I've moved to tumblr...

Hey folks...

I've created a tumblr site in place of this one. You'll still find blogs and semi-hilarious original images, but the layout is much cooler.

I especially dig the "Archive" and "Random" functions.

Just go to mariosomething.com and click around my stuff and things.


Kind of Funny...

Inspired by equal parts Miles Davis' Kind of Blue and Tom Waits' Nighthawks at the Diner, we finally put this project together...and the rehearsal was damn fine!

Here's the official skinny:

Comedian Mario DiGiorgio (Comedy Central, Montreal's Just For Laughs Festival) will share the stage with accomplished musicians Derek Phelps on trumpet (Black Joe Lewis & The Honeybears); drummer Andy Beaudoin (E.C.F.A.) and Joe Sokolic on upright bass (Hard Proof Afrobeat).

While integrating music and comedy is not entirely uncharted territory, we're excited to hear the results of a 45-minute comedy act backed by three solid musicians. 

Kool kats and kittens welcome.

Green Day digs One Kolor Designs...

Recently spotted in downtown Austin, Green Day popped into Parts and Labour for some shopping and purchased one of my homegrown t-shirts, Unissection.

How cool is that? Tre Cool!

I'd add more exclamation points, but I don't want to seem sycophantic.

Maybe he'll wear it. Maybe he'll wad it up in a ball and dampen his bass drum with it. Either way, I'm flattered as f**k.

Curiosity killed the Catholic

So a priest and a deacon walk into a comedy club...

There's no punchline, that actually happened. I had just finished a show at the Funny Bone in Columbus, Ohio and a paunchy gentleman in his 50's was chatting me up. I don't know how we got on the topic of religion, but I made the mistake of telling him that I'm agnostic.

(For those too lazy to click on the link, it just means that when it comes to the 'how and why' we exist, I have the courage to say, I don't know, and I don't care.)

The guy wasn't a jerk or dogmatic, and the conversation ended with him complimenting my act, then disappearing into the mall.

Not five minutes later, he returned with a priest and a deacon dressed in full regalia, each toting a doggie bag from a nearby Italian restaurant. Apparently, the dude from the show summoned them like two off-the-clock super heroes to come save the clown from eternal damnation.

I liked the deacon right away. He had a friendly face covered with near-hipster whiskers and was sharp and witty. The priest was a bit smug for my taste, and both were in their mid-20's.

Like most good Christians--and they do exist--I don't wear my beliefs on my sleeve. If I believe in anything, it's common courtesy, and I generally don't voice my distaste for religion out of consideration.

Unless I'm provoked.

This particular evening, I felt like a zoo animal getting prodded, jabbed and gawked at by three slack-jawed deists.

"You grew up with Catholicism? What went wrong?"

I told them I was a bad Catholic...I asked questions.

"Don't you have faith?"

Yes I do. I have faith in my lack of faith in man. Man can manipulate and con the masses. There are sheepish people and shepherds with soap boxes. Hell, it continues today, and we're supposed to be smarter than witch-burners! Want proof? Google "FOX News viewership."

And peddling the idea of blind faith is the scam of a lifetime.

I began to question everything when I was 12. I was on the porch with my best friend, star-gazing, and I said aloud, "You know the only reason we believe in God is 'cos our parents told us to?" That was the beginning of the end. I spent the next several years looking for answers that no one had. Even a priest said, "You're just supposed to believe."

Nice, huh?

Then I felt guilty for not believing. Then I got over it. I came to the conclusion that I don't need religion to be a good person.

In essence, curiosity killed the Catholic. And thank Christ for that.


You could poke fun at my disbelief until the flying pigs come home, you'll only strengthen my grip on reality. But it rarely works in the opposite direction. Most people get offended if you rag on their religion, even if said ragging is civil discourse.

In my opinion, "getting offended" is just insecurity with a fake nose and mustache.

So I remain Agnostic and sure of it. It's not cowardly, it's honest. And for those who say things like, "get off the fence," I always reply with tongue buried in cheek: "I like it up here...it puts me above the rest of you."


Oh yeah, so back to the three wise men...each shook my hand and took their leave. It was a lively discussion, and my pleasant nihilism remains intact. The deacon gave me a genuine smile, but Father Superior's good-bye reeked to high heaven of judgment.

At that moment, I bet he was thinking the same thing I was thinking: God help this poor soul.

Okay, sermon over. Go now, in peace.

spiritual hugs and hickeys,

Class, today we'll be dissecting unicorns...

Click to enlarge. Order one here.

Unicorns have magically saturated the t-shirt market, and while I sprained my ankle making a jump for the bandwagon, I couldn't resist the idea of a butcher chart for these magnificent beasts.

And if you plan on attending Burning Man this year, you might want to buy a few of these to trade for a sandwich bag full of 'shrooms...

Click to enlarge. Order one here.
Finally, here's a tongue-in-cheek (rather, finger-in-throat) way to say no to bulimia...

Click to enlarge. Order one here.

More new designs to come! Just keep clicking back to OneKolor every now and again.

hugs and mythical hickeys,

OK, Stupid...

I raised the camera to accentuate my jawline and conceal my lower body. Hawt! Woo!
So I posted a fake OK Cupid profile to poke fun at everyone's impossible standards...funny thing is, I've gotten more messages than ever. Go figure.
You can take a peek here.
It's extra funny-cos-it's-true if you're an actual member on the site, but you'll get the idea.
I've said it once, I'll say it a bazillion times...internet dating is NOT for average-looking guys like me. Seems I'm too straight-laced for the quirky gals and too quirky for the straight-laced.
Fickle bitches.
Anyhoo, enjoy!

Comedy Condo Treasures...

Who needs cable? Our video library has everything from crap to shit.

Filed in order of testosterone. Not pictured: The Firm and K2: The Ultimate High.

Or perhaps you're more of a reader...

All I have to say is, the book is nothing like the movie...
...60 pages in and still no arm wrestling.

Just lots of "womanly heat."


What's the deal with erotic novels? Here is the deal with erotic novels:
  • I was a proofreader for an erotic novel publisher...we didn't have cubicles, we had stalls.
  • I read one to my girlfriend, and she got wet...'cos I spit when I talk. 
  • What's that spot, you ask? Let's call it a bookmark.
  • Hey smug parents, my "kids" started reading at a reeeeally young age.
  • I skip over the boring pages so I can get to the money-sentence.
  • Does that Kindle come with a squeegie?
  • Best. Book club. Ever.

See you next year, Little Rock. Maybe.


*Laughing my boner off


    Patrick Swayze was right.

    Like most comedians, I'm a recovering addict. My drug of choice? CFC. Common f**king courtesy. And pot. But mostly, good manners.

    My biggest mission when I leave the house is to not bother anyone. My biggest mistake is expecting the same from other people.

    And as a friend in AA* once told me: "An expectation is a resentment in the waiting."

    I wonder if a support group exists for the overly-polite. Enable me for a moment...

    Hello everyone, my name is Mario and...I'm a nice guy.

    It's been 7 days since my last act of kindness. I hit bottom, too...I was holding doors open for strangers, using my blinkers in traffic and, at my lowest point, I found myself in bed with a woman and I...I let her finish first. I know, how cliche...nice guy finishing last.

    I should've seen it coming, too. Growing up, my dad was warm and generous. Mom was loving and thoughtful. All the warning signs were there, man.

    But I'm proud to announce that for the past week I've been leaving my cell phone ringer on at funerals; reading lots of Maxim magazine; putting the toilet lid down...before I pee; when I see a woman standing, I offer her my lap...

    And the last time I held the door open for someone, I tripped them in the process.

    So where's my chip? I wanna put it on my shoulder.


    What truly sucks about being a pleasant fellow is how people see it as a weakness. Girls, especially.

    Part of the phrase, "nice guy" is "guy." We still have the same urges, we're just not all Dane Cook-y about it.

    Once, I overheard a woman bellowing how "All men are scum." To which her friend replied, "What about so-and-so? He's a nice guy." Without hesitation, the other snorted: "Pfft. Nice guys are boring."

    Hang on, now, Acrylic Nails...all men are scum, but nice guys are boring??

    This is like walking into a flower shop, only touching the cactus, then complaining how all plants are pointy assholes.

    Look around you! There are ferns! Succulents! Super Happy Lucky bamboo! Nothing flashy, perhaps, but reliable and low-maintenance. Take one home and talk nice to it.


    Because I am a decent human being off stage, I tend to be a bit of a prick on stage, and on the page. It's fantasy therapy. Man's gotta vent, yo.

    But I think I've found my new mantra to echo, courtesy of one James Dalton in Road House: "Be nice. Until it's time to not be nice."

    Ditto, sir. Ditto.

    Like a welcome mat over a trap door.

    So take heed, society...next time you're sending a text at a red light and ignore my warning honk when it turns green, I'm gonna have to rip your throat out with my bare hands.


    *The insecure mofo in me needs to clear up that I am not an actual recovering addict, and I sincerely hope no members of AA think ill of the references.

    A Brief Chat with Mario...

    By Brian Gaar | Thursday, May 12, 2011, 12:22 PM
    [Original link to article]

    As the final round of the “Funniest Person In Austin” contest draws near, it’s worth remembering that, in years past, some comics have come out of nowhere and won the whole thing.
    One of those was Mario DiGiorgio, who won the 1999 FPIA title just eight months after his first open mic. From there, DiGiorgio has become one of the mainstays of the Austin scene, having performed on Comedy Central and the Montreal Just For Laughs Comedy Festival.

    But DiGiorgio, whose background was initially in advertising, has diversified himself - he designs t-shirts, logos and recently wrote a book, “A Cynic’s Guide to a Rich and Full Life.”

    DiGiorgio is headlining the Velveeta Room this weekend and we chatted about the FPIA contest and whether or not he’s really a cynic...

    Your background was in advertising, how did you get into comedy?

    It’s not a giant leap from advertising to stand-up. I was writing pithy slogans and brief copy — often with tongue in cheek — and that’s pretty much all I do now. The only difference is, now I’m selling me. And I’m a terrible salesman. But I believe in the product. As soon as they get the bugs worked out.

    Did you really win FPIA eight months after starting standup?

    Yessir. However, I was NOT the funniest person in Austin that year. I happened to have the best set with that crowd in front of those judges on that evening with those jokes. But that won’t fit on a t-shirt. It was good to get it over with right away, though. I see the stress it’s caused my fellow comedians.

    You’re one of the most respected voices on the Austin scene, has the scene here changed over the years? Why is this such a good town to start doing comedy?

    I see it getting stronger with each passing year. I think because it’s so easy to live in Austin, it’s an attractive place to develop. We have a glut of smart, creative comedians — both new and established — and the best part is, there’s not a jerk in the bunch. Maybe that Gaar fellow. Thinks he’s so big. But it’s been a welcoming community for as long as I’ve lived here, and the bigwigs and other comedy industry folks love to visit Austin and scout the local talent.

    You’ve written the awesomely-titled book “A Cynic’s Guide to a Rich and Full Life” — any free life tips for my readers?
    Yes. Anyone can hold a door open for a stranger. But it takes a rare and special breed to trip them in the process. And the book is also awesome…not just the title.

    PS: You’ve never struck me as that cynical. Are you on hiatus?

    Yes. I’m waiting to see if my apathy gets picked up for another season. PS: You’ve never struck me as that observant. I’m a cynic in the sense that I loathe inconsiderate humans, and this world could benefit from a little more common courtesy. I’m more of a pleasant nihilist: While I may agree that nothing in this world really matters, there’s no need for bad manners.


    Big Nose Little Dog has been put to sleep...

    ...the brand name, that is. Not my actual, little dog.

    Hard to believe I've been printing shirts for seven years. Then again, that's only one in bignoselittledog years...but I was overdue for a change.

    And despite what your Grandpa in Phoenix thinks, change is good.

    About the name, I've always been a fan of simple, one-color artwork on t-shirts, so it's the only method I use. I thought, why not market them that way? Might work. Might not.

    "Why kolor? That's stupid."

    No, you're stupid.  And "onecolor.com" was taken.

    But it turns out I had fun making the logo, and I like the idea of a mousy, self-aware slogan like: "Welcome to One Kolor Designs...where all our designs are just OK."

    Everything's Alright.

    Redefining the term!

    I still do all of the printing myself and continue to use American Apparel tees.

    I'm also excited to be back in Parts and Labour on South Congress with 11 new designs. Perfect timing for the SXSW shoppers...a great barometer for what sells and what becomes a homemade Sham-Wow.

    Anyhow, go check 'em out. Some are snarky. Some are inside jokes. Some don't mean a thing. Some make me look like the Marcel DuChamp of screen printing.

    (Free shipping to anyone who gets that reference.)

    Oh yeah, I also put up a Facebook page for One Kolor...the only place to hear about sales and out-of-print clearances. I'm just sayin' is all.

    wholesale hugs and hickeys,

    Kindly shut the f**k up.

    Do you hear that whistling noise? That's my blood boiling.

    Everyone talks about the lack of discipline with children--seriously, everyone's doin' it--but what about adults who behave like children? Who reprimands them?

    People complain about laws. Do you know why laws exist? Because people are assholes. Thanks to assholes, we have speed bumps; car alarms; pay-before-you-pump; spyware; airport security; automatic faucets and tepid coffee.

    Where is this all coming from, Mario?

    I'm glad you asked, imaginary reader. I'm in Little Rock, Arkansas this week. It's a little slice of heaven...if heaven were a shithole. (see also: Shreveport, LA). For those who have never stepped inside a comedy club--and I can't really blame you sometimes--a comedy show is just like a movie: sit down, watch the show and shut your ignorant cake hole. Look at the name on your ticket stub. Who's playing tonight? Is it "Obnoxious Douchebag" or "Fat Cunt"? Nope, they were here last week. And the week before that. Infinity plus one.

    More clubs need to "train" their audiences. You get one warning. If it happens again, you're out. It eventually weeds out these oblivious shit-stains...

    "But we were just laughing!" Really? Then how come the bouncer hasn't had to talk to everyone else who's laughing? Some clubs are afraid to throw out the jackasses, for fear of losing their business. What about the 100 or so well-behaved people who will never come back? Why should they?

    "Say sumptin' funny and thin I'll pay attention." You've got that backwards, sweet-tits. First, you pay attention, then you'll hear something funny. The reason I'm "not funny", is because you've been talking through all the set-ups. Still not funny? Then you're right, that is my fault...my jokes are catered to people who've completed high school, and I sincerely apologize. Git-r-done.

    "You guys are 'sposed to be able to handle it." But for how long? I was working with the incredibly adept Jimmy Pardo recently, and he skillfully and hilariously shut down a heckler FIVE times throughout his show. Did she shut up? Of course not. Jimmy got understandably frustrated. After the show, she had the balls to tell Jimmy he shouldn't be doing comedy if he can't handle the crowd. But for how long do the comics have to "handle" your shit-faced, trailer-trash, coked-up outbursts? Apparently, for 90 minutes straight.

    "Dude, man, bro, I'm helping the show." Oh yeah? Do you bring your own food to a restaurant? Your own drum kit to a concert? Yer mom to a brothel? We got it covered, fratboy. Climb back up into your Ford Compensator and hit the titty bar. Don't forget to bring your own stripper.

    "It's my birthday! Wooo!" Ever hear the expression, "Attention Whore"? Well, pay attention, whore...the show is not about you. I know you think it is, and that's precious, but I'm rather certain the other 200 people don't give a shit how old you are. Go to Bennigan's next time. Better yet, casting couch sessions for Girls Gone Wild 12: Egocentric Boogaloo are right around the corner. Get in line. Whore. Wooo!

    [Note: I apologize to the gals if this all smacks of misogyny. I adore women. I love my mother and my two older sisters. But 95% of the time, it's the ladies who can't zip it. Of that 95%, I'd say most are dried-up, tattooed, forty-something "ex-hotties" who never took the time to develop a personality back when their skin was tight and their tits were perky. Reach deep into those leathery saddlebags you call hips and wrangle up some common courtesy.]

    And please, all of you...shut the fuck up.

    enjoy the show,

    (drawing by Toothpaste For Dinner)

    New Cynic's Guide is here!

    Hello friends, fans and light readers...

    They're heeeere...and they're super squishy!

    The expanded edition of A Cynic's Guide to a Rich and Full Life won't hit bookstores until early March...BUT, you can be the first to own one if you order here.

    You're right. That's pretty sweet.

    A big box of wrong.

    We went through two print runs of the original version, and decided to make the third pressing a bit thicker, squishier and...wrongerer. 

    Here's a proper peek at the updated cover:

    It contains 40 extra pages of eloquent filth, which include an additional 120+ hilariously inappropriate tips on how to dampen the days of those near and not so dear.

    At the very least, you get a year's worth of snarky status updates.

    (I also deleted about 30 excerpts so the folks who purchased the first edition don't feel gypped.)

    You can order a copy on Amazon; Barnes & Noble, or from this website when it becomes available...which is now!

    And if you purchase it here, I will sign it and give you a shiny, silver, laptop sticker. Same goes if you get one from me after a show. Check my calendar for dates.

    My publisher is also working on an e-version of the book. Can't wait for that.

    Hoo-ray, I say.


    Online Dating. It's All About the Pics.

    Every few years, I get lonely.

    Not the brand of lonely that's easily remedied by close friends, career, or the occasional hook-up. I become immune to those instant elixirs and get temporarily drunk on the idea-slash-delusion of meeting the mythical one.

    The kind of lonely that makes you do passive-aggressive crap like Create Your Online Profile Today! It's Fast! It's Free! It's Fruitless!

    What could be easier, right? It's a lot less humiliating than trying to meet someone at a bar or an orgy, right?


    Nope. At least in person I get instant feedback and a legitimate opportunity to win them over. Most women on the interweb don't give me that chance.

    The insecurity begins after the first girl doesn't return my e-mail...which is the equivalent of initiating a handshake while they just stare at you smugly. "I SAID, it's nice to MEET you. Bitch."

    I fear that it all comes down to the photos. While I'm quite aware of my limited appeal, I am not an un-handsome man. But online dating makes me feel downright hideous.

    I'm realistic, too. I punch my own weight. I don't bother with conventionally "hot" girls. Hot girls are fucking boring...and boring fucks. Congratulations, you were born attractive...don't be a cunt about it. You know what's worse than getting a shit-ton of attention? Getting ignored.

    Oops. That slipped out.

    That's another thing. I hate how online dating brings out the sour grapes teenager in me. I hate being misunderstood. I hate feeling the need to write a profile laced with justifications. "No, really, girls...I date attractive, amazing women...I swears! I'm here 'cos I'm lazy, not desperate! Whatever you're thinking, you're wrong! I am indeed in your league, I just look terrible in the uniform!"

    It's not desperation, it's raw, head-shaking frustration.

    Of the tens of thousands of Women Online Now!, I usually end up e-mailing only a handful of quirky, like-minded cuties. Most of whom would likely take a chance on me if we were lab partners or buddy cops. That's how it happens: attractive women only find me attractive after they get to know me.*

    While I realize this about myself, I conveniently jettison this knowledge and hope that maybe this time will be different.

    But it never is. In fact, my online-dating experiences are nearly mechanical:

    -I join.
    -I browse.
    -Basic search.
    -Advanced search.
    -Increase distance from 10 to 50 miles.
    -Write a brief hello to a few women.
    -Add another photo.
    -Tweak profile.
    -Remove a photo.
    -Mentally punch hole in wall.
    -Delete account and promise myself never again.

    And yet, here I go. Another service. Another profile. Another attempt at crafting the correct recipe of wit and sincerity to lure in equally scene-weary women.

    I read and re-read it. I have female friends peruse and proofread it. But the string of non-responses have already begun. It all reminds me of a painfully accurate anecdote:

    Did you hear about the guy who searched his entire life for that perfect woman, and finally found her? He rushed over, elated and excited. He promptly returned with his head hung low, shoulders slumped and said: "Turns out she's waiting for the perfect guy."


    So ok, Cupid, I'm giving you one more shot. Please use the crossbow. And when you pull an arrow from your quiver, dip the business end in Rohypnol.


    *Note: I know the pendulum swings both ways, but this is merely my own, personal slant.

    I Got a Word in the Dictionary...

    ...the Urban Dictionary. But it's still pretty cool.

    Click for the full definition of my submission: Hipocracy.

    What's really cool, however, is while someone beat me to the punch, UD moved my version to the #1 spot.

    It's a genuine honor to be sandwiched in between historic entries like Gate Rape and Izzle.


    Ore-gone. Not forgotten.

    I like puns. F**k off.

    I also enjoy mispronouncing Oregon.

    My five weeks in Portland were nothing shy of delightful. The drive down the coast was therapeutic and humbling. My brief stint in L.A. was productive and, dare I say, inspiring.

    Back in Austin for two days and I'm already boring my friends with tales from beyond the borders of Travis County. And for the first time in over 10 years, I feel like I'm done with Texas.


    Inside The Brody Theatre...an awesomely intimate room for comedy in Portland, OR.

    If I'm honest with myself--which happens less often than it should--my stay in PDX was fulfilling because I was doing things like...doing things. I was making an effort to live and have fun. Remember fun? It's a faint memory, but it's like riding a bike. Best part? Letting go of the handle bars now and again.

    I know how cheesy that sounds, but I'm Mario, have we had the pleasure?

    I've also learned that those who say you can't escape yourself or solve your problems by running away have done little to no traveling. Worse yet: little to no paying attention.

    You learn exactly shit by staying put. I think Emily Dickinson said that.

    One more reason to relocate...
    Yup. That's a Maple Bar w/ Bacon. Don't vomit 'til you try it. That little one is topped with Tang. Right above? Mango jelly-filled. Sugar high meets food buzz.

    So, will Bat City be losing this witty wop to the land of skinny jeans and Subarus? Eventually.

    While living in NYC for three years made me appreciate living in Austin, spending time in Portland has made me appreciate the benefits of leaving it.

    1 Pseudo biker bar + 4 Unknown comics = 2 Audience members.
    Inside Fresh Pot's wash room. Yes and Yes, I say.

    There's something to be said about a crisp start in a new city...and here it is: while I'm not sure how to make things work if I left--condo, career, t-shirts--I cannot deny the fact that I was just as clueless when I first moved here with no condo, no career and no t-shirt business.

    Being naive and impetuous yielded results I had never predicted or imagined before I packed up the van.

    It's true...this big sign was made in Oregon.

    This good-bye of sorts is at least six months ahead of schedule, perhaps even a year, but I've already flipped over the hourglass, one might say.

    Not this one, but some one.

    Inside The Kennedy School in PDX...an old grade school with rooms converted into pubs, hotel suites and a brewery. This was outside a tiny bar called Detention.
    Just like with regular detention, I'm gonna need a ride home.
    An old-school mini bar. Heh.
    Portland is teeming with friendly faces like this adorable mug. And a damn fine Scrabble partner to boot.
    Forget it, Portland...it's (not even close to) Chinatown!

    If I think about leaving behind my established group of passionate pals, cohorts, cronies and connections, it's enough to give me pause. It's a stiff price to pay.

    The only solace is the thrill of both new and existing friendships that await me in Portland. 

    30 days of inside jokes with my dear friend, Kimm. Met in 1991. Lost touch. Got back in touch. Will keep in touch. And Greg: there was never any actual touching.

    If my face looks odd or slightly unrecognizable in the above pic, it's because I'm content. It's the same face I wore when I discovered Austin for the first (and second) time.

    Again, it won't be for a while, and I'll miss it here, but I gots to follow that face.


    Next Stop: Cheesus Camp!

    Adults with braces need not eat in front of me.

    My PDX pal, Kimm, and I wolfed down some gourmet grilled cheesy goodness at my new favorite guilty pleasure food cart...

    Love that logo.

    Food bus, rather...green vinyl seats and all.

    Grade-school yearbook photos under glass table tops. Amazingly absurd artwork above you. And the most delicious, buttery, crispy-cornered sandwiches I've had since I was 12. Just like every Thursday in middle school.

    We picked a cozy table over the wheel well.

    Kimm...longing for an emergency exit.

    For the sake of nostalgia, I had Kimm huck a spitball at me, shortly followed by an atomic wedgie. Then I got nauseous and threw up.

    I will be back. Several times.

    Check out their website and menu here. Today I had the one with roasted jalapenos, colby jack, cream cheese and tortilla chips on grilled white. Then we shared "The Jaime." Go look. Hoooly shit.

    I'm developing a sweet and savory crush on you, Portland.....xomario

    (PS)...Upon my second visit, the gal behind the counter remembered my "name"...Jack.

    Damn right.

    Aww, kids. Just before they learn to be douche bags.
    I was scolded by the cook for sticking my hand out the window.
    The entire ceiling of the bus was tattooed with sinister art like this. Like a vaguely deviant Sistine Chapel.

    Tell me it's a horrible coincidence that the back of the bus is closer to Rosa Parks Way than the front.

    A toast...to boobs!

    I call this one: "The Field Trip."
    His mouth looks like a blue papaya. Or Smurfette's toothy vagina.

    Mario not Mario

    I hate waiting for that penny...when I order coffee or something where tip jars exist, and my change is one penny.

    It's no-win.

    If I walk away: "Thanks for the tip, you cheap bastard."

    If I wait: "Oh, here's your change, you cheap bastard."

    The funny thing is, a one-cent tip just about covers the effort of handing me a self-serve coffee cup.

    But that's another blog.

    I'm also finished with giving my real name to coffee shop cashiers.

    For those unfamiliar, I've always pronounced it: "Marry-oh."  It's an An-drea/Ahhn-drea sorta thing. Strictly preference. But apparently, once I leave the northeast region, I'm saying my own name incorrectly.

    When I say "Marry-oh," baristas cock their heads like dogs at a Sonic Youth show.


    I shit you not. I thought, really? BARRY-O topped the list on your mental quick-correct? Let's try again.


    -How do you spell that?


    -Ohh, Mahh-rio.

    Sure. My mistake.

    One time, after going through this at the register, the girl making my coffee held up a cup and shouted: "I have a tall Americano in the window for MARIA!"

    I just smiled and said: "MARRY-oh."

    She replied: "Oh, I'm fine, how are YOU?"


    So now I'm Jack. You can't fuck up "Jack." Right?

    That's what I thought until I used it recently: "I have a tall Americano in the window for JEFF."


    PDX Minutiae

    If this car could pat itself on the back, it probably would.

    A common sight in Portland. Vintage puddles.

    Even the dead presidents in PDX wear thick hipster frames.

    The weird thing is, my friend's cat just crapped out some mediocre street art.

    Okay, NOW which way should I go...?
    "Go west, young man...but first, pull my finger. Young man."