Welp,

I'm living in a countrified neighborhood on the northern outskirts of Austin and so far, so good.  When you walk down the street here people wave as they drive by or say hello from their front lawn as if they already know you.  It happens so much that I sometimes respond to waves that aren't there.  Today I acknowledged a man who was adjusting his rearview mirror as he drove by.

On the home front:  baby geckos keep running into the house at night and trying to blend in with the pets.  Sorry lizards--we're at full capacity.  They're so cute that I wish I could adopt one but Fat Bear and Buddy have made it pretty clear that baby lizards are a delicacy where they come from.  Speaking of delicate:  Buddy peed at a neighbor yesterday and then kicked dirt and grass at him.  One minute the guy was talking to Buddy through the fence, the next minute the guy was shuffling off in what I assume was confused disgust.  You want to talk about taking a town by storm.  Lordy mercy, as my 2 year old niece likes to say.

Buddy's gone swimming in the town lake several times since we got here.  The first time I took him he almost blew a gasket.  He's not big on riding in cars but when we pulled up to the lake and he saw our old haunt he started shaking like a boiler about to explode.  I don't know if boilers exist anymore but there was a big one in Stephen King's The Shining and it shook a lot before it exploded and that's what Buddy looked like.  Stop not knowing where my shitty analogies come from.  Anyhoot, a couple of days ago we were at the lake and Buddy had a rematch with his arch nemesis the swan.  Lost again.  Sorry fat dog.

I love Austin and am not sorry I moved here but I am still very homesick.  Not for the city of Los Angeles but for the people I know there.  There are some very good eggs here too but sadly, no niece and nephew.  Thanks a lot Universe for making it impossible for people to be in two places at once.

On a different note:  I've done some really fun shows here and gone on some wild nights about town.  Not really wild, but definitely about town, which is a lot different than what I was doing back home.  Yes, I miss Law & Orders:  SVU and Criminal Intent, but it's nice to have fun with real people too.  Plus I can't afford a TV yet.  Oh to the snap.

I guess that's it.  Sorry I've been absent without leave lately.  It's been a big adjustment moving here.  I took some pictures but can't figure out how to get them in an uploadable file so that I can put them on myspace.  Sounds like a good time for the A Team to step in.

love,

Lordy Mercy Please Don't Let McCain/Palin Win

Dear Blog,

I took Buddy to the vet on Monday because he has skin allergies.  In the middle of examining him the (very nice female) doctor called Buddy a "hot red potato."  Because he is easily embarrassed for other people and did not want to prove her wrong, Buddy did his best to adopt the expression of a potato.  The truth is that even when he's not covering for people, Buddy often falls into what Time Magazine calls his "trademark potato stare."  This morning he dazzled onlookers with his "trademark grab-a-piece-of-cat-shit-and-run-away-with-it-like-it's-stolen-treasure" maneuver.  Looks like the world just found its new Rin Tin Tin.

I'm going to Austin for 10 days starting July 18th.  I'm dreading the flight but really looking forward to the fire ants, 110 degree weather and giant flying roaches.  I can't wait to be back in my sweet home town.  I'm not really from Austin but when I drank I would put on a fake Texas accent so it's really six one half dozen the other.

Guys I'm not going to lie to you:  I shouldn't have had that second slice of pizza for lunch.  I may or may not have hopped the slow train to Fatville when I started eating flour again.  I'll keep you posted.  In the meantime, I've just about had it with not having everything I want handed to me on a silver platter.  It's enough to turn a person into a hot red potato.

Still might move to Austin in a few months in order to do the road again and recuperate from 5 years in Los Angeles.  The comedy community here is awesome--every time I go to a show I run into funny, great hearted comics whom I love.  The audiences are often delightful to boot.  There's just something about the city that makes me want to run away and join the circus.  I grew up here, but I still feel like Los Angeles is a really nice foster family who treats me well but sacrifices kittens at midnight.  Either that or I am allergic to wheat.

Anyhoot, I'm not joining Facebook no matter how much reverse psychology the world uses on me.  People can pretend they're not in any way interested in seeing me get a Facebook account all they want but I will still not budge an inch.

Wrap up:  had a fantastic time in Palm Springs; going to a wedding on Sunday; Buddy's on a diet; I may rejoin the terrible food cult; new Crackpot tour in the works.

Fare thee well,

Martha

Dear Blog,

I watched part of Denise Richards' reality show last night and I think she might have turned me into a lesbo.  I don't really want to have physical relations with her but I would like to marry her.  She won me over during an appointment she made with a tabloid journalist.  She meets with the woman for the express purpose of improving her reputation but ends up storming out during the interview and then storming back in to call the journalist a cunt.

Fucking case closed and where do I sign.

love,

More Later 

Dear Blog,

A)  Last night I celebrated Memorial Day by watching the hit musical "Return of the Jedi."  Not since my 17 month old niece sang the pterodactyl version of "Lullabye and Goodnight" has the world been treated to such fantasmagoria.  I haven't watched "Return of the Jedi" since I was a kid and I forgot how many songs were in it.  When it comes to musical assaults, the only thing worse than a hippie drum circle is an alien jam session courtesy of George Lucas.

B) Speaking of the opposite of bad music:  I bought two new Rascal Flatts CDs a few weeks ago and they are awesome.  I'm listening to one right now.  It's called "Melt" and if you love boy bands and country music, this CD is going to blow your wig off.

C) Whenever I listen to Rascal Flatts it reminds me of this guy Danny that I met in Louisville, KY a couple of years ago.  We shared a comedy condo and I thought it was going to be awkward but it turned out great.  I knew I was going to like him when 1) he had a southern accent and 2) I apologized to him for the trail of nutmeg on the kitchen floor and he didn't get mad. 

The comedy condo had an ant infestation and even though I'd cleaned the kitchen they kept coming in.  I don't like killing things so I used nutmeg to get rid of them.  It annoys ants so when you pour it on the floor and counters they leave in a huff.  Then you sweep it up, keep everything clean and dry and SHAZAM! massacre-free ant removal.

Anyhat, when I told Danny about it he said "you know you're one of the only other people I've met who hates killing bugs.  I'm the same way."  Then I was like "will you marry me?"  And he was all "I'm already married."  And then I felt like "well what's your wife like?  If she's as nice as you, maybe we can work something out."  And then he didn't say "you can live in a camper in our backyard."  And I silently hummed the words to "Where Do I Sign?"

I didn't really ask him to marry me but our three days together felt the way I hope marriage would be, except for the physical relations part.  We didn't have that but we got along great and were really nice to each other.  That plus sex is what marriage should be in my book. Otherwise, why go through the horror of pretending to be amused by a penis cake at your bachelorette party?

Back to my short-lived imaginary out-of-state marriage:  one of the highlights was watching the "Surreal Life" together.  When one of the celebrities was dealing with the death of his infant son, Danny said "man, I can't imagine how anybody could handle that.  My dog died two years ago and I'm still not over him."  Seriously, we can't make some kind of arrangement where I move into your rumpus room?

Even though I pretended he was the husband I'd never dreamed of, the only physical contact we had was on Sunday night when we said goodbye.  He was leaving and said "Well Martha it was great meeting you, I'm m'on go ahead and hug your neck now" and then he hugged me, not my neck.  Thanks a lot southern expression I've never heard of.

Speaking of husbands and dreams:  my favorite part of the terrible show "The Bachelor" is when the announcer says "Whose dream of marrying a [whatever the Bachelor is that year] will end tonight?"  As if there is such a thing as a woman who dreams of marrying a military officer or an "English gentleman."  If that announcer had been in Louisville with me, he could have said "Whose dream of marrying a man who is already married will end tonight?"  And then there would have been a close-up of some other woman so as not to give away the answer.

Listen, I have to go now.  I got up early to do yoga this morning and one of the teachers yelled at me after class.  Meditative state:  achieved.

In conclusion:  my friend Brendon was in town this weekend and I had a lot of fun hanging out with him and other great eggs.  I don't hang out with my comic friends enough--they make life worth living.

love,

Whose Dream of Having Fun with Their Friends Will End Tonight?

P.S. I forgot to say why Rascal Flatts reminds me of Danny:  he wrote country music and lived in Nashville and he'd met Rascal Flatts.  I was super flattered when he asked me to listen to the demo of a new song he'd written, but then I got nervous.  I loved the song though so it turned out I didn't have to file for an imaginary annulment.  Whose dream of listening to a song that wasn't terrible didn't end tonight?

Dear Blog,

I've been putting off writing because I don't know how to break the following news without starting a massive bum-out.  Here it comes and I'm just going to blurt it out because I don't know how to make it sound less devastating than it is:  I dyed my hair again last week and now I have Ronald McDonald highlights.  The color on the box said "Rosewood" but it turns out that Rosewood is the name of a female clown prostitute from the 1940s.  I researched her over the Internet and read that she was a well-meaning but ultimately boring who-er.  Can you imagine anything more heartbreaking than a humdrum prostitute?  I mean the crushed hopes of Rosewood's johns alone are too painful to contemplate.

Well enough about those sad sacks--I was up until 4 AM last night working on a copywriting assignment.  Supposedly I'm writing more pages even as we speak.  The delirium set in about 10 minutes ago so I decided to give my old pal Myspace Blog a ring.  It's these middle of the night transatlantic phone calls that keep our friendship afloat.

In more tragic news, I was confronted Dr. Phil-style by a sandwich shop employee the other day.  I asked for a small turkey on wheat and she said "what kind of turkey?" and I started to ask what kinds they had and she shouted "WHAT KIND OF TURKEY DO YOU WANT?"  I guess I would like the kind that comes without a side of getting yelled at.  Do you have that here?

Back before Myspace when people belatedly thought of what they believed were great comebacks to asshole strangers, they would have to just say them under their breath as they shuffled off to their car.  Now you can write the comeback in a blog and pretend like you didn't actually walk away from a situation feeling American Gladiator Jousting-Sticked.  Either way, it's the public who loses, and that's all we can really ask for.

Guys I'll be honest with you:  it's not easy living with a hair color that doesn't look natural.  And I don't just mean that it doesn't look natural on me, I mean it's not a color that occurs spontaneously anywhere in nature.  Yes it bears some resemblance to orangutan hair but there are currently no listings for "cross country truck driver companion" on Craigslist so I'm out of luck.

To end on an uplifting note:  stuff is in the works, things are happening, positive changes are afoot, and I am running for Senior Class President.  I think that my speech about how I don't deserve to win and how my inexplicably afro-d Caucasian brother does will really cinch the deal.  During my acceptance speech I will let everybody know that a talent scout is coming to the assembly on Friday and she thinks we might all be the next Shirley Temple.

Keep your feet on the ground and keep not ordering unspecified turkey,

Clyde from "Every Which Way but Loose"

Kickin' it off right:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Yc1D7XXFRJg.

Dear Blog,

Well they said it couldn't be done, but the earth has made a complete revolution around the sun yet again.  This kind of astronomical miracle calls for a celebration of the kind that involves neither drugs, alcohol, nor food.  Nor actual celebrating.  Speaking of which:  I don't normally watch football but may start now that I know they give out penalties for "Excessive Celebration."  If that isn't fighting the good fight then I don't know what is.

I haven't made any resolutions because my life, like my art, is so outsized as to defy the making of lists.  I am the Ernest Hemingway of female comics living at home with their parents.  Not since Ritchie Cunningham told the Fonz to "sit on it" has the world seen such a mesmerizing display of human potential.  You may as well start calling me Paul Revere now because later on your voice will be drowned out by the cries of "Megalution!"

There are two items that need to be addressed before the uprising begins:  1) the singing dog on myspaceTV.  This fella can really carry a tune and if he doesn't progress to the finals then I will lose all faith in the American public.  2) Match.com has a new ad on myspace where two people go into a photo booth and fondle each other and make out.  The slogan is something like "picture yourself with somebody."  If the idea of dry humping in a mall photo booth doesn't sell you on internet dating, then perhaps you should get an electrician to come over and take a look at your heart light.

Guys in the spirit of rigorous honesty let me just say that I have got to get the fuck out of here.  Every day I engage in a potato sack race with depression.  If I don't move up to L.A. and start going to more shows and spending more time with comics, I may very well jump off a cliff in '08.  Or push someone else off--it really depends on how many more Charles Manson videos I watch.

Good luck to us all and may the best singing dog win.

Love,

Gerald Ford

Dear Blog,

It's 2:08 am on Friday morning.  I only have two more pages of copywriting to go.  Fading quickly, so of course I took some time out to read an article about the assassination in Pakistan today (yesterday). 

My parents had the news on all day so I couldn't help but hear what had happened and it sent me into a doomsday depression.  The doomsday depression actually started last night when I heard about "Two girls, one cup."  If that's not a sign that Armageddon is here, then I don't know what.

But back to the suicide bombing:  every time I hear about a terrorist attack I get freaked out at how people can possibly do stuff like that.  And the way our country's news frames it is always that the people who do it are fundamentally different than we are.  Not just that they are Islamic extremists, but that they are a more savage variety of human than we are.  Like they are born capable of barbarism before they read word one of the Koran.  But here's what Folksy Wisdom Kelly has to say:  all humans resist change, often violently, and if suicide bombing had been a thing back in the day, we may very well have seen stuff like this during our own civil rights movement.  Let's face it:  we did see stuff like this back in the day.  We saw churches full of children bombed because some people didn't believe in freedom for all.  How is that different than what's happening in the Middle East today?  Except for the fact that white supremacists appear to have had worse organizational skills than Islamic extremists, I don't see much of a difference.

All I'm saying is let's not assume it's the end of the world just because people are doing what they've always done, which is act like unreasonable brutes.  And by people, I am of course referring mostly to men.  Oh snap and etc.

love,

Sorry, That Was Uncalled For

Announcement:

I am a-goddamned-llergic to the mother f-ing wind.  Thanks for bringing your A-game yet again, Kelly DNA.  You really know how to tear it up.

Fine, you got me:  for the millionth time I procrastinated on a huge amount of copywriting pages until the day they were due.  Obviously if I wasn't trying to write 27 pages in one day my allergy attack wouldn't be the huge deal that it is now.  On the other hand, mayhaps it's time to re-evaluate what constitutes a "huge deal."  On still another hand, maybe it's time to not evaluate anything, as I can hardly form a complete sentence right now.

Well merry belated Christmas anyway, while I've got you on the phone.  I like when people say that--well let me just tell you this other thing while I've got you on the phone.  Like you're a wild animal they've tranquilized and decided to go ahead and vaccinate while they're tagging you for their scientific study.  Maybe not.  That doesn't even add up when I read it.  What I was thinking is how trapped I feel on the phone most of the time, particularly with people who accidentally got me and have now decided to tell me something I was up-to-that-point successfully not having to listen to.  Help.

I feel the way I do on Benedryl right now, except I haven't taken any yet.  I'll tell you what I have taken:  a wrong turn somewhere, back around the age of 34.  Maybe good things are coming up around the bend here, but right now all I can see is yet another year coming to an end without hippie cults having made a significant comeback. 

Speaking of endings, let me tell you something 40:  you may not be the new dead, as Steve Agee claims, and you may not be where life begins, but you will surely be the place where wigs and fake mustaches come together to emancipate the human race.  Let's get crackin' already!

Love,

Balls-to-the-Wall Optimist

Well, 2007 does it again.  You want to talk about a rollercoaster--I was in a 9^th-inning slump when I wrote that blog earlier and now I'm as high as a kite.  Not literally, or even figuratively.  I guess it's more longingly, if you know what I mean.  Which I don't.

I just got home from bikram yoga and who was teaching the class but my favorite instructor of all time!  Hooray and what not!  He teaches the class like it's a military training camp, alternating between dramatic yells and urgent whispers.  I didn't like him at first, in fact he is the only teacher since high school to whom I've shot a hateful stare.  The second time I took his class I thought he was deliberately making the room hotter than it had to be (which is super hot to begin with) so I glared at him, and he saw me do it. 

After a few classes, I started getting a kick out of his idiosyncratic style of teaching.  And then one day several months ago he came over to me in the middle of a backward bend and in some way I still don't understand got me to go farther than I ever had before. 

The studio I go to has several great teachers, and they always encourage students to do their best.  I don't know what's different about this guy, why he seems to have magical powers.  From what I remember about that first time he hypnotized me, all he did was stand very close and whisper "relax your face, relax your neck" over and over.  Next thing I know my back is curved over like I have goddamn spinal bifida.  Needless to say I've been in love with him ever since.

Anyhoot, I bought Buddy a huge stuffed lion at the store yesterday and he is totally underwhelmed by it.  That's part of why I was in bum-out city earlier tonight.  The lion is as big as Buddy is, maybe even a little bigger, and I thought it would blow his mind.  Unblown minds have been a recurring theme for me in 2007, but 2008 is looking up.  As I was leaving yoga tonight, my teacher/imaginary husband raised his hand and said "good job Martha, thank you for coming" and for a second I thought he wanted to high-five me.  I stopped walking and turned back to face him and then realized after an awkward pause that wasn't what he was trying to do.  I cannot wait to bring this brand of excruciation to the dating world in 2008.  Watch your back social-outings-for-high-functioning-retarded-people, I'm gaining on you.

Love,

It Couldn't Hurt to Give Charles Manson Another Listen