If It Feels Good Do It

A Tale of Two Dumbasses

Bowman — Tue, 02 Mar 2010 05:53:07 +0000

Most people say nothing important when they’re talking to me. They go on and on, blah blah blah talking nonsense without getting to the point. Even worse is when after all that irrelevant noise, they expect me to treat them like they’ve done something interesting.

The other day some dumbass came over to my new apartment. A family friend. I’ll call him Richard since that’s a dumb name.

It had been a long day, and I was relaxing.

The first thing Richard remarked upon was my lack of furniture.

“You need more furniture. This arrangement isn’t very conducive to getting pussy.”

I had just moved in to my place right near campus. “Uh, well I just moved in this new place right near campus,” I said. “Like one week ago.”

Then later Richard asked about my life, which was nice. But when I answered, he interrupted me.

“Too much thinking Ian, not enough cock and balls.”

Then he interruped me again.

“You gotta start hittin’ that shit man, come on.”

The whole night was like that. He never shut up. It was exactly like he was a Brooklyn salesman and I was someone who wished he would leave. Except that he wasn’t a Brooklyn Salesman.

Anyways, the reason he acted that way was he wanted something from me. He wanted me to help him with a website. He wanted to bust my balls into doing it. But his attitude wasn’t going to work.

Here’s some advice for you would-be non-douchebags out there: If you want to motivate a person to do something, try the following:

* Offer something valuable.
* Lead by example.
* Be important.

But instead, you act like you’re trying to pick me up at a bar. You act like you’re Donald Trump. But you’re not Donald Trump. You try to break me down. You can’t break me down. You try to tell me what to do. You can’t tell me what to do. There is only one person who can tell me what to do, and that’s me. Whatever you have to say about what I should do is a subtraction from the impeccable message I have delivered to myself. All you dumbasses out there who want to get rich off my knowledge can stop being a subtraction, stop being a detraction, stop being a distraction by keeping your mouth shut. Instead of running your mouth you should be opening your ears and sitting the fuck down. And that’s because if you’re standing up when I drop the knowledge, you’ll fall over.

But Richard isn’t the only dumbass I’ve ever met. Let me tell you about Nancy.

Nancy is a girl who once said to me, “I want to be a bitch.”

Geez, talk about a warning sign. I should have ditched that ho when I had the chance. But due to the kindness and compassion in my heart I continued the friendship.

One time she needed help moving. I was unemployed with plenty of time, plus I had a truck so I agreed to help.

Nancy had three friends in the whole world at that point. In addition to me, another friend from that microscopic list agreed to help her too.

But I stayed up really late the night before I helped Nancy. Well, actually I stayed up late partying with Nancy’s friend.

Then the next day instead of showing up at 10 AM, we showed up at 1 PM. There was still plenty of time to help Nancy move, but Nancy said we showed up late. How can you be late when you’re the one helping, and you’re the one with the truck? I don’t know. But even though we ended up helping Nancy move with plenty of time to spare, she was pissed.

Then during our late lunch Nancy ran a demo called, “passive,” “aggressive,” and “aloof.” Nancy wanted us to suffer, simply because we didn’t do things exactly the way she wanted us to.

But fuck that. It was time to eat, drink and be merry. Nancy’s friend and I ditched all that negativity, and partied.

So Nancy got even madder that we didn’t take her attitude seriously. She didn’t like our behavior. She wanted to change our behavior. But did she have something to offer? No. Was she leading by example? Nope. Was she important? Hell no.

I wrote earlier that that Nancy had three friends, including me. Well, Nancy’s one other friend (who lived out of state), I liked quite a bit. And Nancy knew it. So, while I was partying Nancy immediately called up that other friend and spread a bunch of gossip. She told her I partied. She told her I got naked. It was all true. You’re thinking, who gives a shit? But Nancy put a negative spin on it. Before that phone call, her out of state friend sort of liked me. But not after it. Nancy did everything she could to ensure her friend wouldn’t like me. That was Nancy’s way of saying, “You should do what I want you do, Ian.” Instead of actually being important, she connived influence. Instead of having something to offer, she took something away. Instead of leading by example, she was a bitch.

And that’s not the way to live. Slowly but surely that attitude caught up with her. Or not so slowly.

Now Nancy is unhappy up in Northern California. Her short list of friends got even shorter. Like you could itemize that list with one hand even if all your fingers were chopped off. Oh and she says she’s out to make big bucks, but hasn’t made any. It’s kind of hard to make money when you are dumb and have no friends. It’s kind of hard to be influential when you could mail your list of friends to the North Pole for free because it doesn’t weigh anything.

So, do yourself a favor. Don’t be like Nancy. Or Richard.

Oops

Bowman — Wed, 24 Feb 2010 04:59:43 +0000

I accidentally didn’t renew the ifitfeelsgooddoit.com domain name for a few days. Just a mistake.

A number of people have asked me if I will continue writing in my blog. Answer: yep. I’m not sure exactly what I’ll write about, but I know I’ll write more frequently again. Could be soon. Right now I’m relaxing on a chair.

You Can Buy me in Print

Bowman — Tue, 02 Feb 2010 04:37:04 +0000

It’s been a while since I posted any fiction on here. Actually it’s been a while period.

Anyways, a short story I wrote will appear in Children, Churches and Daddies, Volume 205. You can read it online for the price of zero dollars and zero cents. (Scroll way down or search on the page for “Ian Bowman.”)

If you really want to splurge you can order a print copy of CC&D, Volume 205 for $7.47. Like the plane with a dollar sign and period.

Here is Someone I didn’t Expect

Bowman — Thu, 28 Jan 2010 05:28:38 +0000

Recently I get asked a lot if I still like my job. The answer is: yep. It seems like people are expecting me to get sick of my job and go crazy. Then write about it. I don’t blame people for thinking that. I used to wonder the same thing. Or worry about it.

But now I don’t. If I do get sick of my job, it won’t be for a while.

It’s as surprising to me as anyone else that I feel that way.

But I know why I do:

I like math a lot. Now I get to read about math all the time.
Generally I like learning new things and now I get to read books and learn new things often.
I have not matured at all since the day I finished grad school. I have continued to live my life as a student, as if everything is new and complete change at most one quarter away. That is both good and bad. And that is me in a nutshell. I dropped out of high school, but have always regretted doing that. Whenever I think of high school, I wish I could go back in time and attend a day. And that’s me in two nutshells. Since 2004 I have missed school tremendously. Now I am back on a campus.
And not just any campus. UCLA feels like the center of everything — like that new Jack in the Box commercial. A bunch of people in toga outfits dance behind Jack. Well the building behind the people in Toga outfits is Royce hall, because that commercial was filmed right in front of the UCLA library. The center of everything. And I like being in the center of everything.
I also like being part of a community, and UCLA contains a large social infrastructure. There are many clubs to attend. Right now I’m taking yoga at the John Wooden Rec Center. Next month I’m going on a camping trip with UCLA Outdoor Adventures.
Most importantly I actually like what I do. I enjoy my life from 8 to 5.

It’s weird liking my job this much. So much of my previous lifestyle was a reaction to hating the so-called corporate culture of wherever I worked. Now I like my supervisor, and I like who I am. I actually feel good when people ask me what I do. I feel good telling people what I do. But because I like my job so much, I don’t write like I used to. The part of me that wrote like I used to is resting.

Getting high: still great. Listening to rap: still great. Making friends laugh: still great. Reading Bukowski: still great. I haven’t stopped doing those things. Writing is also still great, but I don’t do that as much. I look at more art now. I play more video games now. I’m in a different world now.

But when it comes to coffee and math, those are the most great. Or maybe they aren’t the most great, but I like them a lot more than I thought I did. In that sense I was wrong about myself. In that sense I am someone I didn’t expect.

Pros and Cons

Bowman — Thu, 31 Dec 2009 23:33:50 +0000

I’m color blind. That’s something you probably don’t know about me. And I file that aspect of myself under, “cons.”

One popular trend is to justify human attributes with the theory of evolution. Actually I believe so strongly in the theory of evolution, it feels silly calling it a theory. But using evolution to justify weakness is even more dumb than not believing in it. And by dumb I mean pointless.

I know there is an evolutionary explanation of color-blindness online somewhere. Let me find one.

OK, found this from Wikipedia:

There are some studies which conclude that color blind individuals are better at penetrating certain color camouflages and it has been suggested that this may be the evolutionary explanation for the surprisingly high frequency of congenital red-green color blindness.

See what I mean? How the fuck is that explanation going to help me tell my socks apart?

And you can justify anything using evolutionary logic.

From Ian Bowman, 2009:

There are some studies which conclude that being a stupid motherfucker makes you less likely to trip out when someone says, “Suck my dick you fucking douche bag,” and it has been suggested that this may be the evolutionary explanation for the surprisingly high frequency of being a really stupid motherfucker.

Segue here. OK, done with the segue. This morning I couldn’t tell my socks apart. My ex-girlfriend’s last Christmas gift to me when we were still together was a few dozen pairs of gray and off-white socks. She knew I was color blind. Sweet gift, huh?I think her plan was to be more useful. It worked, but then she took her not color blind eyeballs away.

Maybe that’s how I’ll update my Facebook Profile:

Looking For: A Freakin Woman To Help Me Tell My Socks Apart And Shit. P.S. Socks Given To Me By My Ex-Girfriend And Shit. P.P.S. Hope You’re OK With That. P.P.P.S. Or I Could Just Throw My Gray And Off-White Socks Away When You Show Up. Fuck It.

Speaking of love and dreams, thank you for all the love you showed me after my last post.

I want to follow that badboy up with a second post that rocks your world. But another con of me is that I want to summarize my whole life in every paragraph.

I won’t do that this time though. I’ll just start with today.

This morning I couldn’t tell my socks apart.

The Most Gainfully Unemployed Man In America, Part 2: I Got A Job

Bowman — Thu, 10 Dec 2009 06:03:00 +0000

When that company fired me in September of 2008, I was devastated. I had never been fired before. The work at my prior job was boring, but they liked me. Now suddenly here I had done nothing right. I had been making around $100k. It was a lot of income to say goodbye to.

What hurt the most though, was I had failed.

But I was also relieved.

I didn’t have to get yelled at by that Executive Vice President again.

I didn’t have to walk through that anonymous office park in the Sausage Fest of the Silicon Valley again.

I no longer had to have conversations with corporate executives with names like, “Fred.” Again.

And fuck that company. I didn’t care about comparison shopping. Especially when I knew I had been helping line the pockets of corporate executives with names like, “Fred.”

That’s why I was relieved.

Then I went home and watched Monday Night Football. It was the first time in five years I was home early enough to see the whole game. Then I went to cafes. Lay on the grass. Looked at the sky. Got drunk. All my favorite things.

I went to Portland, Las Vegas, Japan, Arizona, New Mexico, Texas, Taiwan and New Orleans.

I was having fun, but I was also having devastation.

I was now terrified of the I.T. industry. It had brought me four years of depression. When I looked at descriptions of Web Development jobs I felt sick to my stomach. In offices I became anxious. I couldn’t stop thinking of my failures.

I applied to teach English in Japan. When it came time for the one-on-one interview, I freaked out. The same smell was there. The same fake smiles. I left the interview feeling relieved.

Since the job interview was in Southern California, I went to go see my dad. We hadn’t spoken in more than a year, or seen each other in more than four — a major source of angst. But on that day I was very happy to see him. I was glad to have him in my life again.

But I found out two weeks later I didn’t get the job. When that happened I felt like an idiot. I didn’t get the job. Everyone wanted to know how I didn’t get the job. Or why I didn’t get the job. I didn’t know.

I applied for another English position with a less respectable company. I showed up late to the interview because well, I don’t remember why.

Then they offered me a job, but not in September of 2009 as originally stated. The offer was for April, 2010.

What would I do until then, I wondered. Then I realized I could do whatever I wanted to do.

I liked Southern California, so I moved down to Long Beach in June of 2009. Some people think I moved down solely because of a girl who lived there. Judy. I was excited to be closer to her, but I moved to Southern California to be in Southern California. So many people asked me about that girl though, and I told them that it was true I was happy to be near her. Right on, they said. That’s great. I also said it was great. Judy said it was great too. But then Judy had other plans.

First she acted like she was being stalked by someone else. She was a victim, she said. She wanted to be with me instead, she said. Her and that guy weren’t talking, she said. OK, I said.

Oh wait, she said. Me and that guy are talking now. Oh I am so sad, she said. I miss being with him. Or wait actually me and him were together this whole time, she said. My bad. I was actually secretly maintaining this whole other relationship. Well, she didn’t say that. I just sort of figured it out.

Then 24 hours later: “Let’s have dinner. Let’s have dinner and come over to my place, Ian. I miss you! I want to be with you! What? What’s the problem.”

That’s Judy. That’s what happened with Judy. Like five times.

Then she was terrified that I would write about it on here. She didn’t want that other guy to learn “things he shouldn’t know.” She wanted to “protect him.”

There are people who want to do whatever they want to do. Then they get mad when you simply describe what they are doing.

Well, that’s just too fucking bad.

So no more Judy. Goodbye Judy. But I was already in Long Beach and I wasn’t going away. So I stayed there, living below poverty level on the edge of the ghetto. I slowly made some friends. My roommate was my friend. My neighbors were my friends. We could get drunk. We could be real. There were no excuses needed. There were less excuses offered.

But I didn’t have much going on.

I volunteered at the Long Beach Boys and Girls Club. That was the best thing I did. I helped those kids learn math, reading, science and joke delivery. But the thing they really wanted to do was use a computer.

“I want to go to the Jonas Brothers Website!”

“I want to use Microsoft Paint.”

Their demands were not extravagant. But those computers were not extravagant either. Or completely functional. Sometimes those computers would have problems. For example, they wouldn’t be able to load a webpage called Google. Google where my beloved ex-girlfriend worked. I missed her more than ever. Where was I? I was not working. I was volunteering. I was trying to help kids. But no one from my old life was looking. None of them saw me there in Long Beach with those broken computers.

I looked for work. I ran out of unemployment insurance. I stopped drinking. Well, Monday through Friday afternoon. Well, for the most part. Then I was more able to complete tasks. I was now able to sustain a week of constructive activity.

What was I doing with my life? What could I do to support myself?

I started going to church. Not a temple or a synagogue. Church with Jesus Christ. And I started praying a lot.

I started doing stand-up. That was another good thing I did. The audience at an open-mic was there for everyone, but not everyone had the balls to get up in front of them. Not everyone was me. That was the point. I was me, I said, and here I am, I said, standing in front of you with a microphone. People criticized me. But those people couldn’t do what I was doing so fuck them.

Instead of sending in short stories to magazines and waiting around to be rejected, I could just get up on stage and express myself. I was happy to have a place to do that.

I really wanted to find a temporary or part-time job until I moved to Japan. But there wasn’t much temporary or part-time work I could do besides software development. In fact, I couldn’t even find temporary or part-time software development work. I found out that being overqualified was a real thing. I would have done just about any writing job. But no writing job would hire me.

I applied to a full-time web development job. It was in Santa Monica. Cool, I could move to Santa Monica, I thought. But then I felt sick applying for it. I felt sick interviewing for it. I felt sick going home and thinking about it. I didn’t care if I got it. And I didn’t get it. Or well, I never heard back.

Some days I would put my head down on a table. And I’d keep my head there for a long time.

Then I had an idea.

I found someone who needed help with Computer Science. I began tutoring him. Then I found I liked it. The hourly pay was good. I was tutoring general theoretical concepts, and C++. I missed those things. I missed my ex-girlfriend, C++, and general theoretical concepts. I enjoyed getting drunk. I missed reading about math. I did not miss doing Web Development.I missed studying interactive computer graphics algorithms. I did not miss working at a comparison shopping website and lining the pockets of corporate executives with names like, “Fred.”

I went home and typed “C++” into craigslist. And I saw this:

A laboratory at UCLA seeks a graphics programmer to develop, test, and deploy 3D software for interactive database-driven visualization of brain imaging data and results. Must have a masters degree in computer science and 3 years of experience in graphical programming. Skills in C++ and standard 3D programming languages (e.g. OpenGL) preferred. Applications should include a CV, key examples from a portfolio of work in 3D graphical application programming.

I had all that stuff. I had a masters degree in computer science. In grad school I specialized in visualization of, among other things, brain imaging data. My thesis was called, Performance Analysis and Automated Resource Selection for Distributed Visualization Pipelines.

I stood up. Then I left my body there. I did not sit down for a long time. I knew I would be working for UCLA.

Well, as long as the craigslist ad was real. I thought it might not be. I emailed that anonymous craigslist address my thesis, and hoped for the best.

A few days later I got an email. Hello from UCLA. “When can you come in for an interview?”

Well, I could come in for an interview soon, as it turned out.

“Great. Bring some code that you worked on. We very much look forward to meeting you.”

Well, first I needed to find that code from the grad school era. Then I did. Then I had to search through the code for cuss words. There were a lot. Then I searched through the code and deleted “badboy.” Badboy was all over that code. There was more badboy than cuss words. I was really into saying “badboy” when I was in grad school. Badboy, and ninja. Those were my two favorite words from 2002 – 2004.

Then during all that deleting and recompiling something else happened. “Ahh. Graphics algorithms. Math.” My synapses were firing again. “I missed you guys! I’m back! Let’s party!” It was all the stuff I wanted to do five years ago. Instead I had graduated and began working at a printer company. Then I quit and began working at a web development company. And I did those things because I thought I had to. I didn’t think there was a job where I could work on visualization or graphics.

I went to the interview at UCLA.

The interview was more like a tour. The tour was more like a formality. And the formality was more like a job offer that I received one week later.

I called my parents and told them I had a job again. My mother started crying. My father thought he was even more awesome than before. My Chinese step-dad turned up KOIT on the way to work. Then at lunch he poured more salt than usual on his baby bok choy.

I called up my sister, who started at UCLA in the fall. I told her I’d be near her. Fuck yeah and shit, she said. I can’t fuckin wait. And shit. She said.

OK she didn’t really say that. But she was into it.

I looked for an apartment in Westwood, the part of Los Angeles that UCLA is at. Westwood is about thirty miles northwest of Long Beach. That’s more than an hour in LA traffic. Westwood is next to Santa Monica, Beverly Hills and near Hollywood and Culver City. So, the Westwood area has plenty of writing and stand-up going on.

So, I could continue my writing and stand-up.

The only sad moment was when I went into the Long Beach Boys and Girls Club for the last time. We had done good work there. I had seen one girl go from not even knowing how to spell her own name to reading at near grade level. She was in third grade. This one boy I helped with his drawing. Just by coincidence he always asked me to show him things I could do, like wings and eyeballs. He gave me a drawing which I hung on my wall. Another kid showed me how to make a bunch of paper airplanes. I put one of them in my room, too. There were a few kids that just wanted someone to spend time with them. It didn’t matter what we worked on. That was fine with me because during a year full of self-doubt, I wanted to spend time with someone too.

The head manager of the club said whenever I felt like it I could show up on Saturdays. And I will.

Then on November 16th I went in for my first day of work at UCLA.

My supervisor was positive and relaxed. It was about time I had a supervisor like that. He was from Seattle, but acted very Los Angeles.

He spent about an hour describing the nature of my work at the lab.

Then he gave me my first assignment:

“Alright, let’s solve this badboy,” he said.

Clearly I had come to the right place.

I’m the Fuckin Computer Scientist, Dumbass: Long Beach Open-Mic Stand-Up November 4th 2009

Bowman — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 00:00:32 +0000

More punchlines.

One of my Roommates Dresses like a Pirate

Bowman — Thu, 22 Oct 2009 22:19:42 +0000

I have two roommates. One of them is Daniel. I rent my room from him for $500 including all utilities. My other roommate is Silas. I’m better friends with Silas.

But I like Daniel too. He looks, sounds and acts a lot like Hart Bochner in Die Hard.

In Die Hard, Hart Brochner plays Harry Ellis. Harry Ellis is this guy:

Harry Ellis snorts coke and says things like this:

“Hey babe, I negotiate million dollar deals for breakfast. I think I can handle this Eurotrash.”

Harry gets his head blown off by a German terrorist.

It’s tough not to like a guy like that.

Something else about Harry Ellis. Oops, I mean Daniel. Something else about Daniel: he dresses like a pirate, every weekend. I don’t mean he dresses that way to go to a pirate convention. He just dresses like a pirate and goes wherever he goes. He is being whoever he wants to be in America. He’s the David Bowie of not rock stars.

A few months ago I was in my room. Daniel stood near my bedroom door. It was Friday.

Hey Ian,” he said, “Please excuse any noise you hear coming from my room tonight. I’ll be tying up a woman who could be my mother.”

“Oh,” I said. “Alright.”

“It’s one of my sick pleasures. That’s what I do.”

Until that point in the evening my primary concern was lifting a 24 oz. Steel Reserve to my lips. Desk to face. Desk to face. Can in my hand.

“Alright Daniel. Way to do it, man. Way to be you.”

Daniel continued. “Well hey, at least I dont’ call her Mother when I have her tied up. That would be just plain sick!”

I don’t know about you guys, but when someone follows up a perverted confessional with an even more perverted hypothetical, my conclusion is that the person is in fact, just plain sick.

It would be like if I said, “Pardon the noise coming from my room, I’m going to be tying up a sheep.” Then I followed that up with, “Well hey, at least I’m not going to be sticking my cock in the sheep.”

Daniel then went into his room and shut the door as he often does. Then Silas and I held reconnoisance in the dining room.

“Did you hear what Daniel just said.”

“Yeah, about the woman old enough to be his mother. Did he really just say that?”

“I think so.”

I removed another Steel Reserve from the refrigerator, then walked back to my room. I think I was writing something. I don’t remember. Soon Daniel was at my door again. There was more.

“Man, I am so deep in it right now with the ladies,” he said. “I am neck deep.”

“Oh, really? That’s cool,” I said.

“Yeah! I could be booked every weekend from now… from now… until… until two and a half months from now.”

“Geez. That’s a lot. What is it?”

“What is what?”

“I mean like, how come you are so booked?”

“Oh man, it’s the pirate thing,” he said. “It’s the pirate thing! I have tapped into, my inner rock star! My inner rock star is a pirate! Once you tap into your inner rock star…”

He never finished that sentence. I therefore am not sure exactly what happens when you tap into your inner rock star. Evidentally it’s something too powerful to verbalize concretely. You can merely gently describe the experience of it, as Daniel subsequently did.

“Man, when I go to a bar or something, and I’m hitting on a girl, I’m doing it as a pirate! I mean I’m dressed as a pirate, but also, one thing you don’t understand, is that I’m talking in Pirate! I’m hitting on a girl at a pool table, in Pirate! And when you do something in Pirate, clearly you have a sense of humor. I mean, duh, you’re talking in Pirate! How could you not have a sense of humor when you’re talking in Pirate! And everyone loves humor!!!!!!!! “

His conclusion was perfectly reasonable.

“Yeah,” I said.

Shortly thereafter I walked down the street to buy more beer. When I returned to the apartment I found it had become a romantic, candle-lit environment. Sitting at the counter was a plump, middle-aged brunette, indeed old enough to be Daniel’s mother. Daniel was in the kitchen cooking dinner.

It was a slightly bizarre situation, but Daniel was unfazed by my presence.

“How do you feel about cumin,” he said to the woman.

“I like it,” she said. “I like it.”

Underneath The British Big Long Motorcar Joke

Bowman — Fri, 16 Oct 2009 20:50:15 +0000

I am someone you have to meet.

I want that last sentence to sound like a promo for an FX TV series.

I think. Actually I don’t remember back that far.

Some sentence here was supposed to mean something.

And I wasn’t supposed to start a new paragraph but I just did.

Blah blah blah.

I just felt like doing that.

Alright now I’m on the moon. Now I’m running around in circles at the edge of a crater. Now I’m playing golf. Now I’m talking about small steps and mankind.

Someone wanted to know the origins of a joke appearing in my stand-up — the one about a British cousin who picks up on girls. Actually that joke is based on a number of events.

I really do have a British cousin. He’s two years older than I. When he visits, girls love him. He never says, “I’ve got a big long motorcar and I want to park it in your garage.” Actually he’s funny and cool, and I love him too. But the accent is part of the charm, no doubt. When during High School my cousin lived here for one year, I witnessed a lot of girls loving him.

Also, once I visited my good friends Guy and Heidi in Belgium. It was a great trip, but as a foreigner I had a very different experience than my cousin with members of the opposite sex. The girls were generally not into me at all. I don’t mean they were turned off because I was acting obnoxious. I mean they were pissed off when I merely ordered a cup of coffee at the cafe they worked at. As an American, that’s a climate I’ve experienced in England, the Netherlands, and elsewhere in Europe. So, just for laughs I made up an extremely American mock pick-up line: “How’d y’all feel about cheap beer, four-wheel drive, and semi-automatic weapons?”

I really did say that to a few girls. They looked at me like I were crazy, and they were probably right.

Anyways, that’s where that joke comes from.

Long Beach Open-Mic Stand-Up October 9th 2009

Bowman — Sat, 10 Oct 2009 22:00:43 +0000

More open-mic stand-up.

I didn’t almost barf this time.

I start out talking about the differences between Northern and Southern California. Then I move on to hand-jobs.

When I tell the joke about the mannequin part of me is thinking, “Oops, that was a little too gross.”

If It Feels Good Do It

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