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Wednesday, May 11th, 2005
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11:01 am - Call out to New York Area Peeps
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Okay, any LJers who live in the New York, New Jersey area, I call on your aid. I am running pathetically short on peeps for my show at The New York Improv this Saturday. If you live reasonably near and, of course, have the interest, please try to kick it humerously at my show this weekend. Saturday is round one of the Road Warrior Comedy Contest. It's sponsored by the Rascal's chain of comedy clubs. If I win the contest, I'll get some paid road work with accommodations included. If you would like to come, please make a reservation and drop a comment here to let me know you're coming. Details are below as well as on my website. Thanks everyone!
New York Improv
318 W. 53rd Street (near 8th)
Saturday, May 14th @ 7:00pm
$15 at the door
$12 with Reservation:
212.629.1781 or 212.629.1921
(2 Drink Min)
Reservations are preferred
Please try to make reservations by Wednesday, May 11th
Take the C, E, 1 or 9 to 50th Street and walk 3 blocks North.
The club is near the corner of 53rd and 8th Avenue.
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| Wednesday, April 27th, 2005
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10:37 pm - The Ferretlovers memorial to my Loki
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| Monday, April 25th, 2005
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10:41 pm
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Loki's condition worsened throughout the day. She began to have siezures, so I took her to the vet because she seemed to be in pain. She had advanced pancreatic cancer. The treatment options would have only given her another four or six weeks of life, none of which would have been terribly comfortable. The merciful option was to have her euthanized. My little friend of almost ten years passed away quietly and without pain at 5:20pm today.
Rest well my little Loki girl. I'll miss you.
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11:00 am - My poor little Loki
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My ferret Loki got really, really sick yesterday. She's dying now. I think she's at the end now. I'm so heartbroken. She's been my buddy for almost ten years.
EDIT: I just noticed I still have ferret mood icons and I can't remember right now how to fucking change them.
current mood:  melancholy
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| Thursday, April 14th, 2005
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11:04 am - Gee, ain't i jest a smartypants?
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| Tuesday, April 12th, 2005
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1:56 am - From the great abyssal depths of time . . .
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No, it's not Cthulu. It's me. I've been away (again). I have to be very sneaky to get onto LJ at work, and by the time I get home from the office I don't feel like doing fuck all.
Anyhow, this is just a brief "I'm still alive" post. I have a website now. If anyone is interested in what I'm up to Stand Up Comedy wise, or has ever been curious about what I actually look like, you can find out at my website.
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(9 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, November 9th, 2004
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9:22 pm - . . . Belatedly
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So it works like this: Reply to this post with request for an interview. I reply with five questions. You post the questions and answers in your journal. People ask you for interviews. The world rejoices with understanding and a vast outpouring of peace and understanding. The president declares it unamerican, and imprisons half the population. Sentator Jar Jar suggests the Galactic Senate grant Bush emergency powers to deal with the threat presented by the seperatists. Al Franken defeats Cheney in a duel, and Cheney becomes Darth Dickhead just after Bush declares himself Emperor. Cheney's daughter is hidden on Tatooine . . . Um, I've gotten off track.
Anyhoo, ![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=92.2) dalyrical1 asked me these five questions:
1. Where did you get the handle naz_ghul from? The Naz Gul from Lord of the Rings. However, when I started my LJ account, some fucker had taken it, so I added an H. Let the record state that I chose this handle years before the films. Though I am still Peter Jackson's bitch. I will think of this as I buy the Extended Return of the King in December.
2. Did you always want to do stand up? No, I am a classicly trained actor - I went to Mason Gross School of the Arts and the Royal Academy of Dramatic Art in London to get a fine arts acting degree. However, I learned an important lesson during acting school: I don't like actors. I couldn't see myself being surrounded by the self absorbed shits all the time. Stand Up is better for me than acting anyway. I produce, write, direct, costume and perform my shows. If I fuck up a show there's no excuses; I blew it. If I kick ass I get all the credit. It appeals to my love of performance, my sense of humor and to a degree strokes my ego.
3. Where would your dream gig be? The HBO special is where it's at. I'd kill a Hilton sister to get one of those gigs. Actually, I'd kill a Hilton sister for a decent turkey sandwich, so I suppose that wasn't a good analogy.
4. If you were to go on a world tour and could bring 3 people with you (expenses paid), who would you take and why? Easy. My girlfriend, because sometimes I can't seem to get my pants on properly without her. drewness, because he's the best guy ever for working out material - he's got roughly the past 20 years of stand up comedy memorized, so he's good at telling ya when a bit's been done before, and he's got killer instincts. Also, Drewness comes up with ideas sometimes that I use in my shows. He and I have disturbingly similar senses of humor. Lastly, my buddy Clarke, the Air Chief Marshal. He and I get almost symbiotic with humor, particularly when we've consumed at least a washbasin of liquor.
5. Do you remember your dreams when you wake up? Sometimes, though I more often remember that I had dreams but can't remember what the hell they were. Only the really intense ones stick around to make it into permanent memory. I once dreamed that I'd been elected King of the World. That was pretty rad - I lived in the White House and had Justin Timberlake and Britanny Spears made into armchairs, and there was water resevoire behind the house full of Jamesons.
drewness also hit me with a set of questions, and the long awaited answers are:
1. When you become a world famous standup, can I be in charge of your entourage? See above. However, you'd best kick out the three B's: Bitches, Blunts and Bling Bling. Fo Shazbot! Fucking A, were I any whiter I'd be transparent.
2. What would you say is the secret to the unadulterated coolness of Tom Waits? I think part of his secret, at least, is that he doesn't give a flying fuck if people like the album. He does what he wants, makes the music he wants, and doesn't care two hershey squirts if it upsets his fans. That keeps him interested in the music. He's always making the music he wants to make and is therefore fully committed to it. When Tom commits to something, it always fucking rocks.
3. What do you see going on with our little band of hooligans over the next couple of years? One of two things. A> World Domination. As desirable as this is, I don't think we're up to it. We can barely get from New Brunswick to Manhatten, how the dogfuck would we run a planet? B> Expatriated to Australia for political asylum when our increasingly theocratic government has dissent and intelligence deemed treason and issues warrants for our arrest.
4. You can go out for drinks with any three famous people, living our dead. Who are they? Hunter S. Thompson. (yeah, big shocker there). Orson Wells. Winston Churchill.
5. You likey Tom Collins? Ah, Mr. Hoi . . .
So, there you have it. A look into the man, the legend, the boozy dumbass. If you want me to ask you a few, let me know.
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(18 comments | comment on this)
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| Wednesday, November 3rd, 2004
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4:02 pm - Post Election Thoughts, Part I
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There will be more. For now, I have a specific audience I want to speak to. Only 17% of registered voters between the ages of 18 and 29 voted this year. If you are among the 17% who voted, you needn’t read any further - unless you have in mind a comment or two for the 83% who didn’t. I want to speak to you dimwitted motherfuckers who couldn’t tear yourselves away for an hour from whatever meaningless, banal entertainment that occupied you last night to go vote. Let the record state that my anger at you isn’t because I necessarily think Kerry would have won if you’d gotten off your self-absorbed asses; my problem with you childish little diarrhea stains is that you didn’t vote at all. My examples will be those of more liberal persuasion, but my issue is your fucking apathy. Assuming at least some of you ignorant shits are literate enough to read, I have the following message for you:
I hope Bush does re-institute the draft, and I hope all of you end up human bullet-stops in some blood-caked, sandy little hellhole in the Middle East. I hope this because that is the only way you can be of any use to this nation. That’s all you are fucking worth – to soak up bullets and shrapnel so the officers and very expensive equipment behind you don't. When the draft cards come in, we don’t want to hear a fucking peep from you dumbasses, either. You had your chance, now you can fuck off. It’s clear from your apathy, your selfishness, your ignorant laziness, and your total lack of interest in your own well-being that the youth population has grown fat and idiotic. You don’t make enough money to even make a meaningful contribution to income tax; the only input you have is TV ratings. It’s time to thin the herd; time for another generation to get a reality check by seeing a large percentage of your demographic killed or horribly maimed in some vicious, uncertain conflict far from home.
For those of you that don’t gasp a gargling last breath after getting in the way of a piece of enemy ordinance, there is another fate appropriate for you. I hope you can’t find jobs, lose your healthcare, and find yourselves living a personal nightmare of mediocrity. You deserve to live paycheck to paycheck for twenty or thirty only years to realize that you have no hope for retirement. If there is any justice in this world, you will have to look a child of your own in the eyes and explain to him or her why there are no new clothes or holiday gifts this year. I want you to weep with impotent despair; may your every moment be defined by an unyielding sense of dissatisfaction and futility.
Those of you who are in college – you should be fucked with chainsaws and then rolled in margarita salt. You’re supposed to be educating yourselves, becoming adults, taking charge of your lives. You’ll spend hours preparing for a party but you can’t bear to be away from the beer pong table for an hour or so to fucking vote? You are hereby banned from complaining about your educational costs, your health costs and the fact you won’t find a decent job when you graduate. That cashier/barteneder/waiter/waitress/busboy job? Get fucking used to it; you’re going to be there for a while. What, the only programming position you could land pays 22K a year and is 35 hours a week, disqualifying you for health care? Tough shit. Suck it up, and smile while you swallow. This is what you wanted,you lazy motherfucker. It must be, or you would have done something to tell our leadership otherwise.
If you’re gay and didn’t vote – what the fuck is wrong with you? One side of this election (the side that won) wants to bring the pain to you, and they are not fucking around about it. They want to officially make you second-class citizens. They want to crush the resistance out of you – to browbeat you until you know your place. The more the conservatives get their way with you guys - the more they can legislate away your citizenship - the more they’re going to want to take from you. Neocons hate you with a seething fury; they want to see you dragged through the streets and treated like criminals; they want to make you out to be dangerously insane. Placating these people, rubbing the stiff nipples of the religious right for the millions of votes they have, depends on fucking with you. The conservative bigots get out to the polls and vote. If you didn’t, you are among the dumbest motherfuckers in this country. You should be fucking ashamed of yourselves and your friends should tie you up in burlap sacks and beat you mushy with cricket bats.
All of you lazy pieces of shit will, of course, keep your fucking mouths shut about anything pertaining to the behavior of the government, the economy, your right to control your reproductive health, your ass possibly being blown off in a foreign conflict, or your safety from terrorism. When you can’t afford to insure or put gasoline in your car, shut the fuck up. You had a chance and you didn’t want it.
If any of you brain-damaged fucktards are thinking “voting doesn’t really matter” or “they don’t care about the youth vote anyway” or some such ignorant nonsense, you have my blessing to fuck yourself until your eyes bleed and your genitals burst. As was evident in this election, there is no goddamned reason for politicians to do even the most basic thing for you; you don’t vote anyway. You are not a threat or a benefit to any politician. You don’t exist.
You’re all just weak-minded little children, taking no responsibility for yourselves or your future. You’ve abdicated your right to complain, and any control you might have exerted over your environment. If you’re incarcerated for months or years by a government agency without benefit of legal representation, if you find yourself paralyzed with pain and disbelief in some Iraq wasteland as your buddy is blown into a mist of blood and bone, if you lose your teeth because you can’t afford a dentist, if you have to watch your child die horribly of some disease that may have been treatable . . . You’ll want to have a say then, won’t you? It will be too fucking late. The truly sad thing is that, should any horror befall you, you’ll fucking deserve it. You chose not to have a voice, you chose to have your decisions made for you, and you deserve whatever happens. I’m rooting for something truly depraved and heinous, but then again I have no sympathy for you lazy wastes of breathable oxygen. Maybe I’m cold hearted, but at least I’m adult enough take responsibility for it. You, on the other hand, are just a bunch of brainless, selfish assholes. If you all died tomorrow the only way we’d know is by the sharp decrease in the sales of Avril Levigne records and improved service at the Taco Bell drive through.
current mood: Supremely Pissed Off
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| Friday, October 22nd, 2004
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11:36 am - Of Abrupt Seasons, Hats, and Corporate Abuse of the Press
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Fall seems to have arrived in one startling motion this year, like someone showing up early to a dinner party already inappropriately drunk. Fall didn't call ahead, send a warning email, or politely RSVP, it simply stabbed it's finger repeatedly at the doorbell and staggered into the living room, leaving a trail of dripped whiskey stains on the carpet. Do you remember seasonal changes the way I do, when sometime in early September there'd be one surprisingly chilly morning, which was a trailer for Fall; it reminded us that Fall would be in theatres soon and we should break the sweaters out of storage. The transition to cold weather last year also lacked proper introduction. It took a few weeks of uncomfortable small talk before everyone got with the "it's time to wear a coat" program.
I wear a black Porkpie or fedora most days when it's cold, because if I'm going to keep my fat head warm I want to do it with some style. I've found, though, that many passersby don't know quite what to make of a guy under 40 wearing such a debonair anachronism.
"Is he Jewish?" they think, "No, he doesn't look Jewish. Could he be a mobster? Oh, that's retarded - mobsters haven't dressed like that since 1957. Maybe he's just a weirdo? Dear god, could he be some crazed renegade Amish guy looking to smite us for our sinful, decadent ways? Is that a Hayfork under his topcoat?"
Okay, maybe it's not all that interesting, but I like to amuse myself with the idea of it. What I find really interesting about wearing old-school hats is the way in which it seems to grant membership in some secret club. Men who wear these kinds of hats appreciate other men who wear them; we know we're a bit out of step with our surroundings and like seeing other guys who have similar proclivities. I have gotten many an approving nod from and had more than a few pleasant conversations another hat-headed gentleman. In our gang there are no secret handshakes, tattoos or code words - just a stylish headpiece and a smoldering resentment that there are so few proper haberdashers left in the world.
A word of advice to men considering joining us in the Hat Head Brigade: the wearing of a hat, no matter how dapper, will not attract certain kinds of women. Almost all women under the age of 25 will be confused and repelled by your stylishness. They will be simultaneously reminded of Cary Grant, their grandfather, and a loose montage of images from Mobster flicks. The wearing of a great hat is an anachronistic statement - it will add an air of stylish good taste, it will add a certain sophisticated gravitas, but it will repel most girls with exposed midriffs and will attract elderly ladies like a "loosest bingo cards in town" sign outside a church rec hall. However, you will comfort yourself with the knowledge that your self respect and dedication to refinement is far more lasting and rewarding than some cheap evening enmeshed with a lithe, perspiring co-ed gymnast with a head full of Bacardi and a streak of adventurous nymphomania . . . Forget I said that. Your hat will definitely get you laid. It will toss you into a horde of young, beautiful ladies who appreciate a style that gasped it's last breath forty years ago. You'll ride a wave of luscious honeys like a rock star. Trust me. You'll get more ass than a toilet seat. Really. Fine, fuck you if that's how you're going to be about it.
Not long after my rant (and drewness, too) about milquetoast reporting I read a story that demonstrated exactly the cancer that gnaws on the medulla of modern newsgathering. Sinclair is a media organization that owns two or more TV stations in 21 nationwide markets. They own several stations in almost every city in the country, and originally ordered all of their stations to preempt their prime time programming the Friday night before the election to show a documentary that attacked John Kerry's post Vietnam activism. When Jon Lieberman, Sinclair's Washington Bureau Chief, spoke to the Baltimore Sun and called the documentary "biased political propaganda, with clear intentions to sway this election," they fired him. The Associated Press reported October 19th that “Leiberman, 29, said he told DeFeo (the Sinclair Vice President for news) he would not participate in preparing the program about the film and that he objected to it being labeled news rather than commentary.” DeFeo’s justification was that Lieberman "violated company policy" by speaking to the press about "company business." It's not surprising that most reporters are cowed and obsequious; if you stand up for journalistic ethics, if you have any open commitment to truth, you will be punished for it. Washington Bureau Chief for a major outlet like Sinclair is a serious job. It means prestige, respect, paychecks overburdened with zeros, and regular oral sex. A position like that is not given lightly. Lieberman took an awful risk by speaking out and paid a very high price.
( More On This (Not Really) Breaking Story )
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| Saturday, October 16th, 2004
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2:28 pm - Comedy Update
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So, an interesting development. The Show this Sunday, the one that's a round one audition for the Boston Comedy Festival, is still on. However, it looks like I'll be on that Saturday, too. The Improv called me yesterday afternoon and asked me if I'd be willing to do a show Saturday night in addition to Sunday. The kicker is they said I don't have to bring anyone, which could be significant.
My set on the 9th went really well. I was doing so well I got extra time, which was tres cool. When I came off the stage, the professoinal booker for the club shook my hand and said "You were really funny, great job. "The bummer was their videotaping system was busted, and I didn't get a tape of it. When they called yesterday, they mentioned that they were sorry the system was broken and that I could get a reel next Saturday. I don't think they'd invite me to do a show just because the video was broken last time, so I have a feeling they may be feeling me out as a comic to do more pro shows. This could be very good.
So, as promised, here's the relevant info for the Weekend of Comedy.
Saturday, October 23rd and Sunday October 24th 7:00pm
The Improv, New York City
318 West 53rd, near the corner of 8th ave
reservations: 212.629.1781 or 212.9629.1921
$15 at the door, $12 with reservation, 2 drink minimum
Reservations are helpful to me, preferably by Monday, October 18th
Directions: take the C, E, 1 or 9 to 50th street, walk 3 blocks North
A few things to consider regarding which show to attend if you are so inclined. On Sunday, which is the Audtion, I need to bring at least 7 people. This is just so there's a big enough audience to perform for so we aren't doing comedy in front of four people, which crapfucks the whole stand up dynamic. I have no audience requirement for Saturday. If you're trying to figure out which one to attend, please go to the Sunday show.
As always, thank you a megaton to everyone who chooses to come. I really, really appreciate it; I know supporting me takes a lot of time, energy and money, and your loyalty is both noticed and appreciated. A particulary warm thank you goes out to Zeitgeist, Somabrak, Keightball and Drewness for having attended almost every show I've done since I returned to stand up, and for allowing me to bounce material off of you like a juggie on a trampoline. You guys are the absolute best.
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| Thursday, October 14th, 2004
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10:29 am - Of Beer, Foamarms and Imbeciles
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So, Drewness, my girlfriend and I handled the final presidential debate in the only way that made any sense: With good beer and foam-flinging firearms. Armed with some very neato Nerf handguns Drewness picked up on the way over, we guzzled beer and fired volley after volley of squishy darts at Bush's smug little countenance. Though we're both Kerry supporters, we even tagged Lurch a few times when he rode the party horse a bit too hard. Understand this was the only way to survive without causing ourselves great physical harm. After three presidential and one vice-presidential debate, our senses of outrage have become frail and delicate from overuse, like a torn muscle still in the early stage of healing.
Bush's sad, flimsy doctrines wear ever more threadbare, yet he continues to spit mouthfuls masticated nonsense from his podium in the desperate hope some of it will hit an undecided voter who prefers his or her truth pre-chewed. Kerry, once again bristling with facts, dates and quotes, continued to hammer at Bush's utter disregard for the truth; this was sadly like gentle Caribbean tides trying to erode the face of a granite cliff. Bush is impenetrable to the truth; you will not give honesty or truth access to his mind without the liberal use of blasting caps and dynamite. The formidable thickness of his skull and his monolithic "resolve" against facts prevent any attempt to inject reason or sense into the Great and Powerful Bush. Nevermind that Cheney behind the curtain. Karl Rove is in no way the Lord High Minister of Oopma Loompas.
There was a great circus on the internet yesterday about the possibility that Bush was wearing a radio receiver and wireless earpiece during the Town Hall debate. This theory was generated by several images of the President from behind that showed a conspicuous rectangular bulge under his jacket. There was enough of a hoopla that even the major news outlets at least mentioned the incident, though in tones normally reserved for explaining to children that no monsters lurk in thier wardrobes. In true Republican style, the "expert" they trotted out to discount this theory wasn't a security expert or CIA agent. It was, and I'm not kidding, Bush's tailor. Well, if the President's suitmaker says so, who are we to question? According to his tailor, it was just a "bulge" of the fabric. Nicolle Devenish, a campaign spokeswoman, called it "a rumpling of that portion of his suit jacket" but couldn't say why it was rectangular. Check out www.nytimes.com/2004/10/09/politics/campaign/09bulge.html and Salon.com for a few takes on this story. What the conspiracy sites failed to mention is that even if such a thing were true, if Bush's handlers really were feeding him answers, they did a profoundly poor job of it. He still sounded dimwitted, still lost control of his temper, still had very little to say save for his usual tired, redundant catch-phrases. If Rove and Cheney are going to operate the president like a ventriloquist's dummy, the least they can do is ensure something intelligent comes out of his mouth. I'm toying with an alternative theory; perhaps the bulge was just the President's battery pack. Could it be that Bush is simply the "Energizer Dummy?" Were there presidential programmers, deep in the sunless bowels of a Washington bunker, being flogged that night for their clumsy debate code?
Bush was far more composed last night than in the previous debates, and looked less likely to pull a Bruce Banner when confronted with a troublesome question. He got a little snarky here and there, and did interrupt and occasionally outright ignore the moderator and his own debate rules. Well, what can we really expect these days? The emperor has begun, ever so slightly, to feel a breeze on his buttocks. When up against Kerry he knows he's overmatched - it's like Jerry Fallwell trying to debate physics with Stephen Hawking. So, his innate, animal belligerence shines through because he and his handlers know that in a cage, a tiger will eat Einstein every time.
The same dynamic exists in the timeworn religion versus science chestnut that was danced around like an equinox bonfire last night. Kerry had a least the cajones to say that his faith was very important to him but that it wasn't appropriate for him to use legislation to force it on others; he openly admitted he sometimes persues policies that are at odds with his religious convictions. He rightly and intelligently said that the government must respect the faiths (or lack thereof) of all people in this nation.
Mr. Bush, who has towed the conservative right-wing line like a plucky little tugboat, said more than once that freedom should be for all people. However, at no point was he struck by lightening, nor did his tongue have any noticeable fork in it. I suppose robots don't attract universal cliches for falsehood the way living, breathing folks do. Freedom and liberty have different definitions to the conservatives. They will force-feed you all the freedom you can take, they'll gag you with it, they'll pack your lungs full of it until you asphyxiate. All the liberty spilling from their cornucopia of democracy, however, is for good, white Christian people who don't have abortions, don't care about advances in medical science, and tolerate gay people as long as the uppity queers don't demand equality. If you don't like their version of freedom, you can frankly fuck off. All citizens are, indeed, equal. Some are just, you know, more equal than others. If you don't like the right wing definition, if you aren't willing to fall in line, they cordially invite you to get the fuck out of their country you un-american, terrorist smooching, baby killing, immoral, sub-human scumbag.
What a narrow, willful, cruel and greedy view of the world.
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| Tuesday, October 12th, 2004
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12:50 pm - Fall
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Ah, Fall is here again, and with it the requisite receding leaves, lengthening skirts and politicians masticating the truth until it oozes from their mouths in pulpy, slobbery globs. The chilly mornings lead to warm afternoons, making everyone on the train sweat and fidget because they don't want to carry their jackets. No more maddeningly smooth tummies peeking out through girls' half-shirts. No more pink toenails sticking out of over-priced sandals - with the exception, of course, of hippies bent on displaying their environmental consciousness by wearing Berkenstocks. They'll happily pair them with ugly lumberjack socks they bought at Abercrombie.
Fall is my favorite time of year because of Halloween, the greatest of holidays. One of the few holidays that hasn't been assimilated by Christianity in America, Halloween still revels in it's neolithic pagan roots. It upsets fundamentalists, which brings me no small amount of glee. I can dress up like some horrific thing and terrify children without fear of being assaulted by an offended parent. Shrieking children bring me almost as much joy as they bring Dick Cheney, who feeds almost exclusively on their brain matter. This is why his back is so hunched; it's been distorted by constantly bending over to bite the head off some weeping, frightened youngster. That's probably the only thing Dick does that doesn't fling me into fits of frothy indignation.
The debates so far have been pretty engaging political theater, but I fear the ultimate effect will be less than satisfactory. I can't say for sure if they'll really change the minds of undecided voters. The media have been so spineless and cowed in their coverage I get an image of Dan Rather cowering in a corner, pleading "don't hit me again, Mr. President! Don't beat me anymore, Senator!" Kinda makes me want to prank call Rather's house, leaving dozens of voice mails wherein I just repeat "Kenneth, what's the frequency?" over and over again.
Rather (and the rest of the press) have become such simpering pussies these days. In Friday's debate, our cro-magnon President repeatedly ignored the rules, flew from his seat in a rage, shouted answers at the fine people of Missouri, and at one point even argued with the moderator. Do we see any significant mention of his inability to control his anger? One article on CNN had an obtuse reference to it buried in an article on the Politics page, but still referred to the debate as a "tie."
They make me fucking sick. They all seem to function as tepid corporate castrati, singing in childish timbre any song handed to them by the candidates' press liaisons. One of the few journalists left with any testes to speak of is still writing a (I hope) very lucrative sports column for ESPN. What pisses me off is that the time he's spending creating witty insights into football isn't being spent badgering republicans for the truth.
The press have become so tamed and pussified that, in comparison to them, some of the fringe people still at least trying to do real journalism - opinionated and ofttimes slanted, but at least with a hunger for truth - seem like crazed pundits or half-witted conspiracy theorists by comparison. Regardless of my reservations about Michael Moore before Fahrenheit 9/11, the deep craving for the truth that film embodied is exactly the feral element that has been excised from the press at large. No more Ed Murrow, behind whose dignified exterior lurked a ferocious belief in giving the people the truth. No more of the halcyon days of Cronkite's early work; there was a time when he'd do anything to get at the truth. If he were trying to get a story on the Wampas from Empire Strikes Back, his narrative would have been from inside a gutted Taun Taun.
No one is looking out for us anymore. No one is reminding us of the value of truth the way they did in the past. The conversion of news into entertainment that was most significantly spearheaded by CNN has insinuated itself into every mainstream news outlet. This has been the case for so long that no one remembers what good reporting is anymore, or why it was so valuable. As soon as ratings come into play in news, all is lost. The news is saddening, frustrating, frightening and, yes, sometimes boring. It's not supposed to be fucking entertainment; it's supposed to be in-fucking-formative.
The worst part is that these days people who are very informed about the world, those with real, metabolized knowledge, are often viewed as self-important eggheads. How the fuck are we supposed fight back?
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(6 comments | comment on this)
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| Tuesday, October 5th, 2004
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11:31 pm - Ding dong the Witch is Dead
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The tech job is finished . . . Now for sleep, and good wank. Much like a smoke after a good meal, a wank is an excellent way to mark a job well done. It's like that little squirt of whipped cream on the top of a sundae . . . (engage entendre) in more ways than one, I suppose *wink wink*(/entendre).
Even though I am in an disconcertingly functional and satisfying relationship, there is still room for stretching the phone cord from time to time. It's a little time for me, kinda like those commercials for single-serving desserts.
When I need some time for me, away from the busy schedule, the kids and the job, I need only look to vigorous masturbation. Nothing, aside from certain prescription medications, relaxes me so quickly as pulling the pizza dough. It's fun, it's easy, and best of all, pumping the shotgun is totally free.
It's not a substitute for intimacy, nor a maintenance cleaning of the wang duct work; it's just a little reward that takes minimal effort. It's kinda like leaving one of those scandalously tasty Pepperidge Farm Chocolate Chunk cookies in the bag for later, and then remembering it when you're a bit peckish. Then, with chocolate on your lips (or keilbossa in your hand, I suppose) you get a few moments of uninterrupted pleasure. Of course, with my luck, when I turn on the TV Dick Cheney will be on, and that will take a big wet piss on my whole day.
I fucking hate Dubya and all of his ruthless, cruel, bigoted, ice-hearted cronies.
Update Even though I specifically scheduled to see it, seeing Cheney on my TV still took a steaming shit on my day. These manipulative little fuckers (I speak here of Bush and his crew) have done such a skillfull job of making falsehood truth it just shrivels up the willie. How can I get at it to play with it if it's retreated up into my larynx somewhere? How can I express my rabid outrage with a voicebox full of wang?
How screwed would this entire country be if Bush were as shrewed as Cheney?
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5:34 pm - For Drewness:
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| Monday, October 4th, 2004
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1:59 pm - Tired, grumpy, sorta lumpy
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I am very tired. The tech job I was supposed to do Thursday and Friday spiraled so absurdly out of control that, someday a thousand years from now, archaeologists will unearth ruins inscribed with a hieroglyphic record of this debacle. This clusterfuck will become legend. The good part is that none of the insanity was my fault. The bad part is I worked about 45 hours Thursday through Sunday. I was still finishing up last night at 11:30pm. Bear in mind I'd gotten there at 8:00am that morning and had worked through with no breaks, save for two hastily smoked cigarettes. You might conjecture from this information that I am tired. You are right; your theory is, however, an insulting understatement.
I had enough caffiene this morning to give a platoon of violent speed freaks each a coronary embolism. I had a truly monolithic can of energy drink called "BooKoo." It's large, black and has several dozen chimpanzees smacking each other with femurs under it. It's 24 ounces of pure speed; the label claims it's three servings. On top of that, I had a 24 ounce coffee.
"How are you alive to type this?" you might be thinking. "Surely your heart detonated like a low yield nuclear device and sprayed chunks of your flabby ass all over the tri-state area. Surely, having survived, you couldn't possibly be reckless enough to be drinking another large coffee at this moment!"
Ah, how wrong you are, my friend. As impossible as it sounds, the 48 ounces of concentrated caffiene I consumed in one hour this morning did nothing to reverse the zombified condition I find myself in. I am, in fact, consuming another large coffee at this moment, as I was about to doze off at my desk and feared if I allowed it I might enter a coma for the remainder of the week. I can't afford to do that - I have comedy to prepare for Saturday. Plus, my employer would likely frown on my leaving behind the chunk of tongue I'd bite off when my jaw hit my desk. Fortunately, I don't crave human brains . . . yet.
The problem I find with most things that occur outside my home is that the outside world is, as part of it's very nature, public. I often find public troublesome because it tends to contain people, who are for the most part utter smacktards. Smacktards have no congress with truth, nor is there any concern for other people in them. Public gives them a dangerous sense of anonymity. Anonymity to a smacktard is like an open bar to W. C. Fields - an opportunity to go completely batshit.
This relates to my weekend catastrophe in that everyone involved in the project had everything ready on time, save for one total smacktard. Because of this cockmonger's empty promises and flaccid excuses, everyone else involved in the project was subjected to varying degrees of complete and total hell.
It just goes to show no matter how tasty the chili is, there will always be at least one rat turd in the can. You won't notice the turd at first glance as it's been marinating in chili for fuck knows how long, but you'll eat it. This metaphor doesn't make any sense at all.
It's the fucking smacktards again. They're drawing IQ points from me slowly, draining me at a rate so gradual that they think I won't notice. That way, by the time I detect something awry I'll be dimwitted and comlaisant. I'm onto the fuckers, though. I've drawn a bead on their misshapen, distended heads. Just take a few more steps, pigfuckers. Oh yes, just a few more steps so I can get a clear shot.
*This post has fallen into total incoherence and has been terminated.*
Fucker. I'm tired.
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| Wednesday, September 29th, 2004
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10:33 am - Funnier than God and a lot less likely to consign you to eternal damnation
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Hey LJ. I've been away a long time, but I am back. I fully realize I've said that before and then promptly vanished for a year, so let's just start with what we have.
Brief update: Still a technical consultant by day, comedian by night. I took a year and a half off from comedy due to exhaustion and lack of inspiration. I've been performing again. As a matter of fact, see the October schedule below:
Saturday, October 9th 7:00pm
The Improv, New York City
318 West 53rd, near the corner of 8th ave
reservations: 212.629.1781 or 212.9629.1921
$15 at the door, $12 with reservation, 2 drink minimum
Reservations are helpful to me, preferably by Monday, Oct 4th
Directions: take the C, E, 1 or 9 to 50th street, walk 3 blocks North
Sunday, October 24th, time TBA
The Improv, New York City
Same as above, cover TBA
Now that I've pimped myself heavily, let me explain the whatfors. The show on the 9th is a regular stand up show - a about 10 comics, about 7-10 minutes of material each. This one is important as I'm recording a demo reel and the more minions I have deafening the room with roiling, hysterical laughter the better. If you have a friend with fragile head veins, by all means bring him or her. Any review that states "See this guy, he will make you hemorrhage with laughter" would go a long way toward earning me the immortality and ponderous wheelbarrows full of money I've always dreamed about.
The show on Sunday is special. It is a round one audition for a spot at the Boston Comedy Festival. I only need seven people to come to it; the comics have been asked to bring that many audience members each in order to have a crowd of over a hundred to audition in front of. It's a lot more natural than trying to do stand up for six grumpy casting people in the back. I don't know what sort of shallow, polluted and/or algae-encrusted gene pool casting people come from, but they are invariably humorless, cranky, and prone to outbursts of tired sighing and prissy grumbling. Padding the audience means we don't have to hear their grim muttering or focus on their flattened, sloping foreheads. So, if you're within 100,000 miles of NYC that weekend, and you have no intention of flinging produce of dubious freshness at me, I command you to attend. I will have forms after the show you can fill out to become a member of the Church of Xenu, wherein you will worship me like unto God as your Galactic Overlord and Singular Deity.
All hyperbole aside, anyone who can make it will be super cool in my book. Some of you guys always turn out for my shows, and you (hopefully) know how much it means to me and how grateful I am for your support.
Later, instigators.
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| Wednesday, June 25th, 2003
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11:37 pm - Awesome!
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| Monday, June 2nd, 2003
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1:05 pm
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| Thursday, May 22nd, 2003
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12:19 pm - SUPER GEEK POWERS ACTIVATE
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As a blast from the past so to speak from my younger days when I played RPGs a lot. I can't believe I'm even posting this, but it has a kind of kitschy charm:
I Am A: Lawful Evil Human Fighter Ranger
Alignment:
Lawful Evil characters believe that a nice, orderly system of life is perfect for them to abuse for their own advancement. They will work within 'the system' to get the best that they can for themselves.
Race:
Humans are the 'average' race. They have the shortest life spans, and because of this, they tend to avoid the racial prejudices that other races are known for. They are also very curious and tend to live 'for the moment'.
Primary Class:
Fighters are the warriors. They use weapons to accomplish their goals. This isn't to say that they aren't intelligent, but that they do, in fact, believe that violence is frequently the answer.
Secondary Class:
Rangers are the defenders of nature and the elements. They are in tune with the Earth, and work to keep it safe and healthy.
Deity:
Iyachtu Xvim is the Lawful Evil god of fear, hatred, malice, and tyranny. He is also known as the Godson and the Son of Bane. He appears as a gaunt, naked, scimitar-wielding man, or as a black cloud with glowing green eyes. His followers are working to strengthen his position in the world by converting (often by force) other deities' worshippers. They wear black robes with dark green trim, and wear black iron gauntlets with green eyes on the backs. Iyachtu Xvim's symbol is a black hand, inset with green eyes.
Find out What D&D Character Are You?, courtesy of NeppyMan (e-mail)
current mood: bored
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| Friday, May 16th, 2003
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10:55 am - It's like Insomniac, but without Dave Atell
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Could not sleep last night. Spent the whole night in that creepy purgatory between asleep and awake. By 6:30am, I just gave up all pretense at trying to sleep and got a shower. I made some coffee, and went into work an hour early for lack of anything better to do. I want to go get pints with the work crew, but will likely judge discretion the better part of valor and go home.
Bugger, I am painfully sleepy. So tired I feel hungover, which is such a gyp as I didn't get any of the pleasure of hanging myself over. AND, I didn't get to see the damned lunar eclipse last night because New Jersey decided to be overcast during the first lunar eclipse in three years viewable from North America. The shit just isn't fair.
"Everyone's against us dude, I swear to god."
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