I've been very sick. For a while. I wouldn't even wish long term sickness on the worst of the Kardashians. Over the last 12 weeks I've lost 12 pounds and my stomach reacts to food the way some white cops react to black males reaching for their wallet. Fortunately I'm slim and trim for the beach season, but I've been to the beach twice in 12 years, so I'm not sure how this helps me. I got this ominous letter from the doctors office last wednesday which simply said "it was nice to see you the other day, your labs were abnormal, looking forward to seeing you soon." WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!!! I literally screamed to myself like I was rehearsing the Charlton Heston end scene from planet of the apes. At least stress doesn't adversely affect a churning stomach. I tried to call, but they won't tell you results over the phone. This gave me three days to meditate on anxiety and allow outlandish thoughts to to crash like sneakers in the centrifuge of my mind like "they'd probably text if it was HIV, maybe I'm pregnant and why do I shake hands with some of our customers." The following day I worked an 11 hour shift. According to my phone, I walked 5 miles during my shift which takes place is a small room. Thank god there's no security footage to track my hyper lunacy, stress manning the steering wheel of my machinery. Finally on Friday I would get the verdict that would be as anticlimactic as this post. Not certain this will remedy the situation, but I'm basically allergic to everything, peanuts, shrimp, sesame seeds, the sky, CHICKEN, barely and rye. I protested the chicken. "Sorry doctor, I don't know if you noticed, but I'm a black male, I literally have seven drumsticks in my pocket." Which elicited no laughter and that negative reinforcement may have single handedly upended my future career as a stand up comedian. Maybe this chicken allergy explains why I preferred Yo La Tango to Lil Kim, perhaps I'm on some inverse Rachel Doezal shit where I'd rather watch Friends than A Different World and I show up to the bbq with a kale salad, reverse Rachism. Perhaps I'll wind up on a reality show solving mysteries with my best friend Juan who's allergic to beans. Perhaps I've been gradually committing slow chicken suicide (which sounds like a shitty stone temple pilots song). Perhaps this has nothing to do with my current affliction at all. Well, after much protesting, I've cut chicken out of my diet, I cried gravy tears, I've had buffalo wing dreams deferred where I awoke in a fevered midnight sweat, heart pounding, chicken the distance I can't reach. I'll keep you posted.
We'll be shooting a video for Erik Canzona and the Narrows Thursday night at Kearny Mesa Bowl, I'll be playing the guy from the WB version of the Machinist.