The Daily Derenger

7/06/2002

I performed at Milwaukee's Summerfest yesterday. The day was totally awesome as the sun was bright and the temps were in the mid-80's. I guess the humidity and 95 degree days needed a break, too. My set was a part of the 2:30pm showcase in the Miller Lite comedy tent that included four other comedians. Around 500 people, from senior citizens to kids in strollers, were in attendance. (I hope you're saying "get to the funny already Scott." That would mean you read this column. Yippee!)

This year at Summerfest marks the 30th anniversary of George Carlin getting arrested for using the "7 dirty words" on stage there. It was an honor to be there for that reason alone. Playing alongside an Allman Brothers cover band was a bonus. I didn't get paid enough to chance being arrested though. I just wanted to do well, drink free beer, and hit on drunk Wisconsin chicks. Okay, so only the first two happened. Even I couldn't bring myself to do that latter.

The fest had every type of food imaginable from all over the world. I wasn't looking for Hunan chicken or Peruvian flank of duck though. I wanted a corn dog, an American classic. I searched high and low, walking all over the place. I saw this lady eating something off a stick and I went up to see what it was. A skewer of some Teriyaki canine beef. Yuck. A few people stopped me to say "great show." Normally that would be great. But I wanted some battered pig's ass on a stick. I tried to maintain my focus.

I never found my corn dog. I settled for some pizza from Shakey's, the place whose sausage looks like cat turds. Oh well. It did the job. Then it was back to the comedy tent for more free beer.

7/04/2002

In the world of administrative assistants and secretaries, I'm useless. I knew that prior to yesterday. I guess I needed to be reminded of it though. I interviewed for a job at a staffing firm where they place "temp help" as needed. I had done this kind of work before when I lived out in Arizona. Back then it was through a friend so I didn't have to take a bunch of tests to evaluate my abilities. Yesterday I had many a test to take. And score quite poorly on. I just figured that with me being on the road so much and overstaying my welcome in restaurants, a sniff of the real world might do me some good.

I know as much about computers as I need to know. I should know more with this being the year 2002 and all and with me being a writer and having a website. But I don't. I'm stubborn and get frustrated easily when it comes to computer programs and all the junk that goes with it. Looking back, I should've taken some basic computer classes in high school and then in college. Instead, I studied "Sex, Gender, and Power" and "Music Appreciation." Sure I know a little more about Mozart and the feminist movement, but I'm royally screwed when it comes to mail merging Microsoft Word documents. Who knew?

I've tried to teach myself to type on many occasions. I can type great on this laptop. On another computer with a real keyboard, I'm a joke. I was clocked at 28 words per minute yesterday. That qualifies me to work the lottery machine at Osama's Amoco in Palatine. The averages on the other two tests, basic Word applications and Excel, were 73 and 75 respectively. I tallied a 40 and a 53, without much respect. Instead of feeling good about being placed somewhere, I almost jumped in to the Chicago River. Of course people would've seen this as a pre-4th of July celebration and let me perish. "Ahh, just leave him be. He can't type anyway."

7/03/2002

If I see one more reality TV show it will be too soon. I can't believe how many of these things are taking up air time on my TV. There's even one on Playboy. That one's like the "Real World" but with actual sex being shown. I'm okay with that show. And only that one!

The one that got me on this rant airs Sunday nights on FOX called "Looking for Love: Bachelorettes in Alaska." I will admit to never watching one of these types of shows consistently. But there's a reason for that. I have a life. It may be a non-money havin' life, but it's still a life nonetheless. This show was the worst reality show I've seen yet. I was visiting Erin in the hospital where there were about 5 channels - literally. Sadly, the Alaskan junk was our best option.

Let me sum it up. There are five women and 20 guys. The women are in their mid-20's to early 30's and are professionals from all over the country. The guys live in Alaska and range in age from late 20's to early 40's. The women went on dates with most, if not all, of the guys. Then the ladies had to pick one guy to be their man. Of course there was rejection and all that crap. Maybe had I watched a juicier episode, things would have been more interesting for me.

The show this past week gave the 15 guys who got rejected a chance to find out why. It also gave them a chance to become second choice and back in the running. There was a competition between the five ladies to see which one of them would pick first, second, and third for their runner-up guy. Are you ready for the competition? Ax throwing, skeet shooting, and fish catching. Now I realize they were in Alaska but come on. This is for possible marriage. How would you like to tell that story to the kids? "Well you see honey, your mama caught more fish than the other ladies. And then she picked me."

Now the fishing thing was not even what you may think. It didn't involve a pole, a boat, or bait. It was catching fish flying through the air that were thrown from some guy in overalls. I'm dead serious. And there was a tie. They had to have a catch off! I couldn't believe this all surrounded the sacrament of matrimony. The lady who won got first pick from the 15 guys, the second picked from 14, and the third from 13. It was like the old "Wheel of Fortune" where contestants bought stuff after each round.

I've had it. I will not watch this garbage on Sunday night again. And neither should anyone else. Take a stand against horrible TV. And let's meet at my mom's to watch re-runs of "The A-Team."

7/02/2002

It's really hot in Chicago. I helped Cyndi install a window A/C unit in her apartment the other day. It's been long overdue. Just last week I spent the night there and felt my flesh melting off my bones. It got so hot that I took ice cubes and put them in my underwear to cool off. I thought this would cause me to wake up and think I had nocturnally emitted. But since the temperature that night was set to cook a deep dish pizza to a golden brown, the ice melted and then dried up within seconds. A wet dream wasn't to be.

The past two summers, Cyndi had a boyfriend who put in the A/C units. They conveniently broke up a few weeks ago. He's the same guy who had "previous plans" the day Cyndi moved in to her current third story abode. The bastard. In her weakened and vulnerable state, I offered to help. Her cat, Chellie, also begged of me. Poor Chellie, her fat, calico self all panting and taking shelter under the bathtub. She had seen better and cooler days.

Now let it be known that I'm nothing short of pathetic when it comes to fixing stuff. A man without arms is handier than me. I was the best thing Cyndi had though. That makes her pretty sad as well I guess. It took me over two hours to do the 20 minute project. (I knew it was a 20 minute project 'cause Cyndi reminded me on several occasions that Mike had done in that time last year and and in only 15 minutes the year before.) I'm the same guy who took nearly three hours to change my oil some years back. However, I can change my oil in about 18 minutes now, even having done so in five states. So there.

Cyndi was concerned that the A/C unit wasn't secure enough and would fall three stories and land on the mailman or possibly a visitor. A herd of those ugly, football-sized Pugs would be nice. Hell, their faces are already smashed in! All is secure. Cyndi's windows were put in back when "covered wagon" wasn't a fart reference so they weren't really made to accommodate such a unit. The curtains on either side of the A/C unit were also made for a window of the 21st century. I found some drywall and jammed that home to seal the deal. We then cut some excess foam from her mattress pad and stuffed it where needed.

Cyndi and I won't make a Bob Vila show nor Trading Spaces any time soon. But we got the job done. She's now cool and the cat is out from under the tub. I may even spend another night there. Again with the ice cubes in my shorts. I'm just kinky like that.