Tummy!
Aw, man. I really needed to headline in Seattle. The audiences were smart and fun, the other comics were funny and nice, the club is brick and cool and the management loves comedy. I write this at great risk of sounding like a douchebag, but it was nice to be reminded that, "oh yeah, I'm funny." I kind of, sort of, do a pretty good job, actually.
So there.
KilBaby and I iChatted over the MacBook a few times. He is a plane/train/automobile fan and kept showing me his toys. He'd leave the screen, the pop up again holding a train. Then he'd leave, and come back with an ambulance. And so on. As he grows, the mysteries of men are slowly being revealed to me. They like to show off their shit. They don't hide this need and they don't do it secretly, like women do. It's not a learned thing, it's innate. Cause I didn't teach my son to lift up his shirt, pat his stomach and say "tummy," like it won a first place ribbon. That is not something I will ever do. The closest I will come to that is pointing to another woman's stomach and saying, if it is flat, "bitch."
I stayed at my sister's house for a night, way up in the Portland hills. Her cul-de-sac has a little cottage that the residents' houseguests can use. It was open, I slept in it and I haven't been that terrified in years. "Oh come on, it's so safe here," my sister said. Yeah. Doesn't Bill Kurtis say that every time he narrates a rape/murder? I missed the honks and sirens of Harlem. I think I'm a decent judge of who's a potential problem when I walk from the subway to my apartment. But in Oregon's woods, everyone looks like a predator to me. I can't tell the good guys from the pig-fuckers. Even worse, there was a spider on the wall. And when I woke up a few hours later, it was gone. I think it's still on me, hiding in one of my belly folds, waiting to strike.