Speaking the same language

I was in a Duane Reade drugstore in Harlem yesterday and I was looking for a package of single razor blades, but no one in the store knew what I was talking about. I tried several times to explain what I wanted to the cashier at the front checkout, but she kept trying to sell me replacement cartridges for disposable shavers. Then finally I said:

“No, I’m looking for the ones the hood boys keep under their tongues.”

“Ohhh,” she said. “Why didn’t you say that at first? They on the back wall.” Ha ha. I guess what they say is true: Sometimes you just have to meet people where they are.

Sidebar: I was Googling for video of the scene from Above the Rim (pictured below) where Tupac’s character pulls the razor out of his mouth:

And I found this…


My big ass in a twin bed

I had a show on Friday nite in Red Lion, PA, which is just the next town over from York. Don’t you just LOVE how all their street signs have a red lion on them? I do. ;) Turned out to be a really, really fun show. Small crowd due to the holiday weekend but they all came to laugh and we had a BALL! I hung out with the owner and his family, the other comics and some of the audience members for a couple hours after the show just drinking and chatting it up on the patio of the venue. Good times!

They put us up in a local bed and breakfast which is always fine with me. I like B&B’s and I’m not usually picky about lodging as long as it’s clean. But when I walked into the room I was to stay in it had two twin beds in it. GEEZ LOUISE!!! I haven’t slept in a twin bed since I was the age and size you are when you’re supposed to stop sleeping in twin beds. It was the worst nite of sleep I’ve had in years. I kept waking up just as I was about to roll off the bed. My back was in tears by the morning. And what made it even worse is that when I spoke with the other guests, I realized it was the only room that had twin beds and DIDN’T have a private half bathroom.

Why did I get shafted?

When they checked me in, they should have been able to take one look at me and tell that a twin bed probably wouldn’t suit me. I wasn’t the only single person staying there, and I checked in before the other single guest. But here’s the kicker…

If you look at the screenshot above, I was staying in the Spring Room. You can see a picture of the tiny ass bed I had to sleep in. BUT in the description it says that the room contains 2 twin beds OR 1 king size bed. I’m sayin’: What’s a girl gotta do to get the “or?” Exhale. I’m definitely not a diva; I just prefer the bed I’m sleeping in to be larger than I am. Now perhaps that’s more a statement about how large I am, than how large the bed wasn’t… But if you say that to me, we can’t be friends anymore. You get that, right?

Baseball and Bipolar Millionaires

On Thursday nite, I had a show in Williamsport, PA. The name of the town rung a bell but I couldn’t remember why until I called my dad to let him know where I was and he reminded me that Williamsport was the birthplace of Little League Baseball and the place where the Little League World Series is played each year. Oh yeah… Well, from the moment I got into town, it was ALL Little League. EVERYWHERE.

A quick Google search on Williamsport also led me to a Wikipedia page where I learned that Williamsport once had more millionaires per-capita than anywhere else in the world. The whole world. In fact, the mascot for the Williamsport Area High School is “The Millionaires.” This is their logo.

A top hat, gloves and a cane.

Once I found that photo I felt compelled to find out the mascots of the schools they compete against. The Dawgs, The Crusaders, The Mountaineers… And these poor kids have to shout “Go Millionaires!” at their games. In the words (and drawl) of the great philosopher Charles Barkey, “That is TUR-RI-BULL!”

The show went pretty well, and after I was done, I met one of the audience members — a guy named James Nutt — who has written a book called… wait for it… “Confessions of a Bipolar Firefighter.” No really. He’s bipolar and schizophrenic and his last name is ‘Nutt.’ I’m not making that up, folks. Check out his short (10 seconds) video here.

As advertised, right? ;) I told him he should subtitle the book “Let it Burn, No Put it Out!!!” He was a cool dude and he was there with his 3 sons and one of his son’s girlfriend. We chatted for quite a while Fun times.

Now as you know, I’m a sucker for a good museum. That’s why, despite the fact that I’m not a big baseball fan, I had to stop by the Little League Museum on my way out of Williamsport.

I threw out a pitch and took a few swings at the indoor diamond. How do I look?!?? Haha… don’t answer that. Then I went out back to check out the stadium where they hold the World Series each summer. Continue reading →


This past weekend, while on stage, the other comic I was working with got into it with an audience member and then asked her how old she was. She answered, and then his reply was, “I have underwear older than you.” Huh? I’ve had older folks say that very same thing to me and I’ve never understood how it demonstrates superiority. The fact that you wear 33 year-old drawls (yes, drawls) demonstrates nothing except for the fact that you’re nasty as all hell.

So… note to older folks everywhere: If you’re having a debate or an argument and the best comeback you can muster is the age of your underwear, you lose.


My GPS makes me happy

***WARNING*** This may be the filthiest blog entry I’ve ever posted. But also probably the realest window into how immature I really am. Try not to be too disappointed in me.

So Saturday morning I woke up hungry. I was in Connecticut so I had to search my GPS for a place to eat.. I put “IHOP” into the search and it led me to this restaurant.

From the looks of it I could tell it used to be an IHOP, but this was the sign out front:

Now perhaps my mind is just filthier than most, but I instantly burst into laughter and thought this could have easily been the title of one of Osama’s pornos.

Cumin India = Cummin Into Ya

Yeah, I’m 12.

I actually had to get out of my car and look in the restaurant to make sure it was actually an Indian spot and not some other filthy-minded person’s idea of funny. Once I realized there were no steak omelettes in there, I used my phone to Google for a real IHOP and then entered it into my GPS. Here is the name of the street that the real IHOP was on:

Dixwell = Dick Swell

Damn you, Hamden, CT!!!

You’re making it too easy. Once my mind starts going off on one of these tangents it’s hard for me to turn it off. This all could have been avoided if they’d gone with ‘curry’ over ‘cumin.’ And even if this is only funny to me and my friends Ollie and Andy that’s OK with me. It made my Saturday.

The end.

Real G’s do real things

Cash for gold. It happened.

This is all the gold I had to sell — three sad little pairs of earrings and a pinky ring I’ve never worn. Because it’s a pinky ring.

I used to have a lot more gold. But a few months ago, someone I’m pretty close to who shall remain nameless, came to my house and bamboozled me out of most of my gold jewelry: “You don’t wear gold anymore do you? I love gold. It’s classic. Let me have it.” So I unselfishly gave it up — cause that’s the kinda girl I am — only to find out that anonymous person took it to the gold exchange place pictured above and got a nice little chunk of change in return.

I KNOW, right???

Sure it’s a little shady, but I got caught slipping fair and square. And as much as I’d have liked to be cut in, you gotta respect a “G” move like that. I guess it’s true what Short Dog and Jigga said: Real n****z do real things.


“O-G” didn’t feel bad at all about selling my gold. In fact she called me to inform me she got almost $1500 for it — which naturally made me curious about what I could get for what I had left… I went back to the same exchange place, but I only netted $135. I can’t complain though, because it was just sitting in my jewelry box doing nothing. $135 is a come up when compared to zero. Perhaps I’ll treat myself to a tank of gas. And if there’s anything left over maybe one of those little peach-scented air freshener trees.

Because I deserve it.