“Goodbye Forever Fatty” number 6. on iTunes Comedy Albums chart
July 19th, 2009
It’s official. “Goodbye Forever Fatty” is an international hit, appearing this week at number six on the iTunes Comedy Albums chart in Portugal. (See for yourself! http://www.apple.com/euro/itunes/charts/top10comedyalbums.html).
Thanks to the Portuguese Pat Dixon fans for pushing me one slot above Dane Cook this week! Stay tuned for live dates in and around Portugal.
Tags: Goodbye Forever Fatty, holy shit, iTunes, Pat Dixon, Portugal
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“Goodbye Forever Fatty” number 6. on iTunes Comedy Albums chart
July 19th, 2009
It’s official. “Goodbye Forever Fatty” is an international hit, appearing this week at number six on the iTunes Comedy Albums chart in Portugal. (See for yourself! http://www.apple.com/euro/itunes/charts/top10comedyalbums.html).
Thanks to the Portuguese Pat Dixon fans for pushing me one slot above Dane Cook this week! Stay tuned for live dates in and around Portugal.
Tags: Goodbye Forever Fatty, holy shit, iTunes, Pat Dixon, Portugal
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KATG Chili Cook-off
July 19th, 2009
The KATG Chili Cook-off was held last night on a roof in Brooklyn.
Some of you may know I entered the KATG Burger Cook-off a couple of weeks ago, and maybe you also know that my burger was generally well-received. In terms of scoring, my burger placed second to a burger that was disguised as a sausage and egg sandwich.
So when I heard about chili day I was pretty excited and planned on entering, but I ended up spending most of my day in Jersey, soothing a friend who has a rogue mouse in her apartment. I say “rogue” because he’s not playing by the rules. When you put out a trap, they’re supposed to turn up dead within a couple of days. Not this mouse.
Anyway, I made it on time but without chili. On the way over to Bray’s apartment I picked up two bags of Utz chips, two bags of doughnuts (one powdered, one chocolate), a box of sundae cones, two Jarrito’s sodas, two glass bottles of Coke and one tall can of Arizona Watermelon Juice Drink. It felt like a ghetto kind of day. Patrice noted the watermelon drink and claimed she’d never tasted Kool-Aid, fried chicken or watermelon before the age of 26. Her parents had forbidden the consumption of these things because they wanted to avoid stereotypes or something. That seems like a lot to give up!
When chili judge Ray Devito did not arrive, I was delighted to be asked to step in. I’m an excellent judge of chili. I’m an excellent judge of everything, actually. Particularly comedy. I can spot bad comedy from a hundred million miles away. I look in any direction, and I know bad comedy is happening there, somewhere. Sure, in comedy clubs and on Tv. But my whole life, people have been making bad jokes in conversation, at parties, etc. This world is ruled by violence. And it’s filled with awful comedy. Pathetic attempts to say something funny. Jokes that miss the mark. You’ve seen it, you know what I’m talking about. I’m talking DIRECTLY TO YOU.
The view on the roof reminded us all that we’re ungrateful, etc.
There were five entries. First was our host, Mathew Bray. I’ll tell you, this chili was something else. It had no beans. It had steak in it, big chunks of meat. It did look like dog food. But when I eat chili, I sort of like being reduced to some kind of four-legged, canine dream state in which I can roll around on the floor scratching myself and licking my balls and, of course, eating delicious meat and sauce.
The second entry was Lauren’s. Lauren is physically strong and her chili was, like her, strong. This chili was all about bold choices. It had coconut in it and lots of cinnamon. Meat, beans, you get the idea, but some strong flava. If this chili was a person, it would be wearing a tank-top with a middle finger on it with the words “Sit & Spin” in bold lettering.
The third chili was intern Mike. He’s known for being weird about these things, like making too big a deal out of it or something. This chili reflected that tendency. He chopped up five different peppers. He used the word “julienne.” This chili tasted immature, like it was a 20-year-old who just started smoking. Impudent, but difficult not to like. I enjoyed it. It was like eating a bowl of salsa, but browner, warmer and meatier.
Number four chili was Chemda chili. And from the start, we all knew it was Chemdatime. We were treated to a song and dance and then this chili with a most interesting appearance. It had corn. Which gave it color. And again the chili was consistent with the personality. It had an exotic look, but on tasting was most pleasant and tame. And when you added the condiments, cheese, onions, sour cream, it was clear that this chili interacted best with others. A good chili to eat two or three bowls of.
Number five. I didn’t know this asshole vegetarian who showed up with this asshole vegetarian chili. The other judges, Adam and Keith, enjoyed this bowl of slop that this organic gardener was passing off as chili. The kept using the word “fresh.” I’m not a fan of freshness and I made that abundantly clear. It had avocado. So put the word “California” in the title and I’ll know to avoid it. This is the kind of guy who comes off all peaceful with his pussy meatless chili, then after a few drinks was giving the bird to each of the other contestants, then in general to the whole party. He dumped a load of sour cream on top of his chili (that’s right, he dumped a load of it on the chili) then stuck a few sprigs of fresh cilantro in it for garnish. How is a man like that even allowed to interact with polite society. This guy can take his chili and go fuck himself. Lowest score of the day. Jeremy burned his chili and couldn’t enter. I still rate his chili higher than Veggie Boy.
Oh, did I mention he had a little beard and little round glasses? I mean, doesn’t that just finish off the whole “fuck him” kind of feeling you were already having?
Winner? Lauren. We put our heads together and she was the best choice.
All the chili’s were excellent (except, you know) and I was very happy to enjoy a slice of Mike’s homemade apple pie. Maybe the best I’ve ever had.
The sun went down and when I left to do comedy, the fun was just starting.
Thanks to Keith, Chemda, Matt Bray, the contestants and all involved who made the event so fun and delicious.
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“Biches Be Stoopid (DAAMN!!)” Returns Oct. 4
July 17th, 2009
I’ll be doing my one-man show “Biches Be Stoopid (DAAMN!!)” again Oct. 4 at the Broadway Comedy Club.
The show is an honest and humorous look at my life and addictions with a focus on the various women in my life who have helped make it all so wonderful.
I wrote the show this year and first performed it at The PIT in May to rave reviews.
The new version will be a little longer, with a little more information and some changes based on good suggestions I’ve gotten from various sources. I’m excited about performing it again. Hope you can make it.
Haven’t set ticket prices yet or showtime. Stay tuned.
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Hello
July 15th, 2009
Thanks to all the people who showed up in Chattanooga. We’ve added a new date already and I’ll be back Sept. 24-26. Five shows, see you there.
My Florida vacation is over and I’m back in New York. I’ve looked forward to getting back, but I also hated to leave Lake Tarpon. We had a very relaxing time there on the beach and at Adventureland (which certainly lived up to it’s name!).
I’ll be appearing live in August at Crackers Downtown in Indianapolis and I hope to see a lot of Bob and Tom fans there. My next review will be next Tuesday, listen if you can. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be talking about the one with the wizard.
I’m almost in the mood to actually SEE a movie. What’s wrong with me.
Hope you’re well, best, and hope to see you soon.
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June 15th, 2009
It’s 10 am in Aspen. According to the view out the window in the “breakfast lounge” it is a beautiful day. Near mountains are green. Lush. Far away I see snow-covered tops.
Even though it’s about 58ยบ outside, a man and his daughter are in the pool. I overheard 4 seconds of their conversation. It was just enough to hear the sounds of their voices, but even that was depressing somehow. I don’t blame them, they don’t know any better. But I wish people could be a little more considerate.
They have a waffle maker! And it was still early enough. So you can imagine what happened next. I poured the batter in the waffle iron and it beeped and I gathered my utensils and juice and a napkin.
A woman in a black dress sat by the window looking at some kind of local publication. There was some kind of tension between us. When I’ve been single, I’ve often noticed women will refuse to acknowledge the obvious sexual tension that exists between them and me. When we notice each other noticing each other, it creates a secret bond that is both immediate and unbreakable. Our psyches are instantly connected on a sexual level. Most women will pretend they don’t know what’s happening. “Wha? Huh?” Right. We both know better. Your place or mine. How about mine. I’ve got a third of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s for after.
This is the dance of love. I’ve danced it many times. I’ve danced it until my feet ached from the dance, until I’ve had to take my shoes off and rub them with my thumb. I’ve danced into the center of circles I had no business, then made a fool of myself by doing very similar steps to the guy who just danced into the circle to the great approval of the ring. I’ve danced it awkwardly at times, putting my fists out then pulling them back in to accompany my pelvic thrusts. I’ve danced it like it was my last dance. I’ve finally danced it successfully by pretending in my mind that I was making fun of the dance. Even in dancing, everything I do is dripping with irony. I’m caged by my sarcasm, by my mocking intonations, by my left eyebrow which is too high (cocked, you might say) and gives me a mask of insincerity which I can’t take off except with great effort.
Black dress lady turns to me: Do you know the area code here?
Actually, no, I don’t. I can tell by her expression that she thinks I’m mocking her in some way. Just then my waffle dings and the moment is gone.
Back in my room I turn the Tv on and it’s the station that tells me all the things to do in Aspen. All about the museum, the fishing, the hiking trails. Sun beats down on the rugged faces of the sportsmen and their stoic wives in their visors. They bait hooks, pull fish out of the water with their nets. I’m full of a waffle watching this. Do I want to fish? There’s a coffee maker in my room. So factor that in.
I’ve got this hot cup of coffee that is just hitting me right and the sounds of Eddie Harris are whispering in my ears, meeting all the way in the middle of my brain this morning. A song called “Listen Here.” It’s this low groove and it was made for me, or maybe a slightly cooler version of me that I’d like to become. I’ve got maybe 40 years left, if things go pretty well. Whether I like it or not, my current view seems to be that I’m racing the clock to some realization that will simplify all my decisions and help me understand how not to interpret every stray event as a personal attack. Ideally, I’d like to get there before I’m bald or weak.
Now they’re talking about the restaurants in Aspen. The sound is muted, I’m listening now to Lou Donaldson, an organ-heavy version of “Who’s Making Love” bounds cheerfully up to me, taps me on the shoulder and, when I turn around, has moved out of my view to stand in front of me. When I turn back and wag my finger at it, it breaks into a silly, smiling dance, inviting me to join it. No can do, “Who’s Making Love.” Not today.
But I am glad for the music. It plays over scenes of white table cloths, smiling patrons, close ups of champagne pouring, a guy in a white smock gently arranging pieces of tuna in a little pile on a plate that’s way larger than necessary to hold this trifling amount of fish. A bald guy in a purple shirt and his wife have these expressions on their faces that indicate that they’ve conquered the world together and now they have enough money to eat little piles of tuna and drink expensive wine. It’s a steely look, engaged and friendly yet detached and mercenary. A little salmon cake sits in a puddle of something yellow with red spots. Raw beef is surrounded by large green peas of some sort. Some scallops. We pan the menu. Things at this place are served with glazes. They are encrusted. This will cost you. The encrusting process must be a delicate one. This guy in the purple shirt has the identical expression with his wife. They are proud of their accomplishments. I can see by their expression that they went to college (pledged) and when they came out had not a lot of direction then they got into some kind of business that was unexpected and kind of risky, the risk paid off, you get the idea. Now in exchange for their wealth, they are doomed to wear the whole experience on their faces in those self-satisfied “We’ve arrived!” expressions. They found each other!
Aspen is beautiful to look at. People here are characters and it’s sickening. Rich people who care or something. A guy owns a little cafe where everything costs too much. When you come in you have to track him down and tell him you’re there or you can’t get a table. He is a control freak kind of guy who has the audacity to get firm with customers over things like extra chairs or whatever. A guy sits and talks to himself, he has a beard. People here are embarrassed by racial humor because there are no blacks. They don’t want to hear it. Don’t speak to us of these things. But the scenery. I love the scenery.
This room was paid for by the festival and I’ve got it until morning. Flying out first thing for Omaha where I’ll get a ride eventually to Norfolk for the Great American Comedy Festival.
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May 7 “Hey, Joanna, your old shit says ‘hi’”
May 7th, 2009
I moved into this apartment three years ago. It’s a really small place in Chelsea. The ceiling slopes down, which kind of closes up the room a little, but there’s a skylight which balances it out a little.
Lots of natural light here.
I’ve never seen a single cockroach here.
My tub has to get really dirty before I clean it. I associate a clean bathroom with adulthood. You know, fuck it. The tub. The toilet, the sink. I can put off mopping the floor. The dishes. The laundry. I’ve got all this natural light, you see.
I bought this woman’s possessions when I moved in. Her things became my things and I think the memory of her has finally left them. Her eating utensils no longer recall her delicate touch and the cut-up fruit and salads she favored. They’ve been scooping up big spoonfuls of cereal and twirling spaghetti and spreading peanut butter for so long now, it seems like all they’ve ever done. Her tumblers have all been broken, likewise the coffee cups, chipped, done. The dishes have forgotten the yellow gloves she used to wear while washing them down in hot, soapy water. They’ve fully adjusted to the rinse and scrape of the current regime, the quick-dry they get on the bath towel.
And the blender. It’s a shame about the blender. He sits there in the corner, under the sink. Just stares into the darkness. Catatonia. Life is like that. One summer you’re mixing Margaritas, the sweat is pouring down your sides and occasionally you’re up way too late, but you don’t care. You’re alive. Winter comes. You go under the sink. The end.
This desk was hers, the chair too. It’s the cheapest kind of generic folding chair, the kind you’d see at an AA meeting or a kiddie table at Thanksgiving.
I bought her futon. God knows what happened on it. I think the futon has a longer memory than the dishes. I tend to think if the futon could talk, it would have some stories. If the dishes could talk…well, the dishes can’t talk.
Here’s the thing about the futon, I’m just not ever going to wash that damn cover ever again. It’s stained, it’s disgusting. Until it starts to smell, I’m willing to overlook all that. Here’s how I know I don’t give a fuck. If the most important person I know came over, I’d be fine with saying “This is my futon. Isn’t it fucking gross.”
And who is the most important person I know?
In an apartment this size, you have very little margin for clutter. When the fifth thing is out of place, you have chaos. My possessions are not in charge here, but they are my lieutenants. I give them a certain amount of leeway in deciding how things are run. I delegate. My ironing board, for instance. Sometimes I look at it and think (just think, mind you) that I should fold it up and put it in the bathroom closet. The ironing board says “Hold on. Look, I’m holding a lot of stuff here. I’ve got the shit you intend to iron, I’ve got some books, this set-list, your Netflix, all this” and I don’t have to go with it, but generally I do. It’s set itself up as kind of a catch-all there, and I know what’s going on, I’m not stupid. But I admire the ambition even if I don’t completely approve of the methodology.
I respect the ambition, like I say. Unlike the tv tray. The tv tray. What a failure in life this tv tray is. Sits under the ladder to the loft, gathers dust. I’ll have some food delivered and think of using it, but there it is looking up at me like “Right. I’m a little dusty. You want to clean me up, be my guest. I’m just…really kind of comfortable here, but, whatever, you know, yeah. I’m mean, I’ll do it or whatever, but you know…if you want me, I’ll just….”
And of course by then I’m like “Hey, man, forget it.” I just use the bag the food came in. Chinese food, man. Brown sauce. Plus soy. The futon can’t talk, but it would be saying some bad shit about the tv tray too. The tv tray is basically considered to be kind of an asshole. Or not an asshole, just kind of useless. I mean, he’s a cool guy, but you know.
The ironing board is actually one of the few things here of any size that didn’t come from the British girl who lived here before. Did I mention she was British? She was British. I spent some time with her. The ironing board I found on the street. I wonder if there’s some age you reach when you stop looking at things on the street and saying “hey!” This ironing board was right on 53rd St. I took it home in cab. I think that might be why it’s so ambitious, so hardworking. I kind of saved it from the garbage truck. It was only a few hours away from going to the dump. I bring it here, give it a nice home. It’s natural that it would go the extra mile.
The British girl. I’ll say this for her, she sold me a nice fan. It’s an oscillating deal, all stainless steal, just solid. I’ve always admired it. This fan, during the summer, this fan does 50 push-ups every morning. Up before dawn. It’ll turn and turn, it paces like a sentry all night, every night for weeks at a time.
This building was built about a hundred years ago, I was told. It used to be something called an SRO (single room occupancy) which means it housed a lot of transients over the years. Drunks stumbled up the four flights. Then down. People stayed here, just temporary.
And I’ve been here for three years. This mattress. Holy shit. Unreal.
And I’ve got a blender if anybody wants one.
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April 29
April 29th, 2009
In 1998, I was living with my girlfriend (who would eventually become my second ex-wife) in Marietta, GA. We had this apartment on the second floor. Boring place. Light brown carpet, white walls, closet doors with slats. We kept meaning to get some bar stools for the counter; never got around to it.
Wait, go back to 1982. I’m in my den watching a special on HBO called “When the Music’s Over.” It was a documentary about cool rock stars who died young and one of them, as the title suggests, was Morrison. That was my entry point for getting into The Doors.
The first record I got was “Greatest Hits.” It was new at the time and it had this cool red and white cover. It was the first of many Doors compilations I’d buy and it all the usual suspects, your “Break on Throughs” and your “L.A. Womans” and your “Roadhouse Blueses.” I listened to that record 2,561 times over the course of the next couple of years.
My aunt was thrilled that I was interested in “her” music. My aunt is a really nice lady. I love her dearly. I do, however, question her ownership of the music that I grew to love during my early teens. She never got into it to the degree that I did. She seems strangely oblivious to even the most basic musical facts. She’s one of these people who’ll say “I LOVE Bob Dylan” but can’t name five Bob Dylan songs. You could almost just say random word combinations and hit five Bob Dyan titles, but I don’t think she could do it. And she “LOVES Bob Dylan,” right?
She did have an original print of “Highway 61 Revisited” which she laid on me. This record I listened to quite a bit as well. I liked the more obnoxious tunes on it, of course. That’s a pretty great album for a kid in his early teens who’s just getting shitty. I loved it.
There was a radio show on the college station that played stuff you didn’t normally hear on the radio. It was called Unradio and it was on Saturday night from 11-2. I taped songs off that show regularly on my dual-cassette boom box. I got some great stuff. The best method was to press “REC” at the beginning of every song; then if it sucked you could just stop after the intro or rewind and tape over the whole deal.
One night I heard this great jangly blues intro with a simple and clear guitar ringing about the noise. Dylan starts singing. It was one of the Dylan songs I hadn’t heard (one that wasn’t on Hwy 61). I couldn’t understand what he was talking about. “Bob Dylan from ‘Blond on Blond.’” That was the only explanation. The song turned out to be something called “Leopardskin Pillbox Hat.”
The first Bob Dylan album I bought was “Infidels” which was released in October of 1983. I don’t remember the exact chronology of what I heard first and all that. But this is the first one I went to the store and bought. A great, big beautiful album. I had a choice between the Dylan record or Rod Stewart’s “Camouflage” album (Give me a break, I was 13 years old). The guy in the record store steered me towards the Dylan. “In 25 years you’ll be able to say you’ve got an original print Dylan album.”
Okay, so it’s about 25 years later. Julie Farmer has my damn record now. I actually doubt she has it now, but she had it last. I’ll never see it again.
And “Infidels” holds up. It’s got some really, really great songs. More than meets the eye on some of those, which is the Dylan thing, of course. “Jokerman” is stone classic. “Sweetheart Like You” is a personal favorite. Mick Taylor plays guitar on this record. I still feel good about the $7.99 I spent on it, even though I don’t have it anymore in that form.
So I was a Dylan fan from that time. Call it 1984. Let’s say it started then.
I tuned out in the late 80’s and early 90’s. Why? Well. There was “Dylan and the Dead.” And nothing grabbed me at that time. Plus I was kind of a shithead. But when I look at what he was putting out during that era, I’m only willing to take half the blame. But I will take a full half.
So in 1998, my girlfriend, out of loyalty (this was one of her many wonderful qualities) she goes out and buys the new Bob Dylan album. He’d been sick, some kind of heart infection. I’ve never heard of that. But it’s fucking poetic. A heart infection. Wow.
The first song on “Time Out of Mind” is called “Love Sick.” We open on some random-sounding notes, followed by a light, almost accidental sounding meep of an organ, and Dylan comes on singing or talking or whispering or growling, depending on who you ask. Telling us he’s sick of love, talking about seeing silhouettes in the window, silence that seems like thunder, a sky that’s weeping, quiet distrust, hearing a clock tick. His heart was infected, you see.
That album doesn’t have a superfluous word or note. I listened to it about 2,541 times. Dylan! He was back.
“Love and Theft” came out Sept. 11, 2001. And somehow, it sounded like it was written with the post-9/11 mindset. Somehow. It was like he was going there anyway. I don’t have time to get into how incredible this album is.
Likewise with “Modern Times.” It’s just great. Songs like “Working Man’s Blues” and “Nettie Moore” have this otherworldly quality. Not a bad song.
So about the new album “Together Through Life.” Maybe I’m spoiled.
But here are some facts.
There’s an awful lot of accordion on it.
“My Wife’s Home Town” is a note-for-note ripoff of “I Just Want to Make Love to You” (Muddy Waters’ version).
On “Jolene” Dylan sounds tired, like he’s having trouble keeping up with the moderate pace of the tune, which, incidentally sounds like nothing so much as a Casio keyboard demo, setting “blues rock.”
I’m reserving judgment. Normally on a Bob Dylan album the lyrics come zinging out at you like throwing stars in the first couple of listens and then continue to do so over repeated listens until you know pretty much every word. But it’s not like that so far on “Together Through Life.”
Hey, uh. Here’s the upside. A lot of it sounds really cool, like an old blues album. I read one interview where the author compared the sound to the old Chess albums from the 50’s and I won’t argue with that.
But here’s the thing. I love blues. I love Bob Dylan and I’ve loved most of what I heard from the Chess label of that time. And I don’t really love this album.
I still have hope. Who knows? Maybe I’m just missing it. It’s happened before.
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April 24th, 2009
Hello, and welcome to Pat Dixon’s website. I’m Pat Dixon.
I’m glad you’re here.
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