Standup Snippet: New Condos

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Standup comedy from Jason Love

I've been looking at new condos ... Is it just me, or are these things getting closer and closer together? Seriously, in California when we say we've got a yard, we mean it literally: three feet. That's all we get.

I was in a duplex, which is where the houses share a common wall, and the agent says, "It's only 600,000." I'm like, "Dollars?! And how much for a house where I don't hear the neighbors peeing?"

KTVA Podcast

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Here is a recent radio interview with the illustrious Kelli McKay at KTVA...

Podcast of recent KTVA radio interview with Jason Love

Real Life Snapshot: Steering Wheel Condom

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skydiving.gifI'm not the brightest dude in the shed. When my parents asked what I wanted to be when I grow up, I said a horse. As a teenager, I thought that air kept the bread fresh, so I'd blow into the bag before putting it away.

Still, I knew enough to stay inside an airplane when it's flying at 13,000 feet. Only one thing could change my mind: a merciless triple dog dare by my friend Anthony.

At Taft Skydive, it was literally raining men. They reminded me of the G.I. Marine Force Paratrooper that I owned as a kid. His chute would open about half the time, a percentage that seemed suddenly unacceptable.

In the hangar I met my tandem partner, Voodoo, who only happens to be the adult film star Voodoo Child. His wife Nicole -- six feet tall, mostly legs -- also freefalls from airplanes. Now you know what porn stars do in the daytime.

Outside his tribal earrings and rockabilly sideburns, Voodoo could have been your neighbor. I mean, you wouldn't leave your wife with him, but you could trust him on your back. I mean --

"When I go up on my own," he said, "I get a little crazy. But with students, it's always by the book."

I make cheeky innuendo because I'm immature like that, but Voodoo was the best jump partner you could ever want ... if you know what I mean.

While I was suiting up, someone in the sky experienced a "malfunction," which called everyone to the tarmac. The jumper had cut away his primary chute and, proving himself to be clinically insane, tried to catch up with it like James Bond. Finally he gave up and decided to try the reserve chute, his only remaining connection to this whole life thing.

Fortunately it worked, so we put away the giant spatula.

"It happens every few weeks," said Voodoo. "That guy packed his own bag, so there won't be a confrontation."

Immediately, I wanted to meet my own packer, Saul.

"So, uh, you're on good terms with Voodoo, right?"

Saul laughed and kept stuffing a backpack much like the ones you receive on fan night at Dodger Stadium.

"And you've never lost anyone to the best of your knowledge?"

Saul shook his head.

"Then I'll consider you the Qantas of parachute packing. Please accept this generous tip."

Group Eight returned buzzing from a jump. Guys wore their hair long and said things like "no worries" and "it's all good." It was like a keg party with a purpose.

"These guys come back every weekend," said Voodoo. "They're junkies like Jester."

Voodoo ... Jester ... All we needed was Ice Man and Maverick.

Jester, on cue, ran by eating a chicken wing, his pony tail clumped into sections with colored rubber bands. He sucker-punched everyone he met and looked at you with those crazy Cheshire Cat eyes. You adored him at once.

"You get like this after 20,000 jumps," he said, sipping his coffee.

"Any final words before I go up?" I asked.

"Yeah," said Jester. "Hold on to your boys. Now let's get up there and find out why the birds sing. Woooo!"

In the belly of the plane, students held hands in a breathing exercise to find their center or conjure the spirit of Elvis. We flew so high that I, in my naive little T-shirt, got an ice cream headache. You'd think that as you approached the sun, it would get warmer. And air should keep the bread fresh! So it goes.

Voodoo sat me in his lap -- don't even go there -- and latched into my four metal loops. I took inventory one last time. Goggles, check. Altimeter, check. Change of underwear, check.

Jester, riding shotgun, poked his head in to say, "Are there any peanuts on this flight?" Then he laughed his head off and crawled back to "first class."

I was just getting comfortable when someone had the gall to open the door. That's when your brain realizes that you're actually going to leave the airplane; it's not a movie. My heart wanted out -- to hell with the triple dog dare. What if I died right there? Would they downgrade my ticket to cargo?

"It's going to be okay," said Voodoo. "Four somersaults and then the swan."

I'm not sure what happened next. It was light, it was dark, it was light, it was dark. I screamed through the freezing air, and it screamed through me.

Jester tapped on my foot, but I was in no mood. It took every ounce of my concentration to not have a heart attack.

"Arch your back!" shouted Voodoo.

My partner pulled the ripcord and Jester spun away beneath us like he had been flushed. And there I hovered in outer-space-like quiet above the birds and traffic and cell phones, a G.I. Marine Force Paratrooper.

Voodoo howled at the world. "Tell me this isn't BLEEPing fantastic!"

We banked left and right like a car speeding into curlycue on-ramps until the ground demanded our attention. Voodoo set us down in three steps, and there was much rejoicing. We gathered the canopy like kids hurrying back to a roller coaster.

"Everything is better after a dive," said Voodoo. "Food, work, sex."

I myself was too high for words, spiritual. If the Native Americans had airplanes, they would have chosen skydiving over the vision quest. You know Geronimo would've been up for it.

On the way home, I didn't talk to Mr. Triple Dog Dare. I just hummed to the radio, basking in the afterglow ... if you know what I mean.

Real Life Snapshot: Gym

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Column: Dominican Republic

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Dominicans and the GringoMy amiga Yahaira wanted to show me her homeland, the Dominican Republic, where 62,000 of her relatives live. We met them all at the airport, a metric ton of strangers hugging me as their own.

The DR comes in two parts: There is Santo Domingo, which rivals the finest capitals in terms of lodging, culture, and streets so clean you could eat off them; then there is the rest of the country, which is like that minus the lodging, the culture, and the streets.

There was no time to sightsee, though, because I was having a near-death experience called Driving in the DR. I'm just saying that the country could benefit greatly from painting lines on the road.

Half the people drive mopeds, which makes gridlock smell like one big lawnmower accident. If you don't have a moped, you are forced to -- enter Psycho music -- take the bus.

For me, buses have always been a novelty, a place you end up after Jaeger Bombs. In the DR, buses are big business. The drivers, who own the buses, don't see space the way we do -- one rump per seat -- but as possibility-per-cubic-inch. Children are placed on laps, parents' and otherwise, and when they run out of seats, you get a folding chair.

To maximize the volume of trips, buses go 100 mph even around corners. Drivers don't stop at intersections but do honk as a professional courtesy. I clawed the stuffing out of my seat trying to keep the bus upright. Honk! Honk!

At Tia's house, a boy hugged my leg and said, "Yayson, how you like ride?"

I unclawed my bags and said, "I don't."

Tia dabbed the mosquito bites on my forehead. I could still hear the clerk at the fishing store: "This here repellant is 28% deet, and no creepy-crawly can stand that kinda deet."

PSA: Island mosquitoes are hip to the whole deet thing. One landed ON MY CAN OF REPELLENT.

Something else I learned in the DR: Just because it's 200 degrees outside doesn't mean it can't rain. The tropical sun visits everyone individually, sitting on their laps at times, but does nothing about the drizzle. Dominicans have learned to live with the humidity, but now and then you'll catch one screaming at the sky just for a minute.

Tia invited us to sleep in her room. "Bueno," she said, opening the door to gale-force winds. Tia's ceiling fan was set on Tornado and could not be turned off. It had been raging like this for months. The base had, in fact, come apart from the ceiling and stayed in place by faith alone. It's not easy falling asleep in a Cuisinart.

At seven a.m. we awoke to a breakfast bonfire. Once that smoke hit the squall in our bedroom, it was like being gassed out by SWAT. We would have woken up anyway on account of the merengue music.

Tia was dance-cooking in her slippers, smiling for no reason at all. Her daughter danced on a chair. Tia caught me staring and asked me to join. I thanked her but no. She seemed okay with that as she grabbed my waist and waltzed me into the living room, where the family took turns teaching the gringo to lighten up.

Next day, Tia sent us by bus -- gulp -- to Gracia's house in el campo, where mangos grow like crazy, through cracks in the street if you're not careful. Children eat them without leaving the trees. Their mothers yell at the kids to come down but don't really mean it. (Have you ever cleaned mango from a child's ear?)

In the jungle, electricity comes and goes. One moment you're dancing full-blast to Fulanito; next moment you're feeling your way back to the candles. Our warmest moments came, in fact, in the dark when we shucked beans with flickering faces.

Water was also hit and miss. I had always taken water for granted, like fresh air or reruns of The Simpsons. In the DR you learn that water is precious, especially when you go to flush the toilet. So it goes.

Some days we bathed in a river replete with shampoo, conditioner, and real-not-rubber duckies. Gracia waded by after the soap.

"You live here often?" I asked.

Gracia put her arm around me and smiled, the most she said all day. Gracia is madrina, or godmother, to 50 children, three of whom live in her home. Her house doubles as a church, where people come to pray without knocking.

On the riverbank, Gracia emptied her hamper: rice and beans, chicken from the coop, creamed corn for dessert. And just when life couldn't get better, she handed me a juice with umbrella on top. Take that, Club Med.

In the DR, you are not allowed to meet people without eating. It's part of the handshake: grip with one hand, munch with the other. Dominicans don't like to hear that you're not hungry. In fact, don't even show up thin.

We gained numbers on the walk home, as Gracia introduced us to everyone she knew, dogs included. Cousin Maria opened her door and said, "Siéntese," which means "sit," or more specifically, "sit and eat." And out came the chicken feet, a delicacy in the DR. If there's one thing I've learned in my travels, it's to stay away from the "delicacies."

It had never occurred to me to eat the knuckles of a bird. Maybe I had never been hungry enough. Children gathered to watch my face, smiling, snapping photos. I'd say that it tasted like chicken, but it was more like gristle or latex or Denny's.

Once we met everyone that Gracia knew, we visited the graveyard to meet everyone she used to know. The tombs looked like dusty chests of drawers, one slot per relative. La Vieja kissed the top drawer and sighed.

I haven't mentioned La Vieja? That's Yahaira's grandma, the cause of all these people. When you meet "The Old One," you bow as you might to Don Corleone and say, "'Cion, Grandmother." Then she gives you benediciones, or blessings.

When I met La Vieja, she grabbed my neck with both hands, scrunched her face into a leathery smile, and recited the Bible from Genesis. Then we sat on the porch and told stories over rice and beans. "Siéntese, siéntese."

Whatever Dominicans lack in fancy cars and iPods, they more than make up for in time. Returning by bus to the airport, I saw men playing dominoes, women laughing by the mailbox, children growing mangos from their ears.

These people had taken me in as their own, no questions asked, and if we had stayed any longer, they would have squeezed me into their chest of drawers.

Which was very much on my mind as I steered the bus with my seat cushion. HONK! HONK!

Standup Snippet: In the Parking Lot

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standup.gifI like hanging out with other comics, because like me, they've got a lot of time to screw around. The other day we were in a parking lot that was totally empty except for one car. That guy happened to come out, and he's goin' through his bags, so we pull up in front of his stall and turn on our signal and wait. For his spot. He makes this sweeping gesture to the rest of the parking lot. We're like, "No, we want that one."

Snapshot: Cat Paws at Computer Keyboard

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Are you sure you want to reformat the hard drive?

Dog Lickers

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Emperor MaximusMy mom is a dog-licker. That's someone who thinks highly enough of her pet to accept French kisses (and we do know where those dog lips have been).

Max is a mini black poodle. Full name: Emperor Maximus. No, really. It's engraved on the doggy bling that Mom creates herself from Swarovski crystal.

Max receives full emperor treatment, too. In the hallway you'll find portraits of him front and center, in the space normally reserved for religious icons.

It's not that my mom worships her dog. Well, yes. It is. It's exactly like that. But people get weird around their pets. A woman once asked if I'd like to see her goldfish, then returned with a laminated carcass.

"Um," I said. "Um."

"The salt preserves him indefinitely," she said.

So yes, when it comes to pet obsession, Mom is off the hook. Ha! Hook. Sigh.

Max weighs five pounds -- half a bowling ball -- but barks like he's been dipped in the river Styx. He chases passers-by with the illusion that somehow, someway, he will finally render them extinct.

Compare to cats, who have no protective instincts at all. You could fall down the stairs and lie unconscious in a heap, and the cat will be playing with your shoestring. So it goes.

Not to "out" him or anything, but Max also pees in a litter box.

"Does his wil' piddle," says Mom.

The pee smells funny because she buys him flavored vitamin mineral water. For an animal that was only moments ago gnawing at his bahookie.

In the living room you'll find a ball that, when you touch it, sounds a recording of Mom's voice: "I love you, Max. I'll be home soooon."

When you suggest that she's overdoing it, Mom does both voices.

MAX: I just wants to pway wis my mommy.

MOM: Then go get it. Get your ball!

ROD SERLING: And if you get quiet -- listen not with your ears but with your heart -- you too might hear that little creature say, "I am god spelled backwards."

I don't mind that Max prefers Skippy to Jif; it's just that my mom knows about it.

When Mom leaves for work, Max runs to his kennel cab to sulk. Mom pitched at her coworkers a take-your-dog-to-work day, but they're not biting. Ha! Biting. Sigh.

When last we spoke, Mom and Max -- the twins -- were at the dentist, and can't you just hear that conversation ... "For the last time, Mrs. Baker, no. We are NOT recommending braces for your dog."

Max has an Imelda-Marcos-size toy collection, 52 animals in all. Last week he had sexual relations with the lobster (and you wonder how we get things like crabs). If you catch him in the right mood, Max will have relations with your leg. And that's another difference between cats and dogs: A cat may love you, but dogs go all the way.

My mom is not alone in her obsession. Have you seen the dog treat section at Petco? Sirloin kabobs, duck jerky, organic crispy cheese cakes. Not that Max would eat food that comes from a "pet store." He's ready for a setting at the dinner table.

"Who made you rice wich your chickeeen? Max, don't eat the garnish!"

Mom and her husband Mark watch The National Dog Show, which is when a starchy woman, perhaps the queen of England, walks around pointing out various flaws. Like People magazine.

Max himself couldn't handle a contest because he's prejudiced against dogs. Once he learns to stand upright, he's getting a wax and having the surgery.

At Christmas, Mom pimped her dog out with antlers and posed him with Santa. She's submitting the pictures to Parade and fully expects to see prize money.

Here comes the scary part: Mom and Mark may be getting another puppy. Breeders beware: These are the nicest people in the world, but they'll spoil your dog beyond recognition. They will decorate him and take him on road trips and teach him to speak in childish tones.

"Who's the bestest, most bootiful boy in da wooorld?"

I hope Mom sees the humor in all this because one, I love her, and two, I'm going over for dinner tonight. We're having Snausages.

Standup Snippet: Self Checkout

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standup.gifDoes anyone else use the self-checkout lane at the grocery store? Do you ever let an item slip by as payment for the work you're doing? Nothing big -- just a pack of gum. My conscience seems to be okay with that. My conscience believes that bagging groceries and tallying the bill should be included in the purchase price. How did that job fall on the customer? They might as well hand you a mop. "Hey, while you're at it, would you mind cleaning up that spill on aisle 12?"

Real Life Snapshot: Bologna

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A bunch of bologna

Standup: Drunk Grandpa

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standup comedy snippet from Jason LoveMy grandpa was such an alcoholic that we didn't even realize it until the day he came over sober.

"Heeey. What happened to your speech impediment? ... And what is that smell? Is that soap?!"

Working at Home

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I used to work for a corporation. In my old cubicle, you can still find claw marks and fingernail bits like that scene in Silence of the Lambs, where the girl tries to escape from her well.

Mostly I'd yearn out the window for earthquakes, floods, the Rapture-any reason to go home. Sometimes I'd catch eyes with the window guy across the street. We'd stare at each other till the pain grew too rich and we both drew the shades.

I should have fled on my first day, when the boss led me to a snarly filing cabinet and said, "Welcome aboard, Jason. Your job is to figure out what the hell happened here."

But I kept the job for fear of interview fallout: Why did you leave your last job? Where will you be in ten years? Do you even know who you are?

My interviews were especially tough because the HR person would say things like, "I see you've been doodling Ziggy here on your application."

One day I was summoned by department head Ann Gitch, whose last name was off by just one letter. She asked why I had been ditching meetings.

I confessed that some meetings were so unthinkably dull that I saw people's faces melt off their heads. I also mentioned how Christlike it felt to carry my own folding chair to the meeting room.

Ann thanked me for my analogies and wrote a Letter of Probation. I decided to attend department meetings but skip the global ones where nobody was missed. Nobody was missed, that is, unless they happened to win the raffle.

"And this darling gift basket goes to ... Jason Love. Jason? Jason?"

Working at home isn't what it's cracked up to be. For instance, when you have a computer problem, you don't call IT and grab a Snickers; you register at Computer Hell University. A computer crash is when you finally throw the damn thing out the window.

You also have to pay for your own benefits. In case that's not enough, you have to pay for your own benefits! My HMO is so bad that all it covers is an apple a day. So it goes.

Another pitfall to working at home is that no matter which way you turn, the pantry can see you: Jaaason... Cream FILLing, Jason... That's a pickle for someone with an active lifestyle like writing.

Mmm. Pickles.

It's true that people who work at home can wake up whenever they want. Alarm clocks are meaningless. But then so are holidays, weekends, overtime, and did I mention BENEFITS? You work 60 hours a week for 30 hours' pay, and your mom still asks when you're going to get a job.

I haven't shaved in days and suffer everlasting bedhead. I spend entire weeks working in swim trucks not because I swim but because the elastic grows with my waist. I've come to talk about myself in the third person. To no one.

So if you ever find yourself fantasizing about working at home, remember your old friend Jason. You will remember him, right? Drop by some time, maybe bring a friend? I know: We'll have a meeting!

Snapshot Cartoon: Easter Bunny

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Standup: Costco Coffins

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standup.gif"Well, Costco is now selling coffins. Have you seen this? Funeral coffins! Talk about "shop till you drop." Man. You can actually buy them as a pair so you have a his-and-her set. I suppose that's romantic ... For Mormons they sell 'em in packs of ten. The hardest part is getting the plastic off."

Real Life Snapshot: Limp Branch

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If your branch is erect for more than four hours...

Fire Training

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Humor column about fireman drillsI've been attracted to fire from an early age, when dad caught me "mowing" the lawn with a blowtorch.

"I don't care if it is a controlled burn; you get your butt inside."

Only recently, when firemen trained in my area, did I learn what dad already knew: Fire is evil.

Training took place at five houses condemned to burn because they were built sometime during the Mesozoic Era. The battalion chief, who oversaw the drill with a stoic air, Constantine at war, said something about PSI, GPM, NFL. From all accounts, they'd be burning things.

The men paired off for assignments: ventilation, support, and -- gulp -- lying down inside a house WHILE IT BURNED! That person was properly called the "dummy." So it goes.

The captain's face turned grim: "It is not macho when someone melts their helmet. Injuries do not impress me. I want you on your bellies."

You can see why Prometheus, having stolen fire from the gods, was sentenced to have his liver eaten out daily while Mariah Carey played in the background. And why did Prometheus take the blame when, in the same book, we see fire-breathing dragons? I hate plot holes.

Some years later the hippies would set fire to just about everything: draft cards, bras, dolls, several metric tons of controlled flora.

And let's not forget the Keebler Elves Incident of '98: "I don't know what we were thinking, baking inside a tree!"

Zeus had seen it all coming.

Back at our drill, Constantine praised the men who had worked overtime to prep the location, and they all marched off to their posts. I made like a tree and stood there.

After 30 minutes of bullhorn, they finally got to the good part: "Fire in the hole!"

I plugged my ears for an explosion while the Ignition Group calmly walked inside and dropped a flame on the "class A combustibles" -- haystacks, plywood, U.S. currency.

I wonder if an incense factory has ever burned down. Could you see the eleven o'clock news? "And while this fire has caused millions of dollars in damage, the city smells terrific!"

Captain Phil waved me over to House Three. I looked around to make sure he wasn't crazy. Yes, he nodded, come on up. Did I mention that the house next-door was on fire? I climbed the ladder with that giddy feeling you get on your first field trip, only this blew away the post office.

Across the street, commoners gathered like moths at Lamps Plus. The fire truck blasted three times: last call to get the hell out. I took in the blaze a moment longer, knowing I would never again, with any luck, be so close. The dragon crackled and hissed, spitting cinders our way.

"Once it gets like that," said Phil, "we just surround and drown. It's all over."

Until then, I always imagined that I could run into a burning house and save someone's life. Now I'm not so sure. I would at least have to know what kind of person it is. See a résumé or something.

The firemen de-sooted over Gatorade and smeared charcoal on their faces every time they wiped. You have to admire people who, for our safety, put themselves in a position to die regardless of their plans for the rest of the day.

Constantine applauded his troops for a job well done. A few stayed behind to babysit the hot spots, which could smolder for a week if left unattended. Don't worry, dad. It's a controlled burn.

Real Life Snapshot: Saint Francis

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Real Life Snapshot


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The other night my date asked a question that seems to be on everyone's mind: "Are you gay or just well-spoken?"

I've been taking this grief since elementary, when other kids wondered aloud whether I was a boy or a girl. Evidently, I have some feminine properties. For starters, I'm nice to people (you can see how that might throw them off). I cross my legs wrong and own a melon baller. I love my cat.

But the thing people can't get past is the messenger bag. Barney's assured me that it wouldn't look womanly if I strapped it across my chest like Chewbacca.

The bag still had its tags when I sat down to poker with my buddies.

"Nice purse," said Ernie. "I like how it matches your shoes."

I've done everything to skirt -- er, get around -- the man bag. I carried a backpack but always felt like I was on my way to the bus stop, looking to trade my PB&J; for a Twinkie. I also tried a tote bag, a laptop case, a toiletry kit, and then just stuffing my pockets like a hamster.

Ernie asked what's so important that I have to carry it on my person. To be exact: digital camera, mp3 player, appointment book, wallet, cell phone, bank ledger, notepad, pens, cartoon book, glasses, sunblock, Chapstick, hand sanitizer, gum, business cards, harmonica, and a condom that may have expired.

We also found toenail clippers, but I'm pretty sure they were planted.

I will have you know that when the gang went to Mexico and got stranded without sunblock, they sang a different tune about my "purse."

I used to be so normal. I spat and surfed and used dirty socks for oven mitts. Now when I vacuum, I back out slowly so as not to disturb the carpet triangles. When buddies use the bathroom, I say, "You didn't pee standing up, did you? It splashes."

I've developed an urgent need for symmetry. It bothers me, for instance, when Michael Jackson wears only one glove or Pisa doesn't fix that stupid tower. If I ever lose an arm, I'll have to seriously consider removing the opposite leg.

People also accuse me of liking clothes. If they only knew. Sometimes I press against the store window and talk dirty to myself ... "I'm gonna buy the hell out of that jacket."

Regular guys don't think about matching. They're happy so long as their clothes say something about them. Like "Nike" or "NASCAR."

My recent date said that she doesn't trust a man who jogs all the time. Her exact words: "If you can fit into my pants, you can't get into them."

How do I keep finding these women? I must have terrible depth perception.

Gay men sometimes hit on me. I'm flattered, gosh, but never know what to say. In the supermarket, a man followed me, vaguely, for three aisles before cornering me in the deli.

"My name's Peter." He shook my hand. "Nice grip."

Um ... Um ... I'm just well-spoken.

I find myself acting tough to offset the attention. At the gym I stick out my chest and talk like Keanu Reeves: "Hey, dude. Nice shoes..." (applying Chapstick in a manly fashion).

In case you're concerned that you yourself may be metrosexual, I have compiled a list for you to carry in your wallet.

You might be metro if ...

-- you prefer bubble baths to showers.
-- you speak in semicolons.
-- you carry your own salad dressing.
-- you've been "meaning to have sex."
-- you refrigerate your face-care products.
-- your ringtone is "Fur Elise in C minor."
-- you've ever had a chopstick callous.
-- you watch Hugh Grant movies on purpose.
-- you avoid unflattering light.
-- you know about unflattering light.
-- you get anxious when your belt and shoes don't match.
-- you read while stuck in traffic.
-- you have an opinion about thread count.
-- you floss before bed no matter how drunk you are.
-- when someone slurps at a restaurant, you pause significantly.
-- the wallet where you store this list is inside a bag strapped across your chest.

Standup Snippet: PETA-Friendly Ice Cream

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standup.gifPETA, the animal rights people, recently asked Ben and Jerry's to replace the cow's milk with human breast milk. Gross, I know ... You should see what they're doing with Cherry Garcia.

Human breast milk ... I guess it makes sense for Pamela Anderson to be their spokesperson. She's leading the way! PETA almost didn't work with Pamela because earlier in her career -- and I don't know if you know this -- she was responsible for the choking of a lot of chickens.

Jason Love

Jason Love writes for The VC Star a humor column called "So It Goes," for which he teams up with Anthony Plascencia to produce entertaining videos.

You can find Jason Love's cartoons and columns in The Denver Post, St. Petersburg Times, Arizona Republic, Funny Times, Frontier Airlines Magazine, etc. He also performs standup comedy throughout L.A. and Ventura counties.

Archives are at his web site.

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