If you're so smart, why ain't you rich, Rich?

I belong to a small group, having perhaps 200 members worldwide, called "UAMSIG."

The "SIG" part stands for "Special Interest Group." There are all kinds of SIGs, all around the world. Wikipedia's definition at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Special_Interest_Group is a good one. You might take a break and visit their page before you continue reading this.

OK ... so do you know what a "SIG" is yet? If not, go back and follow that Wikipedia link. I'll tell you one organization that has a bunch of SIGs: Mensa, the High IQ Society. Mensa encourages its members to form groups, large and small, to learn about or promote whatever subjects interest them.

In my group, UAMSIG, the "UAM" stands for "UnderAchieving Mensans." We *may* be the smartest people you'd ever meet who never accomplished anything of significance. Not that everybody in the group fits that description. Some *have* accomplished things, perhaps enormously important things, yet feel they haven't lived up to what they *should have* done with their talents.

I, however, *am* one of those who've never done squat with their lives. What makes this a particularly egregious waste of a talented mind is that Mensa requires an IQ of 131 for membership. Eligibility, therefore, requires only that your IQ be in the top 2% of the population. The USA's population is over 300 million. If they wanted to, 6 million of those people could join Mensa.

My IQ is considerably higher. The actual number doesn't matter, but Mensa represents the highest 2%, the "98th percentile." I'm in the top third of one percent. I don't think of myself as special, because there are a lot of people as smart or smarter than I am. About a million of them in the USA.

And it's inappropriate to call myself "smart." I'm smart at taking IQ tests. And IQ tests measure only a limited set of mental skills. If I were *really* smart, I'd be doing something with it.

Hence, UAMSIG.

After I was fired from one of many jobs (maybe 25 years ago), my ex-boss was kind enough to arrange an interview for me with a "headhunter" -- an executive recruiter. Now I don't generally run around telling people my IQ. I never have. This blog post is an exception, because I want to point out how *not* smart I've been in living my life -- but sometimes (like when I had that job) what I say or do reveals I'm intelligent.

The first thing the headhunter said to me was, "I hear you're a genius." I was surprised. I thought for a moment but still couldn't think of anything better to say than, "Yes." I realized, years later, that the right response wasn't "Yes," it was "At what?" If my ex-boss had told the headhunter, and the headhunter told *me*, maybe I would have had a direction to go with my life. Of course the headhunter might have replied, "He didn't say you were good at *doing* anything; only that you're really smart." That wouldn't have done me any good.

As I said, I don't go around telling people my IQ score. About all I've used my intellect to do is write comedy material. Mensans love "word play" -- puns and such. Far too much of my comedy material is that sort of thing. Maybe that's why my act hasn't "taken off" yet.

In one or more other posts here I talk about having been a hippie in the Summer of Love in San Francisco, 1967. I'm pretty sure I smoked enough dope that summer to burn out a significant number of brain cells. Luckily (for my membership application to Mensa, anyway), I took the test a few years earlier.

1st post in a long time

I had the first funny thought in a long time.

It's just a stupid pun [well, alright, a clever pun], but it's nice to think of something that amuses me.

"A man with an eidetic memory can usually picture the last time he slept under a down comforter."

I considered putting spoiler space in here, but what the heck.

I'm using "eidetic" as a pun on "eider." An "eidetic memory" is commonly called a "photographic memory." Hence, "picture." A down comforter is made with "eider down" -- duck feathers. That's really all I can tell you.

Remember, you can't get down off an elephant but you *can* get down off a duck.

Bipolar

I think you hear a lot of people talk about being bipolar who actually *aren't*. So I thought I'd tell you a story from somebody who *is*.

It's a tad boring and technical (because it involves medical malpractice). It's also emotional, because I was the patient who experienced the pain and suffering. So I decided to break it up with "bipolar jokes" I've written over the years.

For instance, I think this the only one I've told on stage. Depending on my perception of the savviness of the crowd, I sometimes tee it up by saying, "I'm bipolar. They used to call it "manic-depressive." Big mood swings. Lemme see if I can explain it." and then "Being bipolar is like buying a Peter Paul candy bar. Sometimes you feel like a nut; sometimes you just wanna f@#$ing kill yourself."

I'm tired now, so I'll continue later.

A horny dilemma

When some people are having trouble making a decision, they say they're "In a quandary." Others say they're "Between a rock and a hard place." I think one word combines the two ideas: "Quarry." It's a hard place where there is plenty of rock -and- it sounds a lot like "quandary."

So, let's begin a slang trend. The next time you're facing a difficult decision, tell people you're "In a quarry."

You rock!

Aging, Broadway Musicals, and the News

Sometimes people say I should just "be me." That I should tell jokes I like, even if I know they're wrong for the audience at hand on a given night. They say not to pander to the crowd; not to "dumb down" my act.

I don't to listen to such advice, at least not completely. Yes, I put in some bits only a few audience members will get, but I hope those people will explain them to the ones that don't. I try to get the audience to rise to the material. But I can't make an entire act out of such material.

A case in point: There's this former Congressman Eric Massa who's apparently admitted to having gay sex, even in the Navy. A new term is entering the mainstream, just as "teabagging" once did, and the term is "snorkeling." Rather than explain them, I'm going to let you look up each one. So, first of all, this bit requires an audience of news hounds, people who have heard of Massa and the "snorkeling" act he's supposed to have committed.

Which brings us to Aging and Broadway Musicals. Not everybody follows Broadway Musicals any more. In fact, probably few people do. There was a time when more people did. That was back when I was a child and watched their touring companies play in San Francisco.

And so, I have a bit I think is very funny, but cannot tell, I'll tell it to *you*, but I'll add an explanation afterwards. If you need me for anything later tonight, I'll be quietly chuckling to myself.

This is how the snorkeling song begins:

Get-ting be-low you
Get-ting to blow all a-bout you

Leaving it up to you, as I did, to find out the meaning of "snorkeling," I'll tell you there's a song in the musical "The King and I" called "Getting to Know You." If I thought more people would understand that fact, I'd write more verses.

Not that it matters, but I saw Yul Brynner play the King both on stage in San Francisco (1951-1954) and in the movie version (1956). Et cet-er-a, et cet-er-a, et cet-er-a.

Girl Scout Cookies

'Tis the season for Girl Scout Cookies. The little darlings and their mothers are sitting behind collapsible tables outside every supermarket. For fun, I like to walk up and point to one of the girls while saying to the Mom, "Wow! Will you look at her sash? That's impressive. Does she have her fellatio merit badge yet?"

This inevitably is followed by the Mom attempting to leap over the table to tear my eyes out. I haven't yet seen a Mom do it in a single high jump move. Most require stepping up onto the table. Some actually have to push a girl out of her chair, so they can step onto the chair to get up onto the table. Their intensity and focus is such that they never lose eye contact and never even consider walking around the table.

It is important, while the Mom is negotiating the table, to beat a hasty retreat.

I'm still waiting for two things to happen: 1. A Girl Scout asks the Mom, "What's 'fellatio?'" and 2. A Girl Scout says to me, "I've got that merit badge. What do I have to do to get you to buy some cookies?"

Happy Olympics

I'll get around to posting my set notes from several weeks ago, I promise. I've been fighting a nasty cold.

My topical joke of the day is this:

"The Israeli Winter Olympic team has skiers who specialize in the Giant Shalom."