I’m working on my new show, “Barry Smith’s Baby Book: Who Saves This Stuff?” I just discovered this transcript from the first grade.
In case you can’t read it, she gave me a B in Writing. Twice! What a total bitch.
Well, Bryson, I guess I showed you who knows what when it comes to writing, eh? Because I’ve got a blog! And not everybody has one of those - you have to be a very, very good writer to have one! And I do. Have one.
So. There.
…as to whether or not a trip to Hell was in my future:
The JWs stopped by right before Easter and left this leaflet on my door. On the front is a picture of your basic Caucasian, surfer Jesus. On the back it says, “No Greater Love Was Ever Shown.”
I put it on my desk, thinking I’d get around to tossing it out later. The next thing I know - and I promise this was not on purpose - I was using it as a coaster.
Say what you will about Jesus, but He has certainly saved my desk from having those little cup circle stains on it. No greater love of furniture was ever shown.
I don’t know what it is about me and this church sign, but I just can’t let it be. The latest message…
…is a good example. If you were to use more exclamation marks and substitute “Alleluia” with “RUN!” or “ARRRRGH!” or even “HELP!” then you’d have yourself the title of a pretty spiffy horror film.
But mocking well-meaning churches isn’t the only thing on my mind these days, I’m also wondering what sort of message my barn is trying to send me via cryptic snow letters.
Suggestions welcome…
It almost looks like it says “PRAY.” Which, given my earlier comment, is probably good advice. Still, once you start doing what the roof of your barn tells you to do, then it’s pretty much all downhill.
My new show, CLICK!, is no longer called CLICK!
I’m not sure what it’s called at this point, but I know it isn’t CLICK!
For many of the similar reasons mentioned in my “Searching for Clarence Evans” post, except that she obviously wasn’t my step-father, I’m searching for Susan Rice.
Specifically, I’m searching for the Susan Rice who went to Chaffey College in Alta Loma, or was it Cucamonga, California, in the mid-80s.
Susan Rice may have a different surname now, but have no real way of knowing this. I wonder if women occasionally go “ego surfing” for their maiden names? Or if people who have changed their name for other reasons - spiritual, professional, witness protection - do searches for their previous identities? I know I would.
So, Susan Rice? “Susan Rice” (In quotes so it’ll REALLY show up if she searches for Susan Rice.) Are you there?
Email me.
I figure that this is easier than actually searching, right? I’ll let him come to me, this Clarence Evans.
If you are Clarence Evans, and you’ve found this site because you’ve done a search for your own name (hey, we all do it from time to time, nothing to be ashamed of), then please know that I’m not looking for just any Clarence Evans, but a very specific one, one who lived in Mississippi in the late 70s.
Actually, even more specific than that - one who lived in Mississippi in the late 70s and was married to my mother for a few years. You know…Clarence Evans, my stepfather.
If you aren’t this particular Clarence Evans, then I’m sorry to have wasted your time…you may get back to your day now.
If you ARE that particular Clarence Evans, then hey…drop me an email. It’ll be fun.
I think I’ve now written “Clarence Evans” enough times in this post to have it really do some good.
Good.
I can’t stop thinking of Fresno puns. What part of Fres-NO don’t you understand…stuff like that. Pretty much the exact same things I thought last year while I was here. I generally have the same 5 thoughts over and over again, all day long, whether I’m in Fresno or not.
But this year I thought - Fres-gnosis! A sudden knowledge that I’m in Fresno! I shared this with fellow Rogue performer and Fresnan Jaguar Bennett, who had already thought of “Fres-gnosis,” and thought of a much better definition than mine.
Here’s Jaguar’s blog - maybe he’ll post his definition some day.
And speaking of gnosis, which I conveniently seem to be doing, I visited my friend Arman in Aptos, CA during the week. We walked around Santa Cruz one day and stopped in to browse in a head shop.
Where I saw this sticker:
Now, I’ve known about this before, and have always been fascinated by it. Basically, I’m there to buy a device to use for smoking pot. I know it, the person selling me knows it, everyone within 100 yards of the store knows it. Yet we have to nudge-nudge-wink-wink around it.
“May I please see that large water pipe on the shelf? No, the other one. The one with the large multi-colored skull on it. Yes. This looks like an effective tobacco smoking device.”
But we all know that I’m saying, “Dude, can I check out that bong?”
It’s a very surreal arrangement. Imagine not being able to actually say “coffee” at Starbucks. “Yes, I’d like a venti, non-brown beverage that will in no way alter my consciousness in a manner that is stimulating. And room for cream.”
And speaking of both drugs and coffee, which I conveniently seem to be doing, I had a cup of coffee. First cup of coffee in months. I have given it up because it makes me weird. And no, that’s not a typo that’s supposed to be “wired.”
About half an hour after my coffee (plus refill - why not go all out?), Arman went to the car wash. As I stood there waiting for the car to come through the washing machine, I had a sudden realization that I don’t know how anything works. Everything around me was a mystery to me. So I began to photograph all the things I didn’t understand, which was a nice distraction from pacing around and talking a lot, which is what led to my lack of understanding.
Traffic lights? Not a clue. Where are they controlled? How? An algorithm, probably. And I have no idea what an algorithm is. I don’t even know how to spell it - thank God for spellcheck.
This car wash machine? Forget it.
Basic framing/construction? Not me. Not one bit. I built bookshelves once. It didn’t turn out well.
A tree? No way. Where does that spark come from that makes an acorn into a might oak? Got me.
Garbage? Nope…you just throw it in a can it it mysteriously disappears. Sure, I know that people come and pick it up, and take it somewhere, but that’s hardly an “understanding.”
Electricity? The sun? Hardly…
Arman displayed amazing patience as I paced around taking pictures of every single thing. I don’t understand patience.
Or kids.
Or my own hand.
Or my camera. Or me. Or the physics of reflection.
The coffee wore off eventually, as all drugs do, and we headed back to Arman’s house, an awesome place in the redwoods.
There we proceeded to hang out and watch some movies for the rest of the day/evening.
That’s Arman in his recording studio. He’s holding a tobacco smoking device.
Here’s a video shot by Mike Osegueda from the Fresno Bee. This was my first night in Fresno, and I thought that standing under a bright street light and talking fast would be the best way to endear myself to the community. I was right.
And here’s my link on the Rogue Festival web page. You can read what people said about my show, and stuff. How fun for you…
Last night’s performance of “American Squatter” was my best yet. Everything just clicked. It was actually my second performance of the day, as I did an added show earlier in the afternoon. The added show was lightly attended, which is one of the dangers of doing a show that nobody knows about. But I think it was pretty good despite having an audience of 20 spread evenly out over a space that holds 130.
Oh, and for the first time ever, I saw some guy in the front row texting during my show. TEXTING DURING MY SHOW! It was awesome.
I had to visit the chicken pie factory, one of the places you have to go at least once if you find yourself in Fresno. I documented my visit last year, so I don’t want to make the same jokes, but it is worth posting this picture of the interior of the chicken pie factory, because these shades of green are now extinct.
Fresno is like the Galapagos of hues.
