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No Thanks for the Memories

I’ve really got to buy a notebook, or a tape recorder, or something.

You see, I’m always trying to come up with ideas to write about. And I do have a little pocket notebook that I carry with me. Every once in a while, I’ll write down a comedic gem like, ‘Chevy Phallica’ or ‘squeeze bottle of man-sauce’, or ‘where the hell are the raisins’.

(The last of which has nothing to do with genitalia of any kind. I hope.)

But lately, I’ve been losing a lot of ideas. Because, as I mentioned, I have a pocket notebook. And some of my best ideas come when I’m not wearing any pockets. Or, indeed, pants. Apparently, there’s something about being pantsless that puts me in a hilarious mood. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised — most people who’ve seen me that way tend to giggle, too.

(And no, I don’t enjoy busting my own chops that way. But if I didn’t do it, some snark-ass would’ve tagged me in the comments, so there you go. One less piece of ammunition to zing me with. I beat you to this one, smartass!)

Anyway, lest you think that I spend most of my life sans slacks, let me say that I’m generally only without pants or pockets when I’m sleeping or showering. Heaven knows I’d like to run around all day devoid of dungarees, frolicking unfettered with fanny unfurled and fancy-free. Honestly, who wouldn’t? But that sort of thing just isn’t done around here. This isn’t Amsterdam, for chrissakes.

So, having an idea in the shower is fine — by the time I’m in there, my brain is working, at least a little bit, and I have half a shot at actually remembering whatever ‘next big joke’ I’ve dreamed up in there.

(Which is good news, because I’m always coming up with ridiculous shit in the shower. Apparently, being wet and naked makes me feel especially hilarious. Which is not a statement the ‘peanut gallery’ needs to respond to, thanks so much.)

The bigger problem is having ideas in bed. You see, I’m what you call a ‘dolphin sleeper’.

(No, ya dildo — that doesn’t mean I diddle dolphins. Nor do I pork porpoises. Would you just let me explain before you come up with that lunatic crap? ‘Dolphin diddling’? ‘Porpoise porker’? Who ever heard of such things? Sheesh.)

What I mean by ‘dolphin sleeper’ is that I sleep hard — way, way down in the depths of dreamland. But every so often, I’ve got to come up for air. I can ‘hold my breath’, metaphorically speaking, for quite a while, but occasionally, I need a break. Then it’s right back into snoozeville, where nothing short of a nuclear detonation or a badger up the heinie is going to wake me up before my next blowhole break.

(You know, I think I may have crossed a couple of metaphor streams there. And I disturbed myself, just a little, with the badger thing. Let’s back up and try this again, without all the creepy animal references, shall we?)

What I’m trying to say is: I’m a very, very heavy sleeper, generally speaking, but I usually wake up two, three, maybe four times a night. And I’m not one of those people who say, ‘once I’m awake, I’m awake for good’. Nah. I regain some hazy semblance of consciousness for about thirty seconds, do a quick inventory, and then back to sleep I go. In recent years, I’ve even gotten uncannily good at re-sleeping for exactly an hour at a time. So I can wake up at six am, check the clock, laugh at the notion of getting up so early, and zonk out until seven.

And then do the same thing, and wake up at eight.

And… repeat, and come to again at nine.

And, depending on how I’m feeling, take one last nap for the road. It’s kind of cool, actually — I’m my own alarm clock, sort of. Assuming that I have nowhere to be before noon, that is. Not bad.

Anyway, the problem comes in that minute or so of half-awake droolly awareness between naps. Apparently, that’s just enough time to have some sort of brilliant comedic notion… but not enough time to commit it to memory. And so, I wake up an hour later, all excited about my new idea for a bit, all about… uh, hold on. I just thought of it — it has to do with… dammit. The pope was in there somewhere, and then the hookers come in… something about parmesan cheese… well, shit. It’s gone. Poopstain.

Of course, there’s a very real chance that whatever idea I have at six in the morning — when I often seem to have more synapses firiing below the waist than above it — is unadulterated horse turd. What seems brilliant to my bedheaded brain at that point might not amuse a crack-addled circus clown. But hell — it might. And if I can’t fricking remember it, then I’ll never know. So something’s gotta give — I’ve thought about putting a notebook in the bedroom, but most of these ideas happen before dawn. And besides my fear that turning on the light and concentrating on writing would upset my internal one-hour Nap-O-Lator, I’m pretty sure that’s a bad way to accidentally wake up my wife. I can imagine how that conversation would go:

Her: Mmmrrmm? Wha? What are you doing? Why’s that light on?

Me: Sorry, hon — I just had an idea for a comedy bit.

Her: Jeez, it’s four in the morning. What’s so impartant it couldn’t wait?

Me: It’s… um… well, actually it’s ‘boobs made of Jell-O’. And there’s another part about Puddin’ Pops that, uh, you probably don’t want to hear.

Her: Pffftt. I knew I should’ve married that kid who went to business school. Ya loony.

Me: Damn, you made me forget part of it. Did I mention parmesan cheese a minute ago? Honey? Hello?

Yeah, I’m thinking that would be bad. And I can’t help thinking that she’s just one surreal conversation like that away from looking into those divorce papers, as it is. Probably best not to push her buttons too hard. Looks like ‘comedy gold’ will just have to come to me some other time. Like in the shower — maybe I’ll start taking four or five showers a day, just to increase the odds. And there’s nothing I like better than maximizing the time that I’m wet, naked, and giggly — that’s a party, folks!

(Yeah, I left that one open. Consider it a parting gift on my way out tonight. You can thank me later, smartasses.)