Pope Accidentally Endorses Barebacking

"Let us go forth to love and serve the AIDS."

Pope Says No Condom, No Problem

One Homo = Funny. Many Homos = Fabulous

I love smart, gay comedy! I love smart, gay comedians even more! Last night's show at Mo' Pitkins, CHICKS & GAYGGLES, was so much fun. The fact that there was only ONE straight person on the bill (no offense Jen, props to your hetero humor) was surprisingly empowering, even fulfilling. I had no idea how good it could feel to be The Majority, and to celebrate the uniqueness of comedy from a gay perspective. On a personal level, being gay has always influenced my material. Whether or not my sexuality was an element in my act night after night, I always identified as a gay comedian. But I'd never had the collective experience before last night. I felt like we threw a great party, and it was wonderful. Special thanks to Nichelle and Carolyn, producers of "Chicks & Giggles," for treating me to (1) The experience of participating in an all-female show, and (2) The unexpected joy of doing an all gay show. What you guys provide the NYC comedy scene, if there is such a thing, is cause for 'big ups.' Props to all the hilarious homos, too: Poppi, Claudia, Shawn, Michael and Allen. Well done.

Because I Say You're Interested

My very own panda, Tai Shan, made his public debut today at Washington National Zoo. He's 4 months old and 21 pounds of sweet endangered Asian lovin'. Check him out.

"If I could just...get...up...ahhh...hmph...grr...fucking...rock...shit...short hind legs...damn..."
"Craaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaap!"


Who is the most handsome giant panda in the whole world? And who poses like a 'Barely Legal' centerfold?

Awwww Yeeeeah, Tai Shan smokin' the 'boo.

FUNNY 'MOs TOMORROW

Well, here's a shocker. It's fucking 7pm and I haven't gotten a chance to blog about how Amanda Plummer gives me the hooba stanks right thru to my bone marrow. This HARD AT WORK crap, GETTING AHEAD blows ass. I haven't surfed the net for useless smut in weeks! God, I hope I still get emails about lengthening my tiny weenis.

Wah, wah. Sucks to be you, Shannon.

Yes. Yes, it does.

Nonetheless, I'll be moonlighting tomorrow night at a 'CHICKS AND GIGGLES' gig for God's Love We Deliver. (FLYER ABOVE) It's the 145th stop on my 'Tell Me Why You Do This' comedy tour. The whole line up is a bunch of homos. Come watch us pretend to love ourselves and celebrate our diversity as a community. Queers rock at laughing through pain. It's fucking hysterical.

Benny's Girlfriend

Today's blog subject: How Amanda Plummer really freaks me out. More later.

Call Me Dark Meat

I'm spending Thanksgiving at a close friend's home. She and I have been tight buddies since Freshman year at B.U. In fact, we've known each other for so long, she remembers my sorority days, my drinking days, the days when I went on dates with boys and the days I frequently slept in a tent outside a Brookline home, birthplace of our 35th President, holding a tattered sign that read, "Has anyone seen my old friend John? Can you tell me where he's gone?" I designed it on my Apple Performa Towers. Man, those were the days.

I anticipate having a wonderful time at dinner on Thursday, even if everyone behaves poorly, treats each other like shit and generally oozes disgust and hatred for their flesh and blood. My enjoyment will stem from one plain fact: they're not my fucking family. My family's poor behavior, shitty attitude and loathing of each other gives me hives and indigestion. Other people's family drama keeps me entertained. So, you betcha, I'll be grateful this year. I'm not with my own family, so I can eat and laugh and go home without being weighed down by a Sam's Club size bottle of Pepto and wearing an adult diaper. I'll also get a turkey's eye view of someone else's familial mess, momentarily convincing me that maybe mine's not so bad after all.

Just to be difficult, though, I'm considering adding some tension to the festivities. I'm flirting w/ staging a protest and not eating. If asked why, I will simply reply, "I am not particularly thankful this year. We're torturing Iraqi prisoners, by the end of the year Bush will have appointed 2 uber-conservatives to the Supreme Court, Arrested Development got cancelled and I've had the trots for more than a week. " Or I might go with a shorter, mysterious retort, "Ask yourself, what ever happened to Lauryn Hill? Now try to eat."

Shannon Ennis and Her Reaction From Anesthesia

What is the MAXIMUM number of body organs I can have removed without dying? My Mom had her gallbladder removed today, and I'm jealous. I've never had real surgery, just the upper-middle class, collegiate rite of passage, wisdom tooth removal. What a disappointing flirtation with danger! I went under the knife without getting to wear a spcial gown. I wasn't rolled from one room to another, therefore there was no opportunity for me to grab my mother's hand and start a sentence with, "If I don't make it...," nor was I able to show my fresh scar(s) to strangers for a small suggested donation.

I did, however, wake up in a teeny tiny recovery room, double the size of a phone booth, with mischief on my mind. I remember holding some gauze in a small white envelope, the kind you slip your cash in to give to your hairstylist, and feeling like I was Beavis or Butthead. Though not sure which B&B idiot I was, I managed to discern that leaving my come-to-room seemed like the greatest shitty idea I ever had. With a mouthfull of bloodied gauze, I followed my worst insitnct and snuck out. The drugs were incredible. I was so deleriously Happy Loopy that I wandered out into the hallway and knocked on the door of every operating/examining room within reach. I am told that by the time I was discovered disturbing the tooth removals of my dental patient brethren, I'd gathered a group of nurses into the middle of the hallway so I could ask them if they'd like to join me in a cocktail. Always the entertainier, I insisted that I felt fantastic and that we should take the party on the road.

Mom managed to pay the bill and toss me into the front seat of the Ennis family Volvo, but she forgot to strap me down. As penance for her mistake, she had to suffer while I continually opened and closed the passenger door at and in between stoplights. Everything I did felt like such fun, mostly b/c I knew it was inappropriate, but also b/c I got a panicked reaction from people. Even at 20, freaking the crap out of my Mom was a thrill, the kind I thought I'd lost after failing to let go of the tow rope when I wiped out water skiing for the first time. As that boat yanked my ski-less 45 lb. body around Lake Booby-kaka (who remembers the name of every lake in Wisconsin or Indiana?), Mom watched, helpless. Now this time it was her 100 lb. daughter flirting with diving out of the safest car manufactured in the world.

Most of my memories of the wisdom tooth frolic of '94 are fuzzy, very fuzzy. But my favorite is the one that Mom chose to haunt me with for the duration of my recovery. She begged me to stop talking, b/c when I did, I drooled blood and I guess that's gross. She insisted that I shut my vascular mouth and try writing things down as an alternate method of communication. When I reluctantly agreed, I snatched a pen and paper and jotted down a quick request:

Mom, you grew up in the 60s, you were cool once, where can we get more of this stuff?

The stuff I was refering to must have been the drugs that I'd begun to come down from, because, like a latent junkie, I tried to flatter and cadjole her into feeding my monkey.

For the next week, whenever I'd wince in pain or behave like a wuss, I'd get the 'you were cool' note shoved in front of my swollen jaw. Worse than that was getting my stitches checked at the Dr.'s office. Everyone remembered me well, the 'let's get a drink' girl. Apparently I was a delightful change of pace b/c most girls wake up from the dope crying like, well, girls. The entire office staff smiled at me and rolled their eyes like they'd seen me tap dance naked across Lake Michigan while they politely observed, "You put on quite a show."

CONFESSIONS

This album is perfection. It sounds incredible on my ALTEC LANSING speakers hooked up through my computer. I can only imagine the aural pleasure of pumping it through my feet and sternum on a club's sound system. Suddenly I'm in the mood for a Madonnathon. Meow.
"In the evidence of its brilliance..."

Um...Madonna is 47. The photo above was taken at 3:30 a.m. on a Saturday night at The Roxy. Damn.
I wonder if Lourdes & Rocco open the door in Mommy's room, get an eyeful like this, turn to each other and say, "Mom, get that leg higher!"

The Queen, her court and adoring subjects. NOTE: For anyone studying the art of marketing, particularly branding, Madonna is the Queen indeed. Every single color used in the lighting, staging and presentation of the production pictured above corresponds--exactly--to her 'Confessions on a Dance Floor' album cover. I worship and adore.

Why Wisconsin Isn't Bad

• I used to loathe the Cheese state. First, they call Illinois residents, "F.I.B.s" which translates to Fucking Illinois Bastards. Who has enough time to hate ppl from IL, let alone come up with an anogram for it? Two bucks says they don't even know what an anogram is. That's not anti-Wisconsin, either. I'm insulting deer huntin' Cheese Head Packer fans b/c they hate IL residents FOR NO REASON. Our summer homes keep their taxes low and their police force ripe with doughnut money. And if The Bears v. Green Bay wasn't the BEST rvialry in football, no one would care about the sate of Wisconsin, unless shit beer wasn't on the shelves. Then all consumers with shit taste in beer would care about Wisconsin.
  
  A recent trip to Milwaukee, however, has shown me the light.
  
• Everything there is wicked cheap. In Milwaukee, I'd have a pot to piss in. At the Milwaukee TARGET, I got a pair of socks for $1.20. I also got a Family Size bag of Twilzlers for $1.79.
  
• Starbucks is better there, too, I shit you not. A Chai Latte costs less in Wisconsin. $3.49 compared to NYCs $4.13 for a Grande. AND my red hot beverage was ready before I approached the other side of the Star-$s counter.
  
• At Lucille's duelling piano bar, they run a cash cow. The over head is so low, I couldn't duck low enough to get under it. Me. I am a limbo Goddess. Their shot specials come in huge plastic syringes. It's 80,000 proof jello gizz and they inject it right into your face for $2. The frills? They throw napkins in the air every 1/2 hour. It looks like one of those $$ booths where you grab as much moolah as you can. Imagine Dorothy in Oz, all hopped up in that poppy field, dreaming that all the flowers were $20s and getting home meant fistfuls of Andrew Jackson. Sadly, I scrambled like an idiot until I realized I was diving for recycled wiped stolen from the local Arby's.
  
• It's quiet and clean there.
• No one drives like as asshole.
• When you're served in a restaurant, at the TARGET or the Mom and Pop (former monster) chain, Starbucks, you're SERVED with a smile and civility. They don't hate you for spending $3.50 on a latte when that's nearly their hourly wage.
• The air is fresh and crisp.
• In WIS, I look hot and hip, more so than the average woman.
• Chicks there are still sporting mullets! Not as an ironic cultural wink toward days past. Noooo, I saw multiple short fronts, long backs while I was there. Worn with purpose and pride, tongue firmly planted out of cheek, I swear.
• In the grocery store, their salad dressing aisle is 20 feet long. It's an incredible cornucopia of Ranch, Ranch and more Ranch. I can't pick from 2 Ranch selections in Brookyln! It's HIDDEN VALLEY or the road.

I'm moving as soon as I can curtail my violent tendencies toward Packer-loving Republicans.

Like Sand Through The Hourglass...

...so are the many days that have passed w/ narry a peep from The Shan. Fret not, bitches. Nothing's wrong, except I don't think I've had anything to eat today. Scratch that, I know I haven't. Eh, there's a new pizza joint near my house. Chowing down crap food w/ no nutritional value late in the evening is a frequent occurrence, yet I still grab my spare tire and think, "Why won't this disappear?"

Anyway, I've been really fucking busy. To quote Kim Jong-il in TEAM AMERICA, "Do you have any idea how fucking busy I am?" That's really funny if you do the voice.

The best news ever:
Tomorrow night I hop on a plane bound for Chicago where I will celebrate w/ the real White Sox fans, the Southsiders, with whom I will only share a HI-Five. Beyond that, there'll be no intimacy be it spoken or more touching. Speak no evil, I never do. Touch no evil, that's my credo. More importantly, I get to see my cousin, Bill, who narrowly escaped death this summer. If I wasn't such good friends w/ God, willing to practice all kinds of pagan witchery shit and didn't know every Indian, er, Native American "don't let my cousin die, oh Big Hairy Sky" dance, he'd be reading this blog on another plane of existence. More cause to celebrate, my cousin Mary, who is the bravest person I know, who seriously has her shit together and never ceases to amaze me, is turning 30 on November 8th. Up my nose with a rubber hose should I fail to show up for that milestone. And my little brother, who's a grown man aged 28, far wiser and more savvy than I, bought his first home. He owns real estate. I don't own anything, rather, I OWE everyone. Ah, home, where my Mom makes me tea in the morning, and talks really quietly to me as I slowly leave R.E.M. to join the Day Already In Progress.

I plan to blog at Home (Chicago). Upcoming subjects include my impending business trip to Hong Kong in January, period underwear, and Reality vs. Big Dreams, particularly my 'real job' vs. my stand-up aspirations. Now, if that ain't worth the wait, well, then it isn't and you're stupid.