Friday, July 31, 2015

Doomtown Feature Interview: Stephanie Webb, Comedian



The Usual Unusual Disclaimer: The jokes on this blog are for entertainment purposes only. Doomtown is not responsible for any injuries acquired while laughing your ass off, nor will we provide the reader with a new ass as replacement. Doomtown is not responsible for, and expressly disclaims all liability for, damages of any kind arising out of use, reference to, or reliance on any information contained within the site that might make the reader feel butt hurt enough to sue us. Should the reader still desire to bring suit against the blog, please feel free to contact our lawyers at Dewey, Cheatem, and Howe.


Karma Girl: How did you get into the comedy/improv biz? Did it have something to do with rubber chickens?

Stephanie Webb: I've always had a passion for comedy. A few years ago I even started writing sketches for fun, I had the itch, as they say, but I didn't know where to go from there.  Not too long after I was working as a hostess at a restaurant, one of the pastry chefs there invited me to her improv graduation at a place called The New Movement Theater. I did some research on the place and within a month I was signed up for classes. It was one of the best decisions I've ever made. Oh and oddly enough, the aforementioned pastry chef was actually a live rubber chicken, a very talented one I might add.


KG: What is improv, and how does one do it?

SW: First let me say that improv is difficult, and it definitely takes formal training to be good at it! Basically one person will go on stage, and one or more people will follow. The person who first walks up will usually initiate a scene by saying a short, unrehearsed line, something like, "I can't believe you're late again, Charles."  It is up to everyone on stage to build a story around that initial statement. It's important to have an open mind and accept others' ideas because if you're the initiator and you have a preconceived idea that Charles is late because he peed his pants on the bus and your teammate wants Charles to be late because he was saving the planet from aliens, the scene won't work. It's a technique called, "yes, and". And I don't feel like explaining it, that's what Google is for:)

KG: Do you write your own routines and, if so, where do you get your material?

SW: I write my own stand up routines, but like I said, improv has to be off the cuff, so writing scenes ahead of time is a HUGE NO NO! I do, however, get inspired by different things from my life. My hometown for instance inspires a ton of my jokes when I write stand-up, and I'm sure it plays a big part in the choices I make during improv scenes. One of my opening jokes is, "To give you an idea of what my hometown is like, imagine if a banjo was a person, and it had sex with the Insane Clown Posse and they had 60,000 kids." So yea, my Facebook feed is a treasure trove of possible material.

KG: What do you do when the audience isn’t laughing at your jokes? Suffer in silence or start break dancing?

SW: I have found that most audiences want to laugh, and New Orleans people are typically laid back and polite. However if I get a bad reaction, I like to line each audience member up and slap them as hard as I can in the face. Then I go home, scream into a pillow, and make passive-aggressive comments to my boyfriend.


KG: How do you deal with hecklers and, on a related note, how many bodies are buried in your backyard? How do hecklers work as compost, anyway?

SW: I haven't encountered a heckler yet. I'm pretty quick on my feet with comebacks so hopefully murder won't be necessary.

KG: Where do you see your career heading in another five years?

SW: My ultimate goal would be to write comedy or perform comedy and get paid for it! For now though I'm just happy that I get to make people laugh on a regular basis.

Tuesday, July 21, 2015

Massage Time: Sage Wagner, Voted New Orleans Top 20 Professionals

My friend and coworker Sage Wagner of Sage Bodywork Nola and Balance Spa and Fitness was voted one of New Orleans' 2015 top 20 professionals in VIP Magazine. He is most awesome. Check him out in VIP Magazine's 16th issue (Page 33). Book your massage with him today. I command you!

Sunday, July 05, 2015

Lazy Time Reblog Sunday: D.J. Paris...the Person, Not the City in France

D.J. Paris
After working an entire day in a pair of pants that are one donut away from not fitting me anymore, I read this and laughed. I really needed that. This month's Lazy Time Reblog is dedicated to D.J. Paris and his blog, Thoughts From Paris. You can follow him here on Twitter or here on Facebook, and be sure to subsribe to his blog.









I Used to Wear Tight Jeans – A Confession



There has been an unfortunate trend over the past few years where men, usually in their late-teens to early twenties, have started to purchase and wear “skinny” jeans.  I’m talking about the jeans that are not just tight in the seat or waist, but in the legs, too.

I think most of us can agree that this is not a masculine look.  I’m not saying it’s a terrible look.  I don’t like it, personally.  But guys dress for women and men wouldn’t be wearing jeans like this if girls didn’t respond.  It’s strikingly effeminate in my opinion, and my experience with women is that they respond more to masculinity.  But what the hell do I know?  I’m old, married, and off the grid.

When it comes to clothes, I lean to the conservative.  I grew up in the Midwest, and have been wearing pretty socially-normal clothing for most of my life.  I still do.  I shop at places like Banana Republic for shirts, Lucky Brand for jeans, and Aldo for shoes.  Nothing too fancy, nothing too crazy.  Simple and clean.  It’s boring, but it looks good on me.

However, I do have one indulgence.  Or, to be more accurate, I HAD one indulgence.  Tight pants.

Now, not the same pants I just referenced earlier funneling out of a Death Cab for Cutie concert.  I’m talking about tight in the crotch.  Unfortunately, I am not joking.

How did this start?  By total accident, actually.  I was living in a studio apartment in Chicago, and single.  It was 2002.  I wanted to own just one fashionable, expensive pair of jeans.  The problem was I didn’t have any money.  I couldn’t afford to blow $150 on a pair of Diesel’s.

The interesting thing is that Levi’s had just come out that year with a premium line of jeans.  They were nearly $200, however.  Way out of my price range.  However, I found a guy selling a new pair on Ebay for around $50.  The reason was that these were labeled incorrectly in size.  They were really a 34×34 (my size at the time), but listed on the jean tag as 33×34, so they couldn’t be sold at a retail outlet.

I ordered them, and was thrilled to have a nice pair of jeans coming my way.  When they arrived, they were not 34×34 as stated in the product description.  They were, in fact, 32×34.  Now, I could maybe squeeze into a 33, but not a 32.  What could I do?  No refunds allowed.

Then I noticed they were boot-cut, which turned out to be an asset even though I hadn’t ever worn a pair of boots in my life.  I tried them on, and while amazingly tight, they widened at the bottom near the feet.  In my rationale this evened out the look.  Tight on top, super loose on the bottom.  I couldn’t use my diaphragm to breathe, but who cares?  These were cool.

By the way, can we stop for a moment and discuss this word “diaphragm”?  Why is it a muscle you use as part of respiration, and also a means by which you can avoid parenthood?  I never understood that.  Change one of the names, I say.  Okay, back to story.

So, the jeans worked okay, in my opinion.  They looked fine in the mirror.  Except for one thing – you could totally make out my dong.

I must have tried to position my privates in at least seven different locations, but it was no use.  You could see everything.

Not like this guy - But close

However, maybe this wasn’t so bad.  Not that I wanted people being able to see my magic, but maybe nobody would even notice.  I’ve never known women to look at a guy’s crotch.  I mean, I dated a lot, and no girl ever said, “Check out the d on that fellow!”  I’ve heard women talk about a guy’s butt, but never about front-junk.  So, I said, “Screw it.”  I put my loose fitting jeans (and dignity) in the closet where they gathered dust.

I wore the tight jeans for a year or two.  To be honest, I really have no idea if I became a walking joke, or if nobody ever noticed.  I seemed to get dates, and not one woman ever said anything about how the whole bar knew that I was a “lefty.”

Fast forward a few years, and I had finally come to my senses.  I realized this was not a look I wanted to cultivate, even if nobody noticed.  My income had expanded, and I now had the ability to purchase clothes that flattered my appearance.  Also, that fit correctly.  I put the tight jeans in the closet indefinitely where they hugged a coat hanger, instead of my balls.

After I turned 28, I started dating a woman who lived in a different state.  I made plans to go visit her, and took a flight to spend the weekend.  I had told her the tight jeans story, and she had me promise to bring them down and show her what they looked like.  Essentially, she wanted to make fun of me. But, I’m a sport so I packed them.

When I got to her condo, I threw my suitcase in her closet, and dug around to change clothes.  Before I changed, she insisted that I model the tight jeans for her.  I hadn’t put them on in years, but, quite honestly, was kind of excited, because of how funny this was going to look.  I’ll sacrifice a little “cool” for a good joke.

I grabbed the jeans from the bottom of the closet and wrestled my way into them.  It really was an effort, but I got them on.  I didn’t remember them being THIS tight, but whatever.  I thought for sure I would bust the seam, just trying to get the button fly together.  I was like, “Man, either I’ve gotten fatter, or these jeans were way more unforgiving than I remember!”

I hadn’t gotten fatter.  I had put on her jeans by mistake.

Now, let’s go back a few steps.  I have to explain something because this probably sounds worse than it was.  This woman was six feet tall.  Also thin and fit.  I’m 6′ 2″ and pretty thin myself.

But still, I had put on her jeans.  And they had fit.  Tightly and uncomfortably, but they fit.

She quietly and softly said, “Um – those are my jeans.”  I had no idea.

I laughed.  I’m not a woman.  It had never crossed my mind that she might feel embarrassed that her boyfriend could fit into her pants.  I mean, I already knew this woman was beautiful and thin.  So, what’s the big deal?

Well, I’ve told this story to a bunch of women over the years, and they all have the same response.  It’s a big deal.  So, let’s just say that it’s safe to assume her self-esteem didn’t grow leaps and bounds after this event.  I don’t know if she starting cutting or anything, but it wasn’t a good start to the weekend.  She was a real trooper though, and laughed it off.  Our relationship ended soon after that. Not because of this, I don’t think.

A few days ago I was telling my wife that I was going to write this story, and she pulled a potentially dangerous trick on me.  She made me try on her jeans.  Now, my wife is thin, but she’s also 5’8″.  That’s not too far from 6’2″.  Plus, I happen to currently be at my thinnest in years.  I tried to weasel out of it, but she essentially forced me to put on her jeans.

See, this really isn’t a fair thing, as women are built differently then men, often with wider hips.  So, jeans for a woman tend to accommodate for this.  Plus, they use different size measurements.  For men it’s in inches.  For women, it’s a size from 0-whatever.  I don’t know the conversion.  If my wife is a size 3 (no idea what size she really is), how many inches is that?  Heck if I know.  I tried doing the math, but couldn’t figure it out.

So, I just went for it.  I was absolutely relieved to find out that I came nowhere near fitting into her jeans.  I mean, I have to share a bed with this woman.  It’s in my best interest to not fit into her jeans. Thankfully, I didn’t.  However, I did make her take this picture.  Enjoy.

Thank God...