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So blame Mickey. He put it in my head that the Hefner Monologues are not unlike David Sedaris' essays, and that has led to the conclusion that I should write these down as a whole book of stories and essays. Tammy, Misty, my grandfather and my obese grandmother, traffic court, the Emm Gryner concert, all the classics. So what am I doing at this late hour? Writing the damn thing.
I used to wonder if the stories would be better done as a one-man-show, a comic, a movie, or a book. Well son of a bitch, looks like I'll do 'em all and see, won't I? Thing is, I realize that in each of the very different forms of art, you lose something and you gain something. On the plus side, it'll take a lot less time to write this than it would to write a fiction novel, since there won't be any of that pesky plotting to worry about. So maybe it's horribly masturbatory and narcissistic to be desecrating four different forms of art with different versions of my life story and amusing humilations, but hey, if I've got something good here, then why shouldn't I? Um. That is, if I do have something good here.
I bloody hell hope people actually like these things. I mean, people who don't know who I am. Every comedian knows it's one thing to tell a joke to your friends at a bar, but something else entirely to do it in front of a room of strangers. Drunk strangers, with opinions and... and pointy things.
My butt is throbbing. I think that's a sign that I seriously need to go to bed. No! Resist! Grrr! Have... to write...! Finish... story...! Must... describe... Misty's boobs...! Oh screw it, I quit. I'll procrastinate later.
I used to wonder if the stories would be better done as a one-man-show, a comic, a movie, or a book. Well son of a bitch, looks like I'll do 'em all and see, won't I? Thing is, I realize that in each of the very different forms of art, you lose something and you gain something. On the plus side, it'll take a lot less time to write this than it would to write a fiction novel, since there won't be any of that pesky plotting to worry about. So maybe it's horribly masturbatory and narcissistic to be desecrating four different forms of art with different versions of my life story and amusing humilations, but hey, if I've got something good here, then why shouldn't I? Um. That is, if I do have something good here.
I bloody hell hope people actually like these things. I mean, people who don't know who I am. Every comedian knows it's one thing to tell a joke to your friends at a bar, but something else entirely to do it in front of a room of strangers. Drunk strangers, with opinions and... and pointy things.
My butt is throbbing. I think that's a sign that I seriously need to go to bed. No! Resist! Grrr! Have... to write...! Finish... story...! Must... describe... Misty's boobs...! Oh screw it, I quit. I'll procrastinate later.
