightly on the side of the road, thankfully. They were noticeably skinny, though. I guess the economy has really taken its toll on ALL of Michigan.

This morning I called the front desk to ask about coffee. Paul told me there was coffee and continental breakfast. Delicious coffee, even though it's about 80 already. I eyed-up the powdered cinnamon sugar donut holes & began my descent. Just then a flock of seagulls disguised as little shittin' kids rushed in to steal my powered prey. Only a single hole remained. And I wasn't gonna be THAT guy.

So I headed back to my room with the coffee.

But I know that breakfast is the most important meal of the day, especially if the only holes you're eating are surround by fur. Very tasty but not a filler-upper whatsoever. I headed back to the breakfast nook. Not a stinkin', shittin' kid in sight. I snagged six holes - 3 white powder & 3 cinnamon. Then a lady brought a fresh plate of mini cinnamon rolls. They weren't steaming hot or homemade but damn were they good.

And free.

When I checked into the hotel last night, the lady asked if anyone else is in my room. "Well, ma'am. I'm not sure. Is it THAT kinda place?" I bet most people pass on such an opportunity. You know, the kind where making a cheap joke brings forth a roll of the eyes or head swivel.

"So anyone else with you, sir?" she asked again.

No, but the night's still young. The more concise kidding produced a gentle chuckle.

The show was at The Village Pub, in a low-ceiling, great-acoustics basement bar. I had played there in the summer of 2006, I think. And just like back then, they weren't feeling "the first guy." They rarely do at one-nighters. We're the sacrificial lamb. We're the black charcoal lit on fire after the fluid douses us. We burn a slow yet firey death, only to transform into gray coals for epic grilling perfection. And that's when the headliner comes on and cooks the ribeye just to your liking.

Or something like that.

You know when the crowd isn't liking you. You can feel their cover charge remorse. You can see the blank stares. You can hear the "we can be doing so many other things right now" racing through their heads.

And then the headliner, with the grill unable to be any more perfect, steps on the stage of fire. Splat goes the thick steak. And thus begins 45 minutes of belly laughs and applause breaks. Meanwhile I'm in the back of the basement considering how one could end it all.

Not from your hotel room. You're on the first floor, dumb ass.
Not with a shotgun. The closest Walmart is like 35 minutes away.
Ah, fuck it. It's gonna be gorgeous tomorrow. Go lay by the beach and if Wednesday night's show sucks, too, at least you'll be all tan in casket.

"Boy, Scotty sure looks good. Except for that big ol' hole in his head." Must've been a Walmart in Mount Pleasant.

The show had ended while I was in the bathroom upstairs. As I made my way out, I overheard a woman talking. "I told you, Gina. The first guy always sucks. They try to be funny but they never are. I kinda felt bad for the one tonight."

Last night I was the first guy. Instead of making them laugh, I made them feel bad for me. I mean, sure it's an emotion, but not exactly the desire of a comedian. At least not all the time.

It was as if I'd arrived to a party but nobody knew it yet. I walked into them talking badly about me, and instead of bursting in, I just stood back to listen, completely outta sight. Last night I kept the door opened a little to hear it all. To hear how they openly voiced their displeasure for me and their abounding joy for the headliner. Because we all know how funny farting in the car is.

The best part of the night was the food. The beer-battered fried fish strips were arguably the BEST EVER. And the fries were damn sweet, too. When you play a Tuesday night show in a summer resort basement bar, and the best thing that happens to you is the fried fish, "Living the Dream" really doesn't come to mind. It goes to your colon and straight out the back door in 30 minutes.

As much as I know you're pining for more depressing bullshit, I haven't any more in me. There's a gorgeous Silver Lake beach right down the hill. I'm gonna go enjoy that for a few hours before heading due east to Mount Pleasant, Michigan. 9p.m. showtime.

Where I will again be the first guy. With a pretty sweet tan and sand in my ass crack.

6/22/2009 11:23:00 PM

***THIS WEEK***

June 23 - Pentwater, MI
June 24 - Mount Pleasant, MI
June 25 - Rockford, MI
June 26-27 - Battle Creek, MI @ Gary Fields' Comedy Club

This is the commercial-free clip from TLC's "Truth Be Told: I'm a Hoarder," which aired on June 11, 2009. A one-hour episode, featuring three hoarding families, will debut in late July or early August.

Watch here as my family deals with my mother's compulsive hoarding. My sister is 23 and now living back home with her baby son Tyler, my mother, my stepfather, my step-grandmother, the dog Chelsie, and the cat Miss Kitty.

6/22/2009 12:56:00 PM

Living With a Married Man

He's sitting on my good couch while I'm relegated to the black pleather one my mom picked up for 50 bucks off of Craig's list. Later that same night I saw a chick offering handjobs for 60 bucks on the same site, three links to the left.

Just thought you should know.

My friend Mark and his fiancee are staying with the married man this week. (I actually grabbed my AP Stylebook to see how a male fiance is spelled versus his female counterpart. Two "e's" for the ladies. A set of Double-E bombs will help me remember from now on.)

Mark and John went to Arizona State together, and that's where I met Mark back in 1997. For a few weeks, we were roommates even. I had the master bedroom ... without a lick of furniture, mind you. Mark was in between leases and needed a place to crash for a short while. We slept on my bedroom floor with only sleeping bags, or maybe just sheets and blankets. I mean, it was Tempe in the late summer. Said sheets and blankets were probably used more so to wipe the sweat off our bald-ass heads. And just heads. Unless Mark used his covers as a toga.

Earlier that summer, like in the beginning of June, Mark and John collaborated with me on shaving my head for the first time. And I've never looked back. 12 years and counting, my friends. That was before digital cameras and the Internet, so all you have is my word and drunken stories. Or ask John and Mark.

So Mark's getting married this October to Terese. I have yet to meet her, and since I have shows this week in Michigan, it's a no-go. They're in town for a wedding near Milwaukee. Even though Mark's a lawyer with a BMW, he's staying with me. Well, in my bed. That means I have to wash the sheets or risk his fiancee getting impregnated by one of his clients.

In addition to laundering my bedding, I just scrubbed my shower liner. I will bet my last homestand's tips that Mark would not clean his place for me, even if I was coming with ALL of The Girls Next Door. Then again, Terese probably would 'cause that's how chicks are, especially when others chicks are around. I just figure that since I won't be here for the fun, the least I could do is provide a clean environment for their fun. (Psssst, Mark. There's Astroglide in the nightstand with the lamp on it. And the mirror against the wall in front of the bed is there for a reason. But also beware that my landlord's daughter lives right above my room, so unless you're masking your mating moans with The Jonas Brothers Greatest Hits, please employ the silencer on your gun. Thanks.)

THIS JUST IN: Living with a Married Man has taken a turn for the better. John's currently on my back porch vacuuming my living room rug. He claims it's because he likes to walk barefoot and the rug is riddled with everything from toenails to Dorito crumbs to street salt. John's fighting a losing battle. I've tried to vacuum that thing before and while it serves as quite a nice workout, you don't get shit accomplished. It's like vacuuming velcro. The last time I cleaned the rug was with a wet towel. I brushed it like some award-winning canine on display for those yuppie fucks in New York. Sure it worked but what heterosexual renting bachelor brushes an $89 Home Depot rug for a second time?

Not this one.

Off to fold laundry and scrape the pubes off the bathroom floor.

Softball tonight at 5:20 with Second City. This week I'm in Michigan for 5 days, 7 shows: Pentwater, Mount Pleasant, Rockford and Battle Creek for the weekend. Cubs are playing the Tigers Tuesday - Thursday, so at least I'll have that to watch. As my liver recovers.

Plenty of pictures posted here and on Facebook tomorrow. Check back then.

And I have a new phone SO PLEASE EMAIL OR TEXT ME YOUR NUMBER. Chances are I have nobody's memorized. Thanks. Go Cubs. Go 16" coed softballers.

6/18/2009 08:34:00 AM

At Wednesday's Cubs-White Sox game, which the pathetic Cubs lost 4-1. Lou Piniella should be fired immediately. He admitted that he doesn't know what to do with his team's struggles and he doesn't have the time to try and figure it out. If you said this as a manager at Walmart or Bar Louie, you'd be fired on the spot.

With my Ellen boxer briefs for her Wrigley Field appearance Tuesday night. Unfortunately, Mother Nature had other ideas. The game was called before Ellen even arrived. I had JUST SHAVE IT panties for her and Portia waiting. They're still waiting. Like Milli Vanilli pretended to sing, I "Blame It On The Rain!"

Yesterday at Bernie's. Silvy even gave me a "Scott from ShaveYourHead.com" shout-out in the middle of the show. I didn't win free Cubs tickets but I did win an ESPN shirt. As if I need more t-shirts.

He forgot, "The Cubs $135 million payroll and a record below .500 - Worthless."

No reason he should see the starting lineup, unless it's in Triple A. For another team.

Derrek Lee gathers the kids for a meeting. Wait, those are his teammates. Theriot and his alleged 5'10 frame was talking with "What Chris Wants, Chris Getz" at second base.

For some reason Cubs fans wanted Milton Bradley autograph yesterday. Maybe they were outta toilet paper at the Port-O-Potties around the corner.

With my mom and stepdad at their "formal" wedding in 1992, along with my brother and sister. I have the longest face in the history of mankind.

With my adorable nephew, Tyler, leaning to the left just like his Uncle Scott.

Seriously. How cute is this kid?

Living With a Married Man

Our power and gas is back on. My bank account will soon be closed, though. I have to ride to Wrigley, covered in a plastic bag. Just the way I dreamed as a kid.

Yesterday I went to the sorry Cubs game with my good buddy and great photographer, Will Byington. He had sweet upper deck seats, last row of the 400 section. But even that kinda view couldn't make the Cubs play on the field any more appealing. This team disgusts me. And their old crotchety manager is even a bigger joke. Jim Hendry, the team's Vice President and General Manager is a close second to Lou. I know the sale of the team has things in limbo, but come on - $135 million and you're under .500? Un-fucking-acceptable. I don't care of the division is oozing with mediocrity; That's no excuse for the Cubs to suck elephant nuts.

Speaking of team's sucking, I've lost my last four softball games. Last night The Swingers lost to a bunch of extras from the movie "Cocoon." They were extras when the movie came out around 1988. Their pitcher, Mort, had been pitching on that field for 41 years. I went 2-3, the last of which being a pop-fly double just beyond first base. I didn't even run at first, so when I slid into second, headfirst of course, I was barely safe. Only a perfectly executed slide had me in. Sad, sad baseball acumen.

Monday we got drilled by The Spot in 16" ball. Only batted twice. First a triple and then a lame flyout to left. I should never get out in co-ed softball. Ever. Never ever.

I'm pressed for time and need to get pretty for work. Good luck with that, right.

Go Cubs. Sorry. Go TO HELL Cubs, is what I meant to say.

6/16/2009 01:06:00 AM

Living With a Married Man

He's probably really pissed at me. I thought my ComEd relationship simply involved a "pay if you want" kinda bill. But I came home tonight, ran into the bathroom, pulled it out, and peed on the wall and the floor. I flipped the light switch a few times while trying to keep the stream aimed at what sounded like toilet water. I then looked in the kitchen because looking at where I knew that water was pointless; It was pitch dark. No lights in the kitchen were on either - neither the illuminated clocks on the stove not the coffee pot.

I figured this day might come. I then knocked on my landlord's door. "I checked everything," she said. "It's fine. Have you called ComEd?"

My expression gave the impression she spoke in tongues and asked me if I had toenail cream cheese for sale.

"Um. I .... have ..... never ..... gotten ..... a ...... bill ..... from .... them."

I felt like I was 15 again, in the Dean's office for farting in religion class. Or when I was a freshman and said "Fuck You" in French, while in Spanish class. Perhaps had I said "chinga te", things would have been different.

But I wasn't a kid. I was a rent-paying, 34-year-old adult. Supposedly a responsible one. Hopefully, for my landlord's sake. And there I was in her kitchen, wearing: brown sandals, a St. Pauli Girl softball jersey, 18-year-old North Carolina shorts torn in the back of the right leg, and two Cubs hats on my head. Yep, two. Why? I really have no idea. Maybe I thought one of them would double as a flashlight.

I returned to my place, lit three scented candles, and just sat there, feeling helpless and pathetic. For I was still without a phone. No way to contact anyone if I wanted to. No wireless router to email anyone. Just my car, where I could sit and hope to land a WiFi feed.

Or come to a bar and sit on the Net as young coeds play with each other's emotions. And that's what I did, and it's where I am now, at Nevin's Evanston.

Waiting for the married man to get done with work so he can enjoy the trio of flames and the smell of a Yankee Candle's Mid Summer's Night.

Coincidence? I think not.

6/15/2009 09:59:00 AM

With Cyndi's foster kittens, 8-week-old brother & sister: Rowen and Puck.

Further evidence why I wouldn't be a good father. Asleep on the job. Or maybe the Johnny Walker Black on the rocks did me in. Then again, they are sleeping, too, so perhaps I do have some pussy control.

Chris, Jason, Ana and Tim at Rib Fest Sunday night. Where they many place ran out of ... ribs? We did have some garlic corn and funnel cake. And eventually we found some finger-lickin' good ribs. The Port-O-Potties were some of the nastiest of all time. Until I see the ones at Taste of Chicago, that is.

And is it wrong to think of the corn dog as the gay man's lollipop?

The sniper shooter never takes a break, especially when there's an unsuspecting g-string diva right in front of him. Too bad there isn't a Gee Fest. That would be finger-lickin' great.

Panera oddities and Ribless Fest.
On the Road w/Scott Derenger

Damn I need to leave this Panera. Laundry list of things to do. Hoping to get a new phone. Been without one for a week now. Yep, 2009, and I have no cell or home phone. I know nobody's phone number by heart, other than an ex girlfriend, my mom, my old buddy Ray, and my Aunt's. Maybe more if I thought harder, but why?

A lady and her husband were standing in line an hour or so ago.

"You wanna tea bag?" she asked him. Thank God I wasn't drinking my coffee or I would have conducted my own nostril enema.

At Rib Fest in Chicago last night, most places were out of ... ribs? I know it was a gorgeous Sunday in Chicago, and it was the last night of the 3-day annual event, but come on. No ribs? It's only once a year. Gets your ducks in a row and your ribs on the grill.

A few places had them, but they were nothing special. I just rubbed my fingers in the sauce and licked them off. Of course AFTER boiling my hands in bleach upon leaving the Port-O-Potties.

I'm gonna end this painstaking thing right now. Below is a video blog from Saturday night, when I sat on my porch and listened to the jungle-like surroundings.

WAIT! While I sitting out there, a raccoon crawled up on my porch and tried to climb up the steps leading to the deck above mine. He must have been blind or simply clueless that a 185-pound human being was sitting two feet from him.

Some people would have yelled and screamed. I may have, too, had it not been for noticing a 3some of coons walking on the upstairs deck last week. The creature was fresh in my memory. That and my mom feeds raccoons, opossums, birds, and other critters on her back porch all the time. We watch through the glass back door as they feast on whatever leftovers mom sets out for them. Sometimes the varmints eat better than us.

Last week, when John and I saw the pack of coons, we grabbed two mini National City-sponsored Ryne Sandberg Hall of Fame 2005 bats, and made our way into the wild. Or upstairs, through the vines growing along the wooden rail. They scampered away, huddling in the corner but well outta our reach. And really, what would we have done otherwise? Smack the shit outta 10 pound raccoons who were certainly more scared of us than we of them? At least that's what Animal Planet claims. No raccoons were available for comment, though.

Saturday night I had a light shining brightly in the direction of my metal porch table. It was initially used for the video blog I had done an hour earlier, but when the sun went down, it became my writing light. So as I saw the coon's claws extend toward the first step outta the corner of my eye, I sat speechless. But I acted swiftly.

I clapped my hands twice, as viciously as possible. Some people are saved by the bell, I was saved by the clap. Then again, some have been killed by the clap, too.

My laptop was, for a change, actually on my lap. Had I leaped up, the porn-ridden thing would have crashed to the ground. Or I would have juggled it to the end of the deck, and dropped it over the rail, where I tossed the pumpkins from last fall.

But I maintained my composure and used one of God's gifts to me: a loud, obnoxious, ear-piercing clap. People have been known to cover their ears when my spastic claps commence, sometimes outta nowhere. Unprovoked. No runs were scored. No first place finishes. No motion picture deal. Just Scotty being Scotty.

"It's 8 in the morning. Why the fuck are you doing that, asshole?" That's been uttered on more than one occasion, possibly at work, possibly during free hotel breakfast.

"Mind your business," I retort. "They biscuits and gravy kick major ass!"

And maybe once or twice at church. Which is also how many times I've gone in the last year.

In high school I played baseball as a senior. I was one of the last cuts as a junior, so Coach Rodeghero told me in his history class. Brian Bloom, a senior and also the school's only male cheerleader, quite the team his senior season; Coach Rod claimed I was next in line. I called bullshit, internally, and shrugged my shoulders, as if to say, "What the fuck good is that now, coach?"

Like telling your friend, "Hey, I really wanted to take you to Gibson's for dinner, but I opted for Burger King instead. And now I'm broke again. Sorry. Just thought you should know."

When the season was over my senior year, after I batted like a dozen times and pinch ran once in a while, Coach Rod acknowledged my bench presence at the awards banquet. Something to the effect of "being a positive voice in the dugout, keeping the team in the game at all times with his attitude." Or something like that. In short Rod was saying that "Scott annoyed the opposition - and probably our own players - with his constant chatter and obnoxious clapping."

How proud was my father of his oldest son, playing varisty baseball at his alma matter, and being congratulated for relentless clapping?

I had obviously replaced Bloom as the team's cheerleader.

Back to Saturday night's raccoon rambling ...

When my claps sent the raccoon scampering back down the stairs and into the Saturday night shadows, I felt like the old lady on THAT commercial. You know the one, where the old lady sits up in bed, claps her hands twice, and turns off the lights. CLAP ON, CLAP OFF. CLAP ON, CLAP OFF, THE CLAPPER.

And just then, as the coon got outta sight, he set off the motion lights.

So like the old lady, I turned on the lights.

Just another in a long line of "Scot Derenger has was too much free time" experiences.

Second City softball tonight against the league's best, The Spot. 5:20, 16" style along Lake Michigan. Weather permitting, of course.

(The Panera girl - yes, I'm still here. It's now 11:37, 97 minutes after I was supposed to leave - just gave me a sample of their frozen lemonade. Tiny cups, the kind you rinse with at the dentist. There were two left on the tray - one had a blue straw and one a pink. I went with blue. The large bald black man 20 feet away, was left with the pink one. His shirt's kinda pink, too, and mine is light blue, like the straw. Weird, huh?

But is this thing really a straw? It's thick as hell. More like a soft PVC pipe. It would be an ideal felch tube. (Google it if you're unsure.) I don't think you're supposed to suck through this thing. Veins could pop out in my head and scare the children on their summer break, the little shits climbing on the leather chairs in front of me. Maybe this blue thing is just a stirrer and I'm supposed to stir it around to make it melt, and then drink it.

I just looked at the bald black man to see how he was using his stirrer-straw. We made eye contact. Very uncomfortable. Both bald, both wearing glasses, and both wearing shirts that complement ours drink apparatuses. Mind boggling, wouldn't you agree?)

Here's that video ...

6/12/2009 12:02:00 PM

Living With a Married Man
The Cubs suck & thoughts about my TLC debut.

The married guy ain't here at the moment. He's shacking up with - of all people - his wife. Yep, she's in town for a country concert this weekend. I'd like to go but I have to work tomorrow. I'm letting them have my place tomorrow night after the concert, so now I need to find a place to stay. Any takers?

So it's almost noon on Friday. The Cubs are home but I'm off today. I was kinda offered a chance to watch the Cubs-Twins from a Sheffield rooftop, but the Cubs lackluster play has me boycotting them. It's the only thing I can do as a fan - show displeasure by not giving them my money. They are void of clutch hitting. Their GM should be suspended for selling us on Aaron Miles and Milton Bradley. The three of them shouldn't be allowed into Wrigley this weekend. End of story.

If I knew Miles and Bradley couldn't help this team, how didn't Jim Hendry know that, too? And people need to stop with the "We Need Mark DeRosa Back" bullshit. No the Cubs don't. If they did, they would still not hit in the clutch. Let's say DeRo gets a leadoff hit in the 10th, and is then stranded after the next three hitters make outs. What then? He's back and they still suck.

The Cubs never won a single playoff game with DeRosa. Nor with Lou Piniella as manager. Dusty Baker haters need to recognize, that for the Cubs, Dusty Baker was a better manager. Numbers don't lie.

"But Dusty had better teams," you may whine. Bullshit. The Cubs won the most games in the league last year and scored the most runs. And then they didn't hit in the post season, and thus didn't win a single game. For the second straight year.

Their starting pitching this year is among the best in ALL of baseball. They have the Rookie of the Year behind the plate, and I'd rather see the kid who starred in the movie by the same title calling pitches. Soto is having a sophomore slump at the worst possible time. And for Hendry not to expect Ramirez and Bradely to be hurt is inexplicable. It's like not having extra security for the Cubs-Sox series next week.

"It's a night game during the week. There's won't be many fights."

And with all that said, the Cubs are only 2.5 games behind the Brewers, who welcome the cross town White Sox this weekend. I will gladly cheer for the Sox to dismantle the Crew. And then cheer against them when the Sox come to Wrigley next Tuesday night.

I'll be driving to Joliet today and listening in the car. Unfortunately. Why? There are few things as painful as game analysis by Ron Santo. Sammy Sosa deserves to be in the Hall of Fame far and away ahead of Santo, first of all. Second of all, the charity case in the radio booth has to end. It's beyond unbearable. Listen to any other MLB game. Nobody is as inept as the moaning and groaning Santo. "Oh my gosh," and "Come on now. Gee whiz," don't count as insightful thoughts.

"But he's just like a fan!" you retort. I don't care. If I wanna hear another fan's perspective, I can watch the game with any number of family members or friends. All 'good' things must come to an end, Cubs fans, and with Santo on radio, 'below mediocrity' should come to an end. Soon.

*******

As for Joliet, let's see how I'm received by my family after last night's airing of TLC's documentary - "Truth Be Told: I'm a Hoarder." My mom, my sister, my nephew and the dog, Chelsie, made appearances. So did my JUST SHAVE IT shirts.

"Nice job on the product placement," I thought to myself. And that's where the back pats ended. I came across as an insensitive, disrespectful asshole. I was as funny as baby cancer. Not once did I say anything remotely funny. As a comedian with 10 years of making thousands of people laugh across the globe - in print, on the Net, and from the stage - I failed miserably to knock it outta the park. Hell, I barely made contact. It's now glaringly obvious why I'm as unsuccessful as I am in my comedy career.

I know it was a show about my mother's compulsive hoarding, but my comedy has helped me deal with it. However, last night you didn't see one ounce of that. My chance of a lifetime came crashing down, hard, and broke into a million little pieces. But even James Frey got on Oprah and received book deals. He also sold a movie.

I simply embarrassed myself and my family.

My mom cried and I cussed enough times for each of Jon & Kate's kids. And then one more for good measure, I guess. Someone counted nine bleeps from me and one from my mom, a direct result from my not letting her collect more garbage toward the end of the show.

But in my defense, we were on our way to drop off collected garbage to Good Will. How counter-productive would that have been?

If you're on your way to alcohol rehab, you don't stop at a bar for 'just one more.' Although I will admit that the lamps were pretty nice, and had they been at my mom's, I would have taken one or both of them home with me. So what kind of asshole does that make me?

My hopes were that someone out there saw the show and could help my mom, first and foremost. My self-indulgence had me hoping that someone in showbiz saw it and thought, "That guy and his mom would be perfect for a show."

"The bald guy's a comedian," a production intern says to a stuio exec.
"That guy? With the glasses and goofy hats? He wasn't funny at all. Arhcie Bunker and Larry David are assholes but at least they're funny. Pitch me something else."

"How 'bout Standup Comedian Scott Derenger's Biography: Gone in 60 Seconds."

"Jesus Christ. NO!"

Oh well. But I looked good in HD according to my friend John Milone in New Jersey. So I have that going for me.