This Week's Hoax Well, it's a blog, but when I started writing these in 1996, I called them "hoaxes."

Long time no see

What's up?

It's been while. Lots has happened. The LA job ended, two weeks after I sublet my apartment in NYC for a year. So now I'm here. Culver City. It's cute, it's got a great school district and a park right down the street. KilBaby can ride his little trike there in about 5 minutes. There's washer/dryer hookups in the kitchen. My own washer and dryer.

Oh God.

This collection of apartments were built by Howard Hughes, for his workers. They are cute, and generous in size. Old, but classic. We move next week. Currently, KilBaby and I are in our second furnished sublet, and we really can't wait to sleep in our own bed and sit on our own couch, both of which we will buy on Craigslist. And when I say "we," I mean "I." KilBaby doesn't give a shit, he's three. As long as there's a stretch of open floorway for him to run a train on, he's happy.

The personal life is grim. October 25th, my life turned into a Carrie Underwood song. Discovered that KilBaby's dad had a cheatin' heart. Went ballistic when I found out, and I'm still ballistic now. It's like a third arm, my rage. I have to tuck it into oversized jackets just so I can get through the day. I talk about it onstage, I have to. The only thing that keeps me from committing murder is the hope that someday all this fury will make a great chunk. Kept alive by comedy, I hope he appreciates it.

I had some good news this week, but I can't go into details and I don't want to jinx it. Crap, I probably just did. Forget I said anything. Cut this in post, and let's just end on killing the ex.

Youneverknow

I've been working long hours, (for me, of course, not for a coal miner). I get back to my temporary sublet after dark, and it's not advised to play on the beach in Venice after dark. You have to keep your wits about you. It's creepier than Harlem because it's beautiful. Waves crashing. At least Harlem looks scary. One Sunday, a homeless guy was sleeping near the recycling area of a nice apartment, his face red from sun. Oops, not sleeping. Shaking. Cold? No. Jerking off. Ah. Pardon me, I'll give you some privacy.

Still, a block from an ocean warm enough for body surfing. At work, I was making "finding a place" chit chat with a guy who said, "if you're in LA, you should live near the beach." So we're doing that. I found a furnished, five-month sublet just down the street from this one. We can take KilBaby to the beach every morning before work. I want my son to go everywhere. I want him to point to a place on the globe and say, "I've been there." Even if he doesn't remember it, even if all he has for proof are pictures. (Although I could Photoshop him anyplace I want.)

I don't like driving. I have a shitty car. A new tire blew out on the way to a show, then I backed into a lunatic in the studio parking garage. We both got out of the car to looks for damage. None to my car. I saw a scratch on hers. I pointed to it.

"Is that from me?" I asked.

"No."

"Are you sure?" I remember asking this so clearly.

No, it wasn't. Bumpers kissed. No damage. We both parked and went to work. My name and show were on a temporary sticker that was on my dash. I got a call from security about an hour later.

She was claiming damage. That EXACT scratch, that I pointed to, that I asked about twice. We argued. Exchanged insurance info later over the phone. She didn't like that I was asking for her information, too. Five minute later, she called back to tell me she watched me online and I wasn't funny. Then she started following me on Twitter, which meant I could follow her. She was tweeting about a "bitch" who ran into her, that she was about to play hardball. Her twitter name is Cameltoe (plus the year she was born.) I'm not lying. You can probably find her if you start fiddling around with numbers. My insurance company called me the next day, to inquire about a hit-and-run. Eleven hundred dollars in damage.

Someone came out to take pictures of my unharmed bumper. I think they can tell what damage was caused by me.

I stopped for gas in Glendale on Sunday. A Russian behind the register talked me into buying a lotto ticket. He taught me the "one word" he learned when he first came here: "youneverknow."

When I was looking at the new sublet, the one that starts Sept 1, the day KilBaby and his dad come out, the guy renting out his home showed me how he'd baby-proofed he place. Candles up, check. Vases on the top of the bookshelf. Check. Then he showed me how he holds a front window open. With a sickle. A real sickle. That you could use to gather wheat or someone's head. It looks cool and fearsome when you approach the apartment. If I were a robber and I saw a sickle behind the window screen, I would move to the next place. I love that a baby-proofed home still has a sickle in plain site. That is a classic example of how being a parent changes your eyesight. My landlord is a super nice, childless dude. I miss those days... when it wouldn't even occur to me that my sickle might be a safety hazard.

They came on a Tuesday night, so far we've been to the beach everyday. KilBaby loves the water, and making "snowmen" with the sand. He got "eyes in his sand" and "ocean in his eyes." The sunsets are beautiful, and as I'm getting to bed before 11 (because there is NO standup comedy in this land), I can say the same for the sunrises. Here we are in Los Angeles. The sickle is hidden, the AC outlets are pulgged up with plastic and the doorknobs have plastic covers. We're ready for anything. Cause youneverknow.

Un-Olympic

It's Saturday. I'm at Tanner's, a little coffeehouse with free wifi and a million outlets, in Culver City. Bagel, latte, oversized chairs, friendly folks working the espresso machines. Not a Starbucks in sight. It's like 1992 or something. (That's a compliment.)

I don't know where to live. Last Saturday night, I secured housing for August. On Sunday, I drove my old car, which I'd kept at my parents house in Pleasant Hill, seven hours to Venice, met my roommate, dragged two suitcases into my room and started the job, writing on a daytime talk show, the next morning.

Baby and Daddy stayed in New York. We said goodbye to his daycare, tears all around. Said good bye to our neighbors, wine all around. They are flying out Sept 1. (The first show of the season tapes the next day). The volume of available apartments is overwhelming. It wasn't like this when I came out in 2005. I am looking at five places today. Now me, I could stay anywhere. (After all, I've stayed at the Tucson Laffs comedy condo.) But KilBaby is almost three. He's curious. He opens doors and turns on faucets and touches, throws and licks everything. So, amenities are not a top priority. What happens if he opens this door? Is he close to a pool? Four lanes of traffic? Can he jump from that balcony? That guy over there... the one on the bench. Do you know him? I don't like his eyes. Or his pants. Those are the pants of a sex predator. Thank you for showing me, I have a few more places to see. Yes, I'll let you know.

Culver City is cute. It's a little junky, which I like. I joined the Y on Wednesday, and when I walked in on Thursday, the girl at the from desk said, "Hi Laurie." Exactly the opposite your LA Fitnesses, your 24 Hour Fitnesses. The Y equipment is a little old, the layout's crazy and the pool doesn't have gutters. That shit used to drive me crazy, no gutters in a pool. The waves, the wild, choppy water... so un-Olympic!! But I don't care anymore. The people are nice, the other members wear shirts that cover their abs when they run. And when it comes to swimming, I too am un-Olympic.

I am working with very funny people at the job. That is exciting. I feel like how I felt at Tough Crowd. Surrounded by funny people I can learn from and laugh with. That's the best feeling. And I feel like the responsibilities at this job will force me to reach deep. No more slumming with one show a night. If I may be so lazy as to reach for a car metaphor, then I predict that I will be firing on all cylinders.

Part Two

"OK, JFK?" asked the driver, wedging my 60 pound suitcases in the trunk.

"Yup," I said.

And off we went, with Harlem, then Manhattan twinkling in the rear view mirror.

I have a new writing job on LA. So we're packing up our things and moving to Beverly Hills Adjacent.

It happened so quick. The details were confirmed last Monday, the 3rd, and my first day is this Monday, the 10th, just seven days later. I tried to squeeze in as much New York as I could during the past four days. We saw Journey to the Stars at the American Museum of Natural History (really cool) and walked along the new, elevated High Line park, starting at 14th St. Ate breakfast for lunch at Manhattan Diner, an UWS restaurant that delivered to the maternity ward at St. Luke's one late Oct evening in 2006. Walked around Harlem Piers Park, the new park across from Fairway. Used to be a parking lot, now it's green and lush. The exact opposite of my hometown.

I never saw the Tenement Museum. Dang, I always wanted to see that. To be fair, I was only in the city for ten years.

Craigslist provided a sublet for August- I think I have two female roommates. I'll know for sure when I show up with my stuff on Sunday night. And I'll have until Sept 1st to find an apartment for the boyfriend and KilBaby. Lucky for me, now is a renter's market. The last time I lived in LA, I loved it. It's so fucking easy. The weather is easy, food shopping is easy, and the night cashier at the grocery store probably doesn't wear a t-shirt that says, "I Fucked Your Boyfriend." (On second thought, Pathmark on West 145th, maybe I will miss you.)

Comedy is a breeze. No guilt. No feeling lazy. Because it's nearly impossible to do more than one spot a night. There are fewer venues, and they are all hours apart, with traffic. And there is always traffic. Honestly, three spots a week in Los Angeles is considered decent. In LA, you have no excuse to not perform.

I am subletting the NY apartment. I expect to be here for a year at least, no matter what happens. Last time, I popped from furnished sublet to furnished sublet, and when the last show I worked on got cancelled, I left. Came back to NY, had a baby. Now I'm returning, with a pair of big brown eyes looking up at me, demanding food, housing and education for the next 16 years. And that's just my boyfriend.

When I moved to NYC in Jan of 99, I was just going to stay one year. Get seasoned. Then move to LA. But New York is endless and always unfolding and you just can't stay one year. I'm not done with New York at all, but I'm executing the second half of my plan. A few years late.

Now, who the fuck gave me one star on iTunes? That's just mean.

Too late, or too early

I want too much.

I want to turn over 45 minutes of material every year, like Louis CK. I want to create my own show and win a ton of Emmys like Tina Fey. I want to be involved in funny stuff. I want to make shitloads of money for personal appearances, like Lisa Lampanelli. I want to write a funny and honest, like Frank McCourt. I want post-baby Gwen Stefani abs and after-forty, Amy Sedaris skin. I want to visit every country on earth, or just Ireland, once. I want KilBaby to be happy and grounded, like... like who? I don't even know. I want furniture that isn't from Craigslist and I want my parents to live to see my son graduate from college. I want to read more novels and publish fewer facebook status updates. (That won't happen, at all.)

A friend commented that my generation of comedians got screwed. We started when being a good comic meant you got a sitcom, but by the time we were ready for our closeups, TV had stopped putting standups in sitcoms. Or standups in anything. Oversaturation. And now standup is being revitalized on the internet, we're the old ones. I fear I was born too late or too early.

You'd be happy too, if you were on the D train.

Gold Country and Smoking Guns

On the way to Oroville, Ca.

I love California's gold hills. I don't mind the green ones all over the rest of America right now, but to me, summer means bumpy mounds of earth covered with prickly gold brush and the occasional green tree. They're laid back, these hills, but don't let them fool you, they'll burn down your house in ten minutes. And they're kind of ugly, if you like your Julys lush and fertile. I've been away for so long, I forgot. I kinda wish KilBaby could grow up here, surrounded by gold hills, a honey sun and a million outdoor, baby blue swimming pools that never close unless there's visible lightening.

Oh well.

California is really sucking right now. I'm not a Californian anymore, and New York is sinking too, but man. At some point, you get so low, you can't even pull yourself up by your bootstraps. Maybe I'm extra grim because I drove by my old swim club, the place I lived at, every day, all summer. A few years ago, Las Juntas Swim Club was turned into a parking lot, a parking lot that was locked behind a chain link fence- not even being used. It's like someone poured concrete all over my memories just to be a dick.

In three nights, I drove about 900 miles. First to Mill Valley, which is probably the best little city on earth. It's beautiful, it's darling, it's progressive. Every resident is working on their memoir. The show was in a hundred year old theater, the tickets were $20.00 and the audience was wildly attentive and the hotel was amazing. Aveda soap, thick towels and a thick, sparkling white bedspread. I love me a fat bedspread that smells clean. It hurt to leave, especially since I was headed for conservative farm country- Oroville. The two lane highway up to Oroville was peppered with fruit stands that sold, "nick-nacks" and "avocodos."

Jesus buys billboards in Central California, asking that I please choose life. The land is flat and quilted with ranches. The venue was a casino, the cover charge was $0.00. The less the audience pays, the more they heckle, talk or text. Not an ounce of gratitude that ought to come with a free show, just a increased sense of entitlement. And, as the audience had to maneuver through a casino to get to the show, they probably arrived twenty bucks in the hole. Cause those casinos will get you. They know all your moves, you are an easy mark.

The next day, I drove south to Sonora, near the entrance to Yosemite National Park. Tuolumne County is hugely attractive to motorcycle enthusiasts and the people who tattoo them. Lots of farms too, and 150 year-old gold rush history. Same deal- a casino show. But the audience was in a better mood. Maybe they had been told that Sarah Palin would resign the next day, or maybe they just knew how to spell avocado. They acted like they paid at least four dollars to get in.

I arrived in Sonora early enough to exercise, which bummed me out. I was hoping for a legitimate excuse to stay in my hotel room. But a place called the Smoking Guns Gym was open and I dare anyone not to work out at a gym called the Smoking Guns. Because look it, if you are in the market for smoking guns, this is where you get them. Fucking duh. A kid, maybe 13 or so, was manning the front desk. He didn't have change for a twenty, so instead paying the normal day fee of eight dollars, I was allowed to just give all six of my ones. No air conditioning (it was 101 outside) but plenty of fans. Plus a ton of free weights, heavy metal on the loudspeakers and one treadmill. Hey, if you want cardio and the JoBros, sister, take your unloaded guns to Curves.

A real train. Choo fucking choo, bitches.

Excuse me sir, but there are cows in your front yard.

Fresh curds? No whey.

This seems dirty.

Top that.

101 degrees out there that day.

The Rawhide- an amazing investment opportunity.

The best hotels prefer Cashmere Bouquet.

Delayed in Denver

Delayed at the Denver airport. I was in Aspen this weekend, performing at the Rooftop Comedy Festival. In one short walk, I saw mountains, some snow-capped, some not, a stream, a black and white butterfly and a crow.  It's amazing how the trickle of a creek can pry open the pages of a joke book. Tomorrow I'm flying to Las Vegas, but I'm stopping in NYC to see my son for about three hours, if he stays up late. Or less, if this flight gets  delayed again.

I stayed up late last night, hanging out with comics. Getting drunk, talking loud in a bar about GETTING REAL onstage and DROPPING THE FACADE and FUCKING FUCKHEADS, etc. Good times. Then our table shrunk to just female comics and we tore THE PATRIARCHY a new one.

In San Francisco a few weeks ago, I stopped by an open mic, next door to a bar which once was the Holy City Zoo. Much of the neighborhood has changed, but the Toy Boat ice cream store was there, and so was Green Apple Books. I bought some books for KilBaby ("Plankton," the story of a plankton, if that creature exists in the singular, and "Slug," the story of a slug. Both books are from the same publisher, and are very compelling to a two-year old.) I also bought a moleskin blank book for jokes. I have been a Meade Composition Book aficionado for many years, I have dozens of them, filled with political and/or anus jokes. My moleskin was preferred by F. Scott Fitzgerald, according to the insert. Also Hemingway. So there.

Ocular Anxiety

Two weeks ago, the baby, his father and I were headed for brunch in Harlem. I unscrewed one of the caps on my contact lens case, poured what I thought was saline solution in the lens, and then the course of my day changed.

"This happened 12 hours ago?" scolded the emergency room nurse. "Why didn't you come in immediately? This is serious." She pried my weeping eye open and poured saline solution in it, for about ten minutes straight. It was uncomfortable yet soothing.

Clear Care is the kind of stuff I never use because I wear disposable lenses. Sitting right next to rows of different brands of saline solution, I assumed Clear Care was too. Same size box, same “no rub,” promises on the cover. And it was on sale. What's not to love? Contact lenses are shaped like little ice cream bowls. So on that fine Sunday morning, I cracked open the box, filled my left lens with pure hydrogen peroxide and lowered my eye into it.

"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!" I screamed. I jumped, high. Really high. I remember seeing my knees at eye level.

"What? What?" Chris asked. He rushed into the bathroom. I was screaming, trying to open my blazing eye to pull the lens out. My eyelids fought back and sealed themselves, like a bank vault slammed shut. We were in a stalemate, my eye and me. I couldn't even explain what happened. I could only gasp.

After about a minute of hopping, I got it.

"I put the wrong stuff in my eye," I explained, blinking back tears. "I'm ok, let's go to brunch."

I figured I'd tear up for a few hours. It would be an inconvenience, I'd have to wear my old, uneven glasses. At the end of brunch, the pain had worsened. My eye was on fire, and on the way home, the sun's shine felt like gas being thrown on it. I ran up to the apartment and shut the blinds. Chris went to Duane Reade and bought lots of eye products. One thing came with a little shot glass that you fill with saline solution and press against your eye, with your head leaned back. It's like a bath. I could do that for about twenty seconds at a time.

The first thing the pre-recorded message says on Clear Care's customer service 800 number is, "Go to the hospital." I went to the ER at Columbia-Presbyterian, up in the 160s. My eye was bright red and my other eye was turning red in sympathy. The waiting room was full. A nurse approached a coughing Latino, "You need to wear a mask, just in case you have the flu." This comment was translated into Spanish, and she was fitted with a SARS-y type of face mask. After an hour, I left, unexamined.

At about 3 PM, I began canceling spots. I was so sensitive to light that I couldn't imagine keeping my eyes open onstage. I explained my situation to Allie at the Comic Strip, she told me about the Ears and Eyes ER downtown. Like the stores that sell "Just Bulbs," this NYU ER does ears and eyes and that's it. We kept our comedy sitter for KilBaby and used it to go to the hospital instead.

"They should take you in the order you come in," said an older woman in the waiting room. "I've been here for an hour and people keep rushing by me. It's not fair."

I assumed this comment was directed at me. I hadn't been taken yet, but clearly I was about to bump her. So this is what it's like to be Dave Chappelle, stopping by the Comic Strip on a Tuesday night. I empathized with the woman, because I had been her many times. But business is business, and in the eye-injury trade, my eye had its own series while hers had some basic cable credits. Go home lady, it's gonna be a long night.

"Laurie? Come here please." said the nurse.

"When is anyone going to see me," the woman asked.

"This lady has a chemical burn, it's very serious." said the nurse.

The woman kept complaining, but her words faded to grey and the nurse's grew bold, black. 24 point. Chemical burn. My eye. “This lady” was me. The nurse sprayed the saline hose directly on my eye, with a firefighter’s grim resolve.

"Oooh, I've done this before," said the opthamologist, who peeked in to check my progress. “Just a few more minutes and we'll look at the damage."

Turns out, it wasn't irreparable. I was given a few prescriptions and sent on my way. On Tuesday, I flew to the Bay Area to work at week at the Punchline. In scratched, uneven glasses. By Saturday, I was back in my lenses. Today, my eye feels ok. Sorry for the mildly happy ending. Something shitty will happen next week, I promise.

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.