Saturday, January 31, 2004
with my mom. We're going to see a one-man show about Crohn's Disease, which is something that she has.
To learn more about Crohn's Disease, you can search at this site.
By the way, if you're thinking of posting a "funny" comment about how you also have dated my mom, please save your typing energy for your inevitable order of this book.
Friday, January 30, 2004
About what would happen if a woman had her car break down, there is a site for you.
Of course there is.
(Thanks to Mr. Chris DeLuca for this link.)
I realized that if I were the CEO of LiamCorp, my stocks would be in the toilet. I'm running my whole life wrong.
So therefore, as of right now, I am fired. Thanks for the 27 years of service buddy, I'll give you good references. But I need someone with more experience who's better qualified to run my life from now on. I will be accepting resumes via e-mail.
THE SCUM ALSO RISES
What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun.
I was at a show last night, and although I hate to come off like Page Six, subway vigilante/Trivial Pursuit answer Bernard Goetz was there.
At one point, Goetz interrupted an act who had been talking about bestiality by shouting, "What hurts a pig worse, if you fuck it or if you kill it for food?" Yes, the Subway Vigilante is now a radical vegetarian and does not believe in killing animals; unless of course, that pig is coming at you with a screwdriver.
It should come as no surprise that Goetz is running for some kind of office, for mayor or something. And why not? All the '80s scumbags are coming back into the spotlight.
Sharpton's a Presidential candidate. Tammy Faye Bakker has become a beloved gay icon. Trump is the star of a top-rated TV show.
Allow me to repeat that: Trump is the star of a top-rated TV show. No one I know who survived the '80s has ever ever ever said, "Oh man, I hope I hear lots more from Donald Trump in the future. Can't get enough of that guy. Hope he doesn't keep too low a profile."
That's the way it is with American culture now at the beginning of the new millenium: There's no garbage we're allowed to throw out. It all gets recycled, it all comes back to us in a different package.
To me, the funniest example of this phenomenon: Edward I. Koch, debatably the worst and most corrupt mayor this city's ever seen (his Queens Borough President Donald Manes actually tried to slit his own wrists in a car rather than face a corruption probe - if my memory serves me correctly) is now the movie reviewer for a chain of Manhattan giveaway papers. Fine by me; his opinions belong at the business end of a huge dog dump.
Of course, sometimes it's tongue-in-cheek; witness the success of the WB's "The Surreal Life," which takes old '80s celebrities (Corey Feldman, Emmanuel Lewis and Hammer, or Ron Jeremy and T.F. Bakker) and makes them live in a house together where we watch them lead "normal lives" in front of the camera.
And sure, it's all in good fun, but there's still that element of, "Hey I was a fan of that guy as a kid, and I'll be damned if it isn't a little comforting to see him in front of a camera again."
It's infantilism; the refusal to let go of your childhood at any cost. It's bringing back shitty '70s disco because you would prefer to live your life at age 17, before you had to go out and face the real world. It's buying the 25th anniversary Animal House DVD because goddamnit, back in my day they knew how to make raunchy teen sex comedies that were fun for the whole family.
It's hailing bands as the new kings of rock because they can mimic the chords of your favorite Zep tunes in a whole new way because you're the senior editor of Rolling Stone and you're scared to death that it's apparent that you haven't had your finger on the pulse of pop culture since the day you looked at your bloated, bloodshot face in your mirrored coffee table at four in the morning and said, "That's it, no more coke parties for this old boy."
It's the least creative people in America finding themselves making movies and TV shows, and deciding to recreate note-for-note the things that were huge successes when their target audience was seven, rather than go out on a limb and try something slightly different.
Donald Trump is a brand name, a faded "Sergio" label on a pair of jeans so worn and faded they feel like silk against your skin. Arnold Schwarzenegger is the movie hero-turned-real world hero. He's stepped over that line from fantasy to flesh because we've all grown up watching his movies, saying, "Man, if only he would actually come into my life and really kick everyone's asses."
You create the line. You blur it. You erase it. John Hinckley did that; he decided to turn his crush on 17 year-old Jodie Foster's character in Taxi Driver into a real relationship, and he did it so fiercely he almost killed the President. No wonder Jodie Foster's a lesbian; if that was my introduction to the world of adult heterosexual relationships, I'd have turned nun.
(John Hinckley, by the way, is going to host a talk show on Oxygen starting in June.)
And I think the reason it all galls me is that all these people who recycle rather than innovate are right. People really would rather listen to the same music they've always listened to, eat the same goddamn meal they've eaten 80,000 times before - be safe rather than take a risk - they'd rather listen to the same discredited leaders and public figures they laughed off the stage ten, fifteen, twenty years ago.
There is nothing new under the sun.
I didn't say that. I'm just recycling a 2,000 year-old quote from the Bible. Why not? It still works.
by liam mceneaney
river run-down dusty
whipping winds of cloud and slips
into a stream of faded memory
pirates pilot old ghost ships
down the cracked and muddy mouth
dead trees in a skull-head grin
pale misty memories floating south
the ghosts of where we've been
the actor's headshot, it grows older
'til his sister, she comes crying
running naked no one told her
they were goin' out dry-diving
thirty years still in her teens
sitting smoking in the cellar
plastic crowns for self-appointed queens
pray to themselves no one'll tell her
that the coronation's cancelled
and the orchestra's gone home
no payoffs need be handled
no one sits waiting by the phone
clock runs backwards, it's been tainted
scrapes to get by; it's just surviving
and drinks until it's fainted
off the wall and dies dry-diving
the mad minister is preaching
on all the souls that he could save
but the sinners he's been reaching
already live down in their grave
the lookout in the crow's nest
working on his midnight tan
grabs a shooting star and says
'are you looking for me, man?'
but the star just burns his fingers
and leaves the lookout sighing
the glowing memory lingers
of the night they spent dry-diving
dragon comes a' courtin'
dancin' to the bossa nova
like the pulp artist's rendition
of dime novel casanova
the jester's in the corner
with the bearers and sedan
the purple velvet to adorn her
clenched crumpled in his hand
while the jester he lies weeping
for a love who's late arriving
he doesn't know she's still home sleeping
she's dreaming of dry-diving
now the river run-down rusty
flows out into an ocean
of memories rank and musty
stinkin' of embalming lotion
and the passengers and crews
in the rotted stateroom for a ball
say there's nothing left to lose
when you got nothing left at all
the sky burns red as the sun sets
down over the last horizon
watch our fadin' silhouettes
as from the deck we go dry-diving
Thursday, January 29, 2004
Even my acquaintances kick ass:
Julia Cho opened for my Cult :45 show with Florence Yoo a month ago.
Now the NY Times has given her play a very positive review.
My Comments box now gives you the option of writing your comments in Persian.
Still can't get it to say how many comments I have, though, so enjoy the Persian language option before I switch comments servers.
This isn't a political stance; it's just, I watch him on TV and all I can think is, "Okay, someone let him slip past security. In a second, the bouncer's going to ask him to leave so our real President can talk."
I think it's hilarious when I see a guy wearing a shirt that says "NO FAT CHICKS!"
Because the back should read, "WILL EVER WANT ME."
I don't ever see some bald guy who lives with his parents and think, "Man, what kind of chick will that guy be wanting? Fat? Skinny? I can't tell and it's driving me crazy!!!"
If you wear a shirt that says, "NO FAT CHICKS," just cross out the word "FAT," because your life is filled with "NO CHICKS" at all.
I no longer find it exciting on a first date when a woman tells me she's bisexual right away,
I used to be like, "Oh, ho ho, I know what that means."
Now I say to myself, "Oh, no no, I know what that means." It means "Head games" and recreational drug abuse.
When a woman tells you straight off she's bi, what she's saying is, "I'm going to cheat on you, and you have no idea who with."
Not that I don't support bisexuals or anything, I really don't care. I just don't think it should be your most interesting character trait. At the very least, it should come after "My favorite movie is..."
Wednesday, January 28, 2004
The private side of one of my heros.
It's interesting mostly for how uninteresting it kind of is.
if I found being laid up with a bad back "depressing."
And the truth is that I've had so many medical problems, and have been in out of hospitals so many times, that it really doesn't bother me any more.
So here's a brief run-down of my medical history. I'm trying to get the years as close as I can remember, although I'm sure my mom can (and will) correct me.
(and by the way, please don't feel bad for me as I'm pretty much done feeling bad for myself - unless that'll get me laid, in which case please feel free to start the pity party)
* Birth - complications (I think I was a breach birth) lead to my being put in an incubator. Although I started off unhealthy, I refused to eat anything but solid food. In fact, if the nurses didn't feed me cereal I would cry. Child is father to the man: to this day, I love cereal so much that if a nurse doesn't feed it to me three times a day I cry uncontrollably.
* 6 months (?) - I develop spinal meningitis. I get a spinal tap. Thankfully, I remember none of this.
* Age 9 - While at summer camp in New Jersey, I develop a severe case of appendicitis. The doctor the camp sends me to misdiagnosises it, and it's a full four days before I'm taken to a hospital. I am operated on right before my appendix bursts. I also have developed pneumonia, and it takes six months for my lungs to fully clear out.
Vivid memory of the Garden State Hospital: A doctor tries to take my blood, but can't find my vein. Frustrated and angry, he starts stabbing my arm over and over until I am screaming uncontrollably.
What's worse: One night, The Ewok Adventure is on TV and I watch it all the way through. Years later, I will watch this movie again and realize that it made a lot more sense in my doped-up medicated state than when I am in full control of my senses.
Not only did my parents not sue the pants off the summer camp, but I got sent back a few years later for what were, quite honestly, some of the best summers of my life. And there ya go.
* Age 10 - I am diagnosed with chronic depression. If you think being a severely depressed ten year-old is fun, imagine if your parents are poor and uninsured. So I got to go to the local community hospital's free psychiatric outpatient clinic. I got to talk to many interesting young doctors who wrked real hard so they would not have to spend the rest of their lives listening to poor people like me. I got to try many interesting drugs that made me numb, fat, and interested in day-time TV to the extent that if you show me the first five minutes of a Duck Tales cartoon, I can tell you exactly how it's going to end.
Age 12 - Triple whammy. First I get diagnosed as having petit mal epilepsy (now cleared up. Should a disorder like that be able to clear up like acne?).
Then I get diagnosed as having severe asthma. Asthma attacks will have me in and out of emergency rooms until my parents quit smoking seven years later.
Then I sprain my ankle for the first time, requiring a walking cast. I sprain it by stepping on a moving soccer ball, which isn't that funny until you realize exactly how unathletic my life had been up until that point.
Age 15 - I sprain my ankle again. I forget how, but I do remember that the doctor wrote me a note excusing me from school for a few days. I then cut school for four months (I have an interesting academic history) and (heh heh) doctored the doctor's note (get it?) excusing me from school for those months. That lasted up until the second teacher I showed it to.
(The first teacher I showed it to was my homeroom teacher who couldn't care less. I could have showed her a note in purple crayon that read, "PLZ XCUSE LEEM HE WUZ NEEDED ON TH FARM" and she would have taken it.)
The best was that the way this teacher busted me was saying that there was no way the doctor could have written that note.
ME: What makes you say that?
TEACHER: Because I work in his office.
In hindsight, a blatant falsehood, but it worked on me like a charming charmy charm.
Age 20 - Hurt my ankle, end up in a cast again. Went to the Gouvernor Free Clinic that my friend Susie told me she'd heard about because it was a place she went to get free birth control.
Age 23 - An infection in my thumb causes it to swell. When my usual tactic of ignoring a problem until it goes away doesn't work, I get off the train from having visited a friend's beach house and went straight to the Emergency Room of a well-regarded Manhattan hospital.
At 2am, a doctor treats my finger. Cutting it open, he shows me how to administer the antibiotics. Then he says:
"You're going to need a painkiller. What do you want?"
ME: Uh, what?
DR.: You want some codeine?
ME: Oh, uh, I don't know.
DR. (winking): Don't worry, I'll give you something good.
He then prescribes Vicodin for me, with a generous 3 refills in case I need to tend to my thumb pain for the next month and a half.
By the way, damn is Vicodin some good shit. I ended up having to give it to a friend of mine, that's how good it was.
Age 24 - Blow out my knee. I belong to a gym when I lose my dot-com job. Suddenly finding I have all day to do nothing while unemployment checks come in, I spend three hours a day working out, Without stretching first. I go to the Elmhurst Hospital emergency room, where a doctor - after a rigorous checkup that concists of feeling my knee and esking me to walk on it - tells me she can't find the source of the pain and prescribes ibuprofen. Ibuprofen.
The only thing funnier to me than getting a prescription for ibuprofen is the fact that she didn't give me a refill, clearly fearing that I would get hooked on it and abuse it way past my need for it, sending me into the arms of shady characters like a pharmacist, bodega owner, or anyoen else who sells ibuprofen withotu a prescription. This was clearly not a worry for the intern who prescribed my Vicodin, by the way,
As you can see, medical problems are just par for the course for this guy, so please don't pity me. Instead, marry me so I can share your insurance plan.
Tuesday, January 27, 2004
This is in incredibly poor taste, and I suggest you scroll down to the Grapes of Wrath thing below.
BLACK SCREEN WITH THE ABC LOGO
As the VOICE-OVER (a WARM AUTHORITATIVE MALE VOICE) is read, the words appear on CHRYON, scrolling up.
VOICE-OVER (V.O.): We here at ABC would like to apologize for the following After-School Special. The Vice-President of Programming lost half a million dollars on college football, and the deal was either let his bookie’s nephew make this show or have his thumbs broken.
We put it on at four in the morning in the hopes that anyone who watches this will be so high they think it’s an infomercial or something.
The views expressed in the following program are not necessarily the views of the staff or employees of ABC or its affiliates or any reasonable person who has never been in prison, so please don’t call us or write in to complain because honestly we’re just as appalled as you are.
TITLE: ABC PRESENTS
The word "ABC" has been crossed out with a pen.
TITLE: A VERY SPECIAL AFTER-SCHOOL
TITLE: DADDY’S NEW LIFE
INT. LIVING ROOM -DAY
DADDY is sitting on a recliner, reading a newspaper. He is a seedy-looking man in his thirties, wearing a ripped shirt and jeans. He has a five o’clock shadow.
CINDY, an eight year-old girl in a nightgown, enters, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.
DADDY: Yes, pumpkin?
CINDY: Why are you leaving me and Mommy?
Daddy puts down his newspaper.
DADDY: Oh, I knew this moment would come.
Daddy lifts Cindy into his lap.
DADDY: (CONT’D) Now, honey, remember when Daddy once told you, "If there’s grass on the field, play ball"?
BLACK SCREEN WITH THE ABC LOGO
As the VOICE-OVER is spoken (the voice is slightly more frazzled this time), the words appear on CHRYON, scrolling up.
VOICE-OVER: Okay, ABC thought it made it clear that ABC is not responsible for the views expressed in this program.
A phone rings in the background.
VOICE-OVER: (CONT’D) Seriously, I’m the only one in the office right now; when the programming executives realized -
Another phone rings in the bathroom.
VOICE-OVER: (CONT’D) - that they would have to air this program, they all "coincidentally" took a vacation this week. So it’s just me and three interns who hate me.
In the next ten seconds, about fifteen phones ring.
VOICE-OVER: (CONT’D) So it’s no good calling to yell at me, I’m just going to let the machine pick up and, oh all right -
We hear a phone getting picked up.
VOICE-OVER: (CONT’D) Hello?
Well, ma’am, I was just saying -
I realize that, but we’re not responsible for -
INT. LIVING ROOM - MOMENTS LATER
Resume on the scene.
DADDY: And sometimes too much grass grows in the infield, and Daddy’s equipment -
BLACK SCREEN WITH THE ABC LOGO
VOICE-OVER: Look, if you want to yell at someone, please don’t yell at me. Here’s the producer’s home phone number: 718 950-2281.
CAPTION: 718 950-2281
INT. LIVING ROOM
The scene resumes.
DADDY: And when the grounds crew does do their job and cut the grass -
CAPTION: PRODUCER’S HOME PHONE - 718 950-2281
DADDY: (CONT’D) - it’s only because the home team is out on a road trip and the stadium is being used by a visiting team for scoring -
The sound cuts out, and the VOICE-OVER plays over:
Scenes depicting Daddy looking through the real estate ads, interviewing a landlady.
He takes Cindy to the zoo, and points out women’s asses to her. He gives a thumbs up to one woman’s ass and explains obviously that that’s what Cindy’s ass should look like when she grows up.
In his new apartment, Cindy shows up for her visitation. Daddy introduces a woman to Cindy as his girlfriend, and then pays her fifty bucks and the girlfriend leaves.
VOICE-OVER: A week ago, I was in sales, okay? I was told I was due for a promotion. "How’d you like a more creative position? Programming’s the place for a young man on the rise." And then I get stuck with this crap while the executives party in St. Bart’s. Great guys, go ahead and lead the parade and lead this poor clown to walk behind and scoop up elephant shit.
Well guess what: This clown ain’t taking your shit anymore, what do you think of that? Because I’m going to a better place where I can be in the arms of my sweet loving Jesus. But before I go, why don’t I bend over for you one last time so you can KISS MY ASS!
There’s a gunshot and the sound of a body hitting the floor.
The sound resumes on the scene:
Now Daddy’s in his new living room, talking to a 600 pound woman.
DADDY: Well, if you’re going to be my new roommate, I’d better get rid of this.
He opens the front door and takes down a sign hanging outside that reads: "NO FAT CHICKS."
Dramatic music swells.
FADE TO BLACK.
And always, if he had a little money, a man could get drunk. The hard edges gone, and the warmth. Then there was no loneliness, for a man could people his brain with friends, and he could find his enemies and destroy them. Sitting in a ditch, the earth grew soft under him. Failures dulled and the future was no threat. And hunger did not skulk about, but the world was soft and easy, and a man could reach the place he started for. The stars came down wonderfully close and the sky was soft. Death was a friend, and sleep was death's brother.
The old times came back - a girl with pretty feet, who danced one time at home - a horse - a long time ago. A horse and a saddle. And the leather was carved. When was that? Ought to find a girl to talk to. That's nice. Might lay with her too. But warm here. And the stars down so close, and sadness and pleasure so close together, really the same thing. Like to stay drunk all the time.
Who says it's bad? Who dares to say it's bad? Preachers - but they got their own kind of drunkenness. Thin, barren women, but they're too miserable to know. Reformers - but they don't bite deep enough into living to know.
No - the stars are close and dear and I have joined the brotherhood of the worlds. And everything's holy - everything, even me.
Monday, January 26, 2004
Last week, the latest issue of Drill magazine "dropped." I'm in the Comedy Commando section again, and I even have the "Punch Line of the Moment." I'm in with such comedy luminaries as Jim David, Lisa Lampanelli, and some dude from Reno 911.
It's like Maxim but for military dudes, so you can buy it at your local canteen, or you can pick it up at Wal*Mart. If you get it at Wal*Mart, please be sure to shoplift it because they engage in unethical business practices; they lock their employees in at night and force them to work unpaid overtime, and some other stuff.
To be honest I'm not sure; my mom teaches a Business Ethics class and she was telling me about it. The problem is that the side of my brain that's interested in listening to those kinds of things is in constant conflict with the side of my brain that's been ignoring everything my mom says my whole life.
BLACK, WHITE, WE'RE ALL ASSHOLES
You wonder why white guys talk black. I'm going to let you in on a secret. White guys don't want to be black. Who wants to spend your whole life with a system cruching you down? No, here's the fantasy every white guy has:
A black dude who looks like Andre 3000 but less threatening walks up to him and hands him a certificate and says, "Yo dawg, congratulations. The black community has voted you the coolest white guy in America. We promise not to hit you. In fact, you are as cool as a black man, but you'll have no problem getting a job out of college."
Thing is, white kids don't just want to be black, they want to be black gangstas. Which kills me, because no matter how bad some white kid's life is, it's never going to be gangsta-in-the-projects bad.
If you ask him, "What's wrong?", you will never hear:
"Yo kid, some guys rolled up on my baby brother Derek, they thought he was some motherfucker owed them fi'ty gs. So they pull a drive-by, bam! Then I run over and the cops roll in talkin' some shit like, "You got to come to the precinct to answer questions." I'm like, 'Motherfucker my brother died' and they start beatin' the shit out me."
You'll never get that answer from a white kid.
No, you'll probably get, "Yo dawg, my mom took my X-Box. Motherfucker said some shit about not doin' my math homework."
I just think
if white kids want to be black, they should want to be black preachers. Black preachers are awesome, because they speak beautifully, and they take about twenty minutes to answer a question.
Then you'd be like, "What's wrong?"
And he'd reply:
"My brothers and sisters. I was just asked 'What is wrong?' What is wrong? In order to answer the question 'What is wrong,' we must answer the question, 'What is right?'
"Let me tell you - what is right. Right is a man workin' hard, coming home and relaxing. Right is the love of a mother for a son. The same love as Jesus fuh you.
"But I tell you right now, what is wrong - the devil has entuh-ed my mother. I said, he has entuh-ed my mother. Given her mean wicked ideas. And just as the Devil has taken muh mother from me, so my mother has taken muh X-Box. Now let me read you from the Bible 1 Peter, Chapter 2, verse 11:
"'Dearly Beloved' - that is my mother, because I be lovin' her, respect thy mother and father - 'I beseech you,' let me repeat that, 'I BESEECH you as strangers and pilgrims' - the pilgrims celebrated Thanksgiving, and I give thanks to my stepfather for giving me that X-Box -
"'abstain from fleshly lusts which war against the soul.' I say again, 'abstain from fleshly lusts.' And what is lust but spiritual greed. And what is greed but taking something that don't belong to you. Like my X-Box. And my mom has declared war against my soul through her lust for my X-Box.
"Let me continue: 'whereas they speak against you as evildoers, they may by your good works glorify God in the day of visitation.' And what Peter means here is clear that the only way to get back at my mom is not through stealing something back from her - but speak against her to my Father who art in Secaucus - my biological father when he comes for his weekend visitation, and ask him to buy me a new X-Box.
"Can I get an Amen?"
To be honest, this doesn't read as funny as when I say it out loud to myself.
And to be doubly honest, whether I can memorize all this definitely remains to be seen.
Sunday, January 25, 2004
FRONT-RUNNER SEN. JOHN KERRY
"You rang, Mr. Addams?"
I've given up my search for Ms. Right.
Not because I've found her, but because I'm tired and I need to save my energy for my new hobby - macrame. No, I can't do both. It's one or the other, and I've decided that search for a perfect - uh - whatever the hell you do in macrame (stitching?) - is more likely to bear fruit.
That's right, I'm too lazy to find true love. Sorry girls.
This is just like the end of Casablanca, only instead of nobly sacrificing a chance at true love for a greater cause, I'm just plain lazy.
Sorry to break the bad news to you ladies, and now you can get back to - whatever it was you - uh, oh you already have.
Tomorrow: White people who talk black!
And later this week: A TOP 100 MOVIE LIST (Someone's been stuck in his apartment all week!)
Saturday, January 24, 2004
I'd like to support Dean for the same reason I know I can't.
See, he says and does the things that I would say and do if I were President.
The problem is that I should never be President.
In fact, I'm barely qualified to vote for President.
I realized, going to this chiropractor, that one of my problems with going to the doctor is that the minute I enter a doctor's office, I feel better. Not that I'm cured; as soon as I'm gone, I feel shitty again.
But I'm always worried that I'm going to get accused of faking, so I always feel the need to physically exaggerate the way I feel. I'll just walk in and be like, "OH LOORRRDDDDDD, TAKE ME NOW PLEASE JESUS IN MY TIME OF DYING. Excuse this sling over my nose, but it's been running like crazy up until the second I actually entered this office."
(The above is not that funny now, but I'm gonna rework the shit out of it.)
I guess I don't treat my body as well as I should. I realized the other day that if my sister's boyfriend treated her the way I treat my body, I'd beat the shit out of him.
A lot of people don't take my threats of biolence so seriously, just because I have no "upper body strength," and every time I try to get in shape I "hurt myself so badly I need medical attention."
Well, the joke's on you, oh ye of little faith; I have a little something called "the ability to fight extremly dirty." There's no rule against bringing a tire iron into a boxing ring. And even if there is, who's going to enforce that rule? The referee? Have you seen how tiny those guys are? If I can take out a boxer with a tire iron, what chance does a ref have?
You know what's really awkward? When you break up with someone, but for some reason the other person doesn't seem to know it.
Like you break up with someone, and then a week later they call you: "So what are you doing this weekend?"
"Uh, I don't know, but not hanging out with you."
"I was wondering if you wanted to go see this movie."
"Right, we broke up. Which means we aren't dating any more."
"Oh, okay, but if you ever want to get a beer..."
"Right, if I wanted to get a beer with you, I wouldn't have said, 'Let's not do that anymore.' "
Maybe they're thinking that they can trick you into not remembering.
"Oh man, this is the best date I've ever had. I can't believe we - wait a second! Yooouuu look awfully familiar!"
"Surprise! You're still my boyfriend!"
"Oh, you! Well I guess I can't hold three or four drunken makeout sessions with my friends against you."
Thursday, January 22, 2004
Pics from the Wedding of the Century.
(This excellent link comes courtesy Chris Regan.)
So I kind of realized that my usual technique for dealing with medical problems - ignore it and hope it will go away - probably wasn't going to work with my back pain problem.
And by the way, I realize that I have the stupidest reason for hurting myself, so if anyone asks how I hurt myself, I threw out my back holding up the whole Mew York comedy scene. Or carrying three old people out of a burning building or something.
So today I went to a chiropractor. He took an X-Ray, and told me that I had completely twisted my spine out of alignment, which would explain my back pain a bit.
I don't enjoy going to doctors. A few years ago, I hurt my knee badly and I went to the Elmhurst hospital emergency room, where I got charged fifty bucks basically to have an intern tell me she couldn't figure out what was wrong with my knee and prescribe ibuprofen for me. Motherfucking ibuprofen. I literally would have been better off buying a five year-old one of those five dollar Dress-Like-A-Doctor kits and saved myself a lot of time and hassle.
A big problem I have with going to the doctor is knowing how to dress, especially when it comes to underwear. The doctor is going to see you in your underwear. Even if you've got migraines, the doctor will have you down to your skivvies. They have the best scam going.
So you can't wear underwear that would embarass you. No stains or nothin'. But at the same time you don't want to wear anything too nice. You don't want to strip down to something lacy and sexy, unless you want to send your doctor mixed signals. On second thought, those signals probably won't be so mixed.
I did get to see my X-Ray, and all I can say is, I envy anyone on my 2004 Christmas card mailing list. I photograph very well. Also, it was nice to see that spoon shoved up my ass again.
I know what you're thinking,
"Liam, how do you plan to pay for all this incredible medical care?"
Easy, I have a great money-making scheme called, "Asking my parents for the money."
Don't look down your nose at me; that's an old and honorable financial scheme. People think that J. Paul Getty was some kind of great business mind, but the truth is that he was just such an exceptional whiner that his parents literally threw money at him to get rid of him.
Tuesday, January 20, 2004
You may have noticed I didn't post on my blog yesterday; no, silly, it isn't because I have respect for the late Dr. King or anything, it's because of something personal and selfish.
Here's the story:
Last week I kind of sprained my back. Basically, I'd been working out every day doing sit-ups and stuff. But I decided I didn't need to stretch.
Don't feel sorry for me. I really messed up my knee a few years ago when I belonged to NY Sports Club because I would do these intense three hour workouts without stretching at all.
Anyway, over the weekend my back felt a lot better - although, I must admit, not good. So I thought it would be fine to work myself just as hard as before so long as I stretched first. After all, if something's worth doing, it's worth doing obssessively to the point of being self-destructive.
Well, yesterday I was in excruciating pain. Could barely walk. Today I'm better. I should be good by Thursday as long as I don't move around much.
Guess who's going to be getting into yoga? So what if people say it's exercise for people always picked last in gym class? And so what if those "people" is "me"?
By the way, when you're in excruciating back pain, your standards for what you want to meet in a woman go right out the window. I've completely thrown out the whole "so funny and smart, so talented" thing and now all I want is a bodybuilder with strong hands and thumbs that can go about eight inches into my lower back.
I want a woman with the Bluto's body and Popeye's forearms. Also, access to a supply of OxyContin would be nice.
Anyway, my point is, I'm going to put a couple days' worth of blog entries here, so feel free to savor:
If you're a guy who uses the phrase, "I'm not gay, but..." You're gay.
Nothing good ever foloows that sentence. No one ever says, "I'm not gay but - I love my wife."
No, it's always something like, "I'm not gay but - you have a nice ass. If I was gay, I'd be poundin' it right now."
Same goes if you end a sentence with: "...but I don't mean that in a gay way."
Because that always follows something that could only be described as "the gayest sentence ever."
It's always a sentence like, "Man, I'd love to see the size of Marbury's dick in the shower - but not in a gay way."
No, we all fantasize about getting other men naked in the locker room in a completely heterosexual way. It's a "game" we all play with our girlfriends.
You're right, you didn't say it in a "gay" way. You said it in a "so-creepy-we-should-never-talk-again" way.
I complain a lot about how I don't get women, but I have to admit that a lot of it's my fault because I am such a dork. This is true: more than once, I've been in the situation where I've been in a bar, with a woman sitting on my lap, and all I could think was, "Man, I wonder if this means she likes me."
And then I get home, and I hit myself: "GODDAMMIT! I am such an asshole."
It's like I suddenly have an Eastern European gym coach in my head:
"Vhat vas that tonight? You call that girl-chasing? In Vladovstock, if I turn down woman like that, Politboro come and shoot me in my head!"
"I just wasn't sure if she was into me."
"Wasn't sure?!! She vas showing you breast tattoo all night."*
"She was drunk."
"You do not deserve to be called heterosexual! Now get down and give me fifty wrist-ups!"
By the way: Thank God I was able to work a masturbation joke in at the end. I only have about ninety in my act. It's like what they say, "Write what you know..."
* This is a 100% true story, sadly. She even looked me in the eye at one point and said, "You know I don't have a boyfriend." Yes, I am a horse's ass.
Saturday, January 17, 2004
My friends the folk-rockers. They're quite tasty, and their album drops soon:
A Brief View of the Hudson
Friday, January 16, 2004
This Saturday I perform on a show with NY comedy legend Marc Maron.
On Sunday I perform with a Tough Crowd writer, a Saturday Night Live writer, and more.
Check out my calendar here for the details.
wanted to raise me right, so they decided to buy a baby book. Unfortuantely, instead of Dr. Spock, they got a guide by Mr. Spock.
Which explains my cold, emotion-free childhood.
Okay, I decided to add this note saying that i think I actually wrote this over six years ago, and it died a horrible death onstage.
And I got to witness the following:
A 30-something guy asks two old people to keep it down, and they start verbally abusing him. At one point, the old woman turns to him and says, "I can do anythign I want because I PAY MY TAXES!"
Why is this always a factor when someone wants to act like a douchebag?
No one ever says, "Oh yeah, I haven't paid my taxes - so I'll do your bidding, O Master."
I always carry my W-4 in case I feel like being a jerk. To you it's a tax form, to me it's my "Asshole Insurance."
Unless you actually have to deal with them. Then they're a tremendous pain in the ass.
Like, it's great that some old guy has the gumption to get into a fistfight over his place in line at McDonald's, but when you get into a fight with an old guy, nobody wins.
Don't get me wrong. If I had to fight some eighty year-old guy, I'm 50% sure I could take him down.
Or let me put this another way: If I ever have to fight that eighty year-old guy again, I'm 50% sure that this time I could take him down.
Okay, let me put it this way: If you enter the Circle of Pain with some guy, and you say "No walkers," that means NO WALKERS!
Those things are made of aluminum, and they hurt like hell.
Speaking of "Hell," guess where I'm probably going.
Thursday, January 15, 2004
My friend Johanna is one of my favorite character comedians.
Read her stuff here.
But no matter how hard I try, I can never be as racist as Hollywood.
Wednesday, January 14, 2004
You ever notice when a guy uses the word "gay" to describe something that's actually "smart?"
Like this friend of mine from Queens was like, "Hey did you hear Brian buys his girlfriend flowers every day? How gay is that?"
I'm like, "The guy is ensuring that he continues to have sex with his girlfriend. That's not gay. that's smart."
Apparently, masturbating alone to lesbian porn on a Saturday night is really "straight."
"Hey, Joe goes to therapy to stop hitting his girlfriend. What a fuckin' homo!"
Monday, January 12, 2004
A year ago, I wrote this article for Girlcomic.net about different religions (there's a link to the right).
I then received a letter from a woman starting a new magazine for women in Australia to be called Sheek, asking if I would write another humorous article on American religion. (Because who better to connect with the women of Australia than some American dude?)
I did. I have no idea if it was printed or not, but here it is now. Enjoy:
The American news has been full lately of a large, rich, politically-connected sex cult that had gotten away with abuse for years; able to block any police investigations using its influence and insular code of silence.
But enough about the Catholic Church. Instead, I propose to inform, instruct, and otherwise elucidate the other, peculiarly American forms of worship. No, I don't mean television, that unholy altar to the American trinity of Money, Sex, and Food. I mean Protestantism. After all, it's no secret that the United States is run by the Wasp; not the stingy little insect, but the White Anglo-Saxon Protestant.
Who are these Wasps? What is their culture like? What do they worship? These are not easy questions to answer, probably because the Wasp culture isn't homogenous, but rather runs to many different sects. There are many different branches of Protestantism alive in the United States, literally tens - if not hundreds - of thousands of splinter groups.
When I first started this article, I realized that if I wanted to write a responsible, well-crafted piece of journalism designed to inform the Australian female public of the many different kinds of religions here in the States, I would have to dig deep into the American subconscious, interview dozens of people from all different walks of life and all different faiths, and do hundreds of hours of research into the myriad worlds of American religious life.
Then I figured that, on the other hand, I could just write an irresponsible article that takes potshots at easy targets (see the Catholic Church joke above) and goes for cheap laughs. In my former course I'd spend a lot of time shaping a piece of journalism I could be proud of; in the latter I wouldn't even have to sober up. As you read the following, please decide for yourself which course of action I decided to take.
Early American Religious Life
The first American settlers were Protestants fleeing religious oppression in England. Of course, English culture has always been that of the stifling and oppressive. Don't let the Mod Sixties fool you; England is a hidebound, stuffy society, and anyone with any sense is glad to be well-shed of it.
The first settlers to touch soil in the New World were the Puritans (other than the Spaniards and the French, but as the old American slogan has it: "Hell, let them tell their history how they want; it's not like we can understand a word they're saying anyway!"), and they were leaving England for a new land where they and their children could set up a new culture that was twice as oppressive as the one they had just fled.
"Ah yes," said your average John Q. Smith, breathing the fresh Massachussettes air and proudly surveying the land he would soon take from the peaceful natives that lived there, "Just give me two acres and a town square where I can put the women in stocks for not being properly corseted, and I shall truly be a free man - though not free to spit on Sundays if I don't want to be hanged."
The Puritans believed in hard work, but they also believed in sexual repression. Not that they didn't have a keen sense of humour; quite the contrary, many was the nights the town elders would stay up until all hours, giggling over their latest treaty with the natives.
"Okay," John R. Smith would say through screams of laughter in the Town Hall, "You're telling me you really think they'll believe that we won't slaughter their women and steal their land this time? After what happened when we broke last month's treaty?"
"This time," rejoindered John L. Smith, "we'll add a proviso stating that we will trade bountiful pelts in exchange for every buffalo wrongly killed."
"Oh my God," laughed John W. Smith, "This is better than the time we burned Prudence Goodwife at the stake for smiling on the Sabbath."
And then he was put in the stocks for taking the Lord's name in vain.
Where are the Puritans today? Oddly enough, a pattern has emerged in America's history; every time a religion is followed where sex is discouraged and people are put to death routinely, its followers tend to dwindle out until nothing's left but a boring theme park that has no rides.
Not that the Puritans were the only game in town, early American religion-wise. There were the Shakers, for one. They were known for their terrifically-made furniture and also for their code that was even stricter than the Puritans. All that remains of their culture are a bunch of outlet stores in Massachussettes.
Then there's the Quakers. Not only are they great pacifists, but they are - unlike every other good American religion - strictly anti-Slavery. In fact, many Quaker households became stops on the Underground Railroad.
Of course, nobody likes a spoilsport, so we tend to ignore the Quakers as much as possible. Sure, we buy their Quaker Oats oatmeal. And in the madcap spirit of the late 1960s, we even elected a Quaker President: That man was President Richard Nixon.
Then there's the Amish. America loves the Amish the way you might faintly love a distant and aged relative that you don't have to visit very often. The Amish are an insular group - and by the way, I use the word "insular" because there aren't too many kind euphimisms for the word "inbred."
They're pale, whiter than an albino, and somewhere in the 1800s an Elder looked around his simple village, at the horse-drawn carts, the barns put up by hand, the houses not connected to the outside world by way of telephones or electricity or indoor plumbing, and said, "You know, it doesn't get much better than this. Let's never change." And everyone agreed to the extent that they have never adopted any modern conveniences. Ever. They figured that if the Good Lord had meant for Men to have indoor plumbing, He would have given us naturally heated toilets with flushable springs.
And today the rest of the modern world tolerates them, probably because in the back of our minds, each and everyone one of us fears a far distant Judgment Day when we find out that the Amish were right.
Of course, human nature will out; a couple of years ago, the Amish had a bit of a scandal a couple when several of their youths were arrested for selling cocaine. It's only a matter of time before news leaks out of the young generation taking Ecstasy before going to a barn dance and waving green-colored lanterns around.
As much as America cherished these religious forefathers, it always stuck in our collective craw that these were all religious factions imported from England. I mean, it's nice to have that Old Home Touch, but just as a young man will want to eventually pack his meager possessions and leave the safety of hearth and home to make his own way in this world, so did this new country want its own loony religious sect that it could oppress and ridicule.
In the mid-1800s, America got its wish.
It started, as do most great religious stories and motel register books, with a man named John Smith. He looked long and hard at the Bible, and after many nights of study, he found some remarkable things that no one had ever noticed before; like the fact that Jesus had multiple wives. This was, of course, based on his study of the little-known Book of Ron, the apostle who spent a lot of time alone in his room, "studying."
Smith, being a red-blooded male who had never even heard of Hustler magazine, decided that the only way to follow in the footsteps of his Lord was to also have multiple wives. This didn't sit well with the Religious Establishment - those fine upstanding men of society whose frame of mind could be described as "jealous we didn't think of that first," and rather than deal with a bunch of old farts, Smith and his followers moved out west to Utah.
"Utah," of course, is an old Indian word meaning "blindingly white," and that's the lifestyle the Mormons decided to adopt when they made it. In fact, black people weren't even allowed to be church elders until fairly recently, and even then only because the Federal government has all these anti-discrimination laws. The Church decided to exact its revenge on a meddling outside world by unleashing a plague of Biblical proportions upon it; that singin' Osmonds family. And like the locusts of yore, every seven years Donny and Marie emerge from their nests and make career comebacks.
Modern American Religions
As I mentioned at the beginning of this article, there are several thousand branches of Protestantism active in the United States. And despite that, all these branches believe the same thing; that the Bible is the literal word of God, and that Jesus was His only begotten Son who walked the Earth and died for our sins, they all denounce each other as misguided sinners.
This was something that confused me as a young lad. I was raised as a Buddhist, and so to my innocent young eyes, I figured that the various Christian denominations were like rugby teams. Sure, they all came from different places, but at they end of the day they were in the same league and played by the same rules.
(And by the way, as an American lad, no I didn't actually think of it in terms of rugby, but phrasing it that way saved me about ten pages of explaining college basketball. Trust me, I did you all a favor.)
As it turns out, although they all study the same playbook, each team interperates the rules differently, and therefore considers itself athletes of a different sport.
There's the famous Fundamentelists; a movement that began in the late 19th century in reaction to such Satanic influences as Charles Darwin's Theory of Evolution and "Modern Scientific Thought." The movement really took wing after World War I, first gaining international attention in 1925 when they tried to drum a teacher out of school for teaching evolution in a classroom, leading to the famous Scopes Monkey Trial where the Supreme Court handed down its famous decision that "You yahoos can do whatever you want, but for the love of Pete stop drawing so much attention to yourselves."
Then there's the Pentecostals. They looked at groups like the Fundamentalists and said, "That's good and all, but darn it all, people still take you seriously." So they added a new and different element into the mix, namely Glossolalia, or "speaking in tongues."
Speaking in tongues works like this: a religious fella's at a revival meeting, and he's a little bored. After all, there's only so many ways someone can tell you that you're headed straight for the fiery abyss before your eyes start to glaze. Suddenly, the Holy Spirit enters him and he's pitching a fit, rolling on the floor babbling in what could conceivably be a foreign language until the service is over.
According to eyewitness accounts, the thrill of speaking in tongues is fairly sexually; your body gets grabbed and charged up, you start sweating and losing control, the next thing you know you're on the floor writhing and screaming as white-hot spasms of joy run through your body. Pentacostalism has a huge following.
In fact, instead of looking down my nose at the practice, I encourage everyone to engage in sudden fits of glossolalia any time and every time the Spirit enters you - during a dull meeting at work; during a dry lecture on Colonialism in school; Thanksgiving dinner. And if anyone should get mad at you, simply denounce them as repressing your religious beliefs.
Another wacky group are the Evangelical Christians. You may know them by their best representatives; Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker. They were two mouthpieces of God who pretty much invented the idea of going on TV and demanding money in His name. Of course they used the money wisely, creating a Biblical theme park and buying an air-conditioned dog house.
There were those who denounced the Bakkers as money-hungry fame hogs who used the pulpit to make money for themselves, which they denied vociferously until the sad day when Jim was outed as the kind of guy who visited a prostitute, and then was sent to jail for embezzling.
I, unfortunately can't go into the whole sordid tale here, but I highly recommend any and every seeker of religious knowledge to read Telling It My Way, the autobiography of Tammy Faye Bakker nee Messner, where she gives a wholly objective take on the whole mess; she explains that everything that went wrong was all Jim's fault, that she had nothing to do with any financial misdealings, that of course it was a coincidence that she divorced Jim when he lost all his money and went to jail, and that her subsequent marriage to a wealthy architect was mere coincidence and true love at last.
But the biggest shame she brought on herself was the dark day when she cohosted a talk show with Jm J. Bullock. Now I know that Australians aren't familiar enough with American culture to know Jm J. Bullock, or his work on a game show called Hollywood Squares, but imagine the cultural pride the average Australian takes in the delightful Kangaroo Jack, and that about sums up America's love for Jm J.
I realize that I'm not actually discussing the Evangelical beliefs, but let's be honest -
gossip is more fun than religion.
Then there's the Jehovah's Witnesses. No, they aren't a group ready to testify in court if God gets into a fender-bender. (LOL!) They're a sect that believes in many of the same things as the Evangelical Christians and the Fundamentalists - that gay people are inherently evil, that pre-marital sex is a sin, that Satan is a very real force alive and well and probably represented by members of the Clinton family.
The Witnesses differ in their belief that there is no Holy Trinity. Instead, they believe that Jehovah is the Supreme Being, and that Jesus was a physical incarnation of the Archangel Michael. After the crucifixion, Jesus became a non-mateiral spirit creature; kind of like Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Like many Protestants, they believe in a definite Second Coming of Christ. Unlike many Protestants, though, they believe that the Second Coming happened back in 1914, when World War I marked the battle between Christ and Satan for control of the Earth (WWI kind of freaked out everyone with a religious bent).
They believe that Jesus was enthroned in the Heavenly Kingdom, and that Satan was expelled to live on Earth where, presumably, he runs a used car lot or something. But wait, what's the Heavenly Kingdom? Why, it's 144,000 True Believers who were actually specifically named in 1935 who will spend eternity with God as Jesus' fellow Friendly Ghosts, going door-to-door in Heaven trying to sell angels on the idea of becoming Witnesses.
Charles Manson and his followers believed essentially the same thing.
They share another core belief with many Protestant sects; a disturbing, almost fetishistic belief in an imminent battle of Armageddon between the forces of Good and Evil. Manson and his followers believed that the chosen 144,000 would be led to a land of milk and honey where they would wait out the Battle of Armageddon. The Witnesses believe, in a nutshell, that Jesus will kill everyone who is not a Jehovah's Witness, which will be followed by a thousand years of the kind of peace felt by people who are afraid that Jesus will bang down their door and kill them if they step out of line. Then the True Believers will return to Earth in their same bodies but without the imperfections and resume their lives with the same memories and personalities.
Of course, any religion can predict Apocalypse, but it takes a religion with balls to not only give a specific year for the end of the world, but to continue predicting it once the deadline passes. That religion is Seventh Day Adventism, founded by William Miller, a farmer who realized that whereas the job description of "farmer" involved long, grueling hours for not-much results, the job of "religious leader" entailed sitting around writing books and making sermons once a year.
Using a numerical system that's too long to get into here, he deduced that the Bible predicted the end of the world between March 1843 and March 1844.
SPOILER ALERT! The world didn't end. One of Miller's followers then realized that God isn't one of those fellows who just goes around ending all Creation in a day, and that there would be a seven month waiting period.
Well, if you promise a fireworks show, you'd damn well produce a fireworks show; when the world continued to thrive and prosper throughh to 1845, many of Miller's followers left the church in what was known as The Great Disappontment, mostly because there was a great disappointment. Why large groups of people are unhappy to be alive and whole is a mystery; probably something to do with their belief that it's funny to sell everything they own right before the big shebang and see the hilarious looks on the nonbelievers' faces when, while dying in an unholy holocaust, they realize that they probably shouldn't have slammed their front door in the righteous' face.
"That'll fix you," the righteous plan to say on that day, "And now look at all this money I have to spend should any stores survive the holy cleansing fires that are sweeping the world as we speak.".
Nobody likes to put off a good gloat, so when the world did not end as promised, most followers left the church.
This might have been the end of Adventism, only a woman named Ellen White took the reins. She proposed that the world had indeed ended, and that then marked a period where Jesus - acting s a sort of Cosmic Insurance Agent - would conduct an Investigative Judgment, at the end of which would be the cessation of the world as we know it, Satan's 1000 year reign on Earth, and esus' eventual second coming where the righteous would be taken to Heaven while the nonbelievers get cremated in a lake of fire.
There's no word on what happens if Jesus' investigations lead him to believe that the butler did it, or that Earth is innocent and can be let go with a stern warning.
As an interesting note, after World War I, Victor Houteff joined the SDA. Within a decade, he had formed a splinter group - the Davidian Seventh Day Adventists. They then splintered, causing the creation of the Branch Davidians, whose compound was beseiged by the FBI in the early '90s. By that time, the group believed that a fellow named David Koresh was the messiah, and that a fiery judgment was due soon. Ironically, they were proven right, though not in the way they'd hoped.
I always thought it was a shame that the Davidians' compound was destroyed; I think that they should have been forced to live in that compound forever, preserving their quaint Lunatic Christian ways so that two hundred years ago, America's great-grandchildren could see a vanished way of religious life.
Sure, there will be insane religious splinter groups in the future. But an examination of the new cults to emerge over the past twenty years show that the hot new religions - from the Scientologists to the Raelians - have all been based upon revelation-by-way-of-alien-interference teachings. Some day, the Jesus Freak will seem as quaint to our descendants as the horse-drawn carriage is to us.
Research by Julie Reed
Saturday, January 10, 2004
I have a gay friend who was telling me that if I want to pick up women, I should go to a gay bar.
Actually, he was complaining, "There are too many chicks at gay bars."
I think if he wants to find a bar with absolutely no women, he should go to a sports bar. Those are guaranteed to have maybe two women - one, a 50 year-old peroxided waitress with a cigarette dangling from her lower lip, and maybe a young twenty-something Bruins fan whose husband keeps an eye on her, the way a butcher would keep his eye on a steak in a house full of dogs.
The funniest thing about sports bars is that guys go and watch the game for about twenty minutes, and then immediately get distracted by beer, conversation, and that golf game where you have to spin a control ball to swing the club.
If you wait a couple hours and ask a guy what the score is, he'll go - "Uhh, the Mets are playing!"
Friday, January 09, 2004
Why not start a blog?
Margaret Cho outdoes herself here.
Remember when celebrities would only share their dumb opinions during acceptance speeches?
Hey ladies, been looking to marry a man and just haven't found someone desperate enough to have his sister put up a website about it? Play America's fave new game, Who Wants To Marry My Brother?
Next up, I hate to post a link to a site someone else posted a link to, but this game is goddamned addictive. What can I say about a programmer who decided that Hall was "the talented one?"
You will actually say, "Thank God Adam Ant came back."
Neon stars through broken shutters shine
Over warped wood with white pillars of dust
Swirling in the moonlight and the fine
Layers of neglected history.
Broken furniture lays across the floor
Among the scattered plaster of a broken bust,
And there sings a rusted swinging door
A song of forgotten mystery.
Once this house kept a family deep inside,
Known in their time for class and taste;
Ladies groomed with pedigree and pride
And each man groomed by destiny.
This parlor, once a social core,
Shutters in the hateful waste.
The dross and mire and sticky spoor,
Of misbegotten infamy.
If you seek the tale, then follow down
This stream of gossip to its bay
In the poorer section of the town,
Where they still speak of burning misery
That was hidden by a pearly shell,
For this is what their servants say:
That each gate to heaven guards a hell
Of secrets sad and slippery.
What shadows did these lamps once cast?
What words did these walls veil?
What traumas will these floors outlast,
And carry into eternity?
Answers drift down through the dust
Until all is sheathed in moonlight pale,
Or orange with the rooted rust
That coats the living memory.
Thursday, January 08, 2004
But, hmm, she's right, I really don't give a damn.
Huh. Son of a bitch. Sorry 'bout that.
I was at a party last week, when I was introduced to a fellow:
FRIEND: Jim Mitchell, this is Liam McEneaney.
ME (shaking hands): Mr. Mitchell.
FELLOW (genuinely offended): Actually, it's Dr. Mitchell.
ME: No offense. I call everyone 'Mister.'
FELLOW: Yeah, well, I actually spent eight years of my life to earn the right to be called 'Doctor.'
Right, and you seem to have spent a lifetime earning the right to be called "asshole," but I'm not gonna call you that in conversation either.
I was walking through Lower Manhattan, down Broadway, when an SUV full of teen Hassidic boys pulled alongside me.
In thickly-accented English, the lad in the passenger seat asked me, "Which way is it to Brooklyn Bridge?"
I pointed down south Broadway - "Down that way. Follow Broadway and you'll hit it."
They consulted each other for a second. Then:
HASID KID: "Is better to take Williamsburg Bridge?"
HK: "Is better to take Williamsburg Bridge?"
M: "Where are you going?"
HK (as if I had just asked the stupidest question possible): "To Williamsburg."
M: "Uh yeah, you're gonna want to take the Williamsburg Bridge."
Then I had to tell them how to get to the Williamsburg Bridge.
And though they pulled away without thanking me, they did show their gratitude by cutting me off as I tried to cross at the next corner, coming close to hitting me.
Wednesday, January 07, 2004
Which means it's party time!
And when I say "Party," I mean "masturbate on the couch."
And when I say "couch," I mean "her futon."
And when I say the above, I don't mean to imply that I refrain from doing that when she's in town.
Tuesday, January 06, 2004
It's been so long since I've had sex, I forget when you're supposed to start apologizing.
Monday, January 05, 2004
Check out Liam McEneaney live at these locations.
Don't remember algebra, how to parse a sentence structure, anything.
But I do remember the words to almost every Z Morning Zoo song parody.
Songs like Rock Me I'm A Doofus ("In my mouth I got one green tuchus - rock me I'm a doofus!"?!?!?), Khaddafy Sucks ("Khaddafy this time you've gone too far, gonna stick your head in a Mason Jar. Khaddafy you've gone, you've gone too far. Better get a friend to start your car. *sound of car exploding* Khaddafy sucks!") and Take Him Out Coach (Centerfield) ("Take him out coach, he's old and he's lame *clap clap clap* today. Take him out coach, too lazy to play, today, a million bucks is too much for left field.")
Ahh, the '80s. A million bucks in baseball was a scandal.
By the way, I forget the name of the player they were singing about, but he was playing for the Mets. In '86. Guess he was worth all the money after all, eh?
Tuesday, January 6th -
8pm * $10.00
The People's Improv Theatre
154 W 29th St
Reservations: 212 563 7488
* Christian Finnegan (Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" and Court TV's "Smoking Gun TV")
* Becky Donahue (Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" and "Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn")
* Ritch Duncan (editor-in-chief, Jest)
* Liam McEneaney (Comedy Central's "Premium Blend")
* Amanda Melson (professional touring comic)
Friday, January 02, 2004
I've updated my calendar again:
Mad cow disease has hit America (ROSIE O'DONNELL JOKE HERE, PLEASE), and Americans have responded in their usual sane, sensible manner - by refusing to stop eating beef.
Our cows are diseased, and people are still eating red meat like there's no tomorrow. Mad Cow Disease destroys your brain and spinal column, and you won't even know it for ten years.
What the fuck is wrong with Americans? If a scientist came out tomorrow and said, "Eating beef will give you AIDS," most folks would say, "I'm gonna have to put a condom over my hamburger."
And don't get me wrong - I love beef. I am as big a carnivore as you'll ever meet.
I used to date a vegetarian, and she would have me over at her place and she'd cook me these vegetarian dinners, good stuff like curry and sweet and sour vegetables and rice. Yum. But the next morning, when I left her apartment, the first thing I'd do is go right to the diner on the corner and order ham and eggs.
I was like a guy buying coke - "Yo my man, what you got what you got? Yo, give me some ham and eggs - and put bacon on that shit. A roll? No, I don't want it on a roll - just put it between two hamburgers. Yo - oh shit, here she comes, be cool. What's that baby? No, I was just buying celery."
Yes, that is a 100% true story not exaggerated in any way for comic effect.