MY NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS FOR 2003




* I resolve to write a sequel to the musical Rent, which I will title Fuck you, Squatter�Go Back to Connecticut!
(with an exclamation point at the end, to make it more musical-ee)

* I resolve to show more appeciation for the united States of America, the greatest country in the world! Am I right, people?

* I resolve to stop trying to get people on my side by making cheap appeals to their patriotism.

* I resolve to spend six hours crafting a rigid exercise regimen, go jogging twice over the course of the next month and then never, ever think about exercising again, save for the tail end of a two cheeseburger Extra Value Meal, at which point I will sob into my paper napkin.

* I resolve to stop drawing nipples on subway posters.
(I just feel like I�ve made my point, you know?)

* I resolve to stop dating complicated and emotionally volatile women.
(And this next one is kind of related�)

* I resolve to find boring people attractive.

* I resolve to stop calling my mother immediately after sex and yelling �who�s the loser now� into the phone.
(I mean, come on�she knows I�m the mack.)

* And my final resolution is very simple: Ass, gas or grass�nobody rides for free!

A SCENE


BATMAN (struggling,): So...hungover... Must...post...on blog...

ROBIN: Holy rock bottom, Batman! What's going to happen?

BATMAN: If I can...just...reach...the keyboard...

ROBIN: Hurry, Batman! It's already mid-afternoon!

BATMAN... Must...type... Must...type... Cant...think...of anything...interesting... Must...return...to bed.

ROBIN: Holy moment of clarity!

HEY, NEW YORKERS (or people visiting)!

Look, I don't do too much plugging here on Tower of Hubris, but if you're going to be in the city tonight (Friday, 12/27), you should really consider coming out to the weekly comedy show I host. Not only will there be a few fantastic performers tonight (such as Chelsea Peretti, co-creator of BlackPeopleLoveUs.com, and Bob Powers, creator of GirlsArePretty.com), I'll also be presenting a 6 minute film of unspeakable power and social importance.

By now, perhaps you've seen Martin Scorcese's wonderful new film Gangs of New York and shuddered at the thought of living in the city during such a turbulent and violent time. Well, any of you who've ever been caught alone at night on the mean streets of Gramercy Park know that there's still one group of true bad boys roaming the streets, waiting to kick ass and take names. That's right...THE LORDZ 'A LEAPING! Last year, a couple of friends ("Daily Show" writer Eric Drysdale and comedian Jonathan Corbett) and I made a film profiling these ministers of mayhem, and I'll be showing it tomorrow night for maybe the 3rd or 4th time EVER! You should all come and see it---I guarantee it will have you crying out for Mommy.

BONUS: "THE LORDZ 'A LEAPING" features narration by Fanatical Apathy's Adam Felber!

Here are the details, if you're interested:

Portable Comedy
Friday, December 27th
@ The Gershwin Hotel
7 East 27th Street (b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
A mere $5.00 (free frat-house vodka!)

Okay, that is all.

THE MOST EXCITING CHRISTMAS EVER -- A Timeline

4:25am -- Went to bed.

10:15am -- Got up, staggered to bathroom, urinated, returned to bed.

12:00pm -- Got out of bed for good, at the polite suggestion of my father.

12:10pm -- Checked email

12:34pm -- Ate banana and piece of leftover roast tenderloin.

1:05pm -- Began watching The Godfather on Bravo.

2:46pm -- Idly discussed seeing movie with father and step-mother.

2:59pm -- Decided not to see movie, due to impending snow storm.

3:15pm -- Awkward 28 nminute conversation with mother in Columbus, GA (vague promises of togetherness in the coming year exchanged)

3:44pm -- Watched section of The Godfather, Part II on Bravo.

4:40pm -- Drove through rapidly accumulating snow to Chang Ann's restaurant in Concord, MA.

4:58pm -- Arrived at Chang Ann's, where we were the only customers, other than one drunk at the bar and two middle-aged, obviously homosexual gentleman enjoying a secretive Christmas dinner away from their unsuspecting wives and children.

5:27pm -- Dug into my Chicken w/ Scallion and Ginger.

6:20pm -- Arrived home, checked Email.

6:24pm -- Opened bottle of wine, began drinking.

6:33pm -- Lured into epic game of Scrabble (I defeated my father by two points, mostly because my step-mother kept graciously opening up triple-word-scores).

8:10pm -- Watched Blow Out, directed by Brian DePalma and starring a young Travolta. Absolutely confirmed DePalma's reputation as the world's worst director ever to achieve last name recognition.

9:49pm -- Said goodnight to father and step-mother, continued drinking.

10:12m -- Considered doing something productive.

10:13pm -- Watched two back-to-back episodes of "Trading Spaces".

11:59pm -- Flipped back to Bravo for The Godfather, Part III


NOTE: Okay, I should mention that all of the traditional holiday activities (exchanging gifts, etc) are done on Christmas Eve in my house. And, it snowed something like a foot today, so seeing the extended family wasn;t much of an option.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, JACKASSES!

Um, yeah. If you celebrate that kind of thing.

TOWER OF HUBRIS RATES CHRISTMAS CAROLS OF THE MODERN ERA


* "Do They Know it's Christmas" (Band Aid) -- Sure, you can name all of the soloists in "We Are the World", but can you do the same for "Do They Know it's Christmas"? In case you aspire to my level of utter dorkiness, it goes: Paul Young / Boy George / George Michael / Simon LeBon / Simon LeBon and Sting / Sting and Bono / Bono / everyone / Paul Young again / everyone. Why a pathetic 80s also-ran like Paul Young got two solos, we'll never know. I will say this, though--Paul Young wins the award for "Most Inappropriate Use of a Sitar" hands-down for that song "Every Time You Go Away". As far as the Band Aid song goes, I actually kind of love it. It's actually got some musical and lyrical heft to it, unlike that USA for Africa horseshit. GRADE: B+


* "Little Drummer Boy" (Bing Crosby and David Bowie) -- This song was, of course, recorded as part of a famous '70s Bing Crosby Christmas special and I defy any of you to watch the little opening "scene" acted out between Bowie and Bing and tell me it's not the first three minutes of a gay porno. "Percival lets me use his piano...may I come in?" Percival?! Then, Bing awkwardly sidles up to the baby grand and makes "small talk" as Bowie teases him with his Aladdin Sane-era shock of red hair blue velveteen blazer, while nonchalantly thumbing through some sheet music. The sexual tension is almost palpable. And then...song. Ladies and gentlemen, the gayest moment ever on television (that didn't involve ice skates). Bowie was in fine voice, by the way. GRADE: B


* "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer" (Elmo 'n Patsy) -- The very sound of Down Syndrome. Even sadder: I absolutely loved it when it came out. I would sit patiently by the radio, listening to Dr. Demento (as was my Sunday night ritual), anxiously awaiting the "Funny Five" countdown. "Coming in at #5: "Yoda" by Weird Al Yankovic, #4: "Fish Heads" by Barnes and Barnes, #3: "They're Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!" by Napoleon XIV, #2: "Dead Puppies" by Ogden Edsl", and the #1 song of the week, dementoids and dementites, is Elmo 'n Patsy!!! Hoo-raaaaay!" I think I stopped listening to Dr. Demento the day I touched an actual boobie. Thanks, Nicole Guttenberg! GRADE: D


* "Fairytale of New York" (The Pogues) and "2000 Miles" (Pretenders) -- I shan't joke about either of these songs. GRADE: A


* "Christmas in Hollis" (Run-DMC) -- I think of Run-DMC a lot around this time of year, every time I get together with my friends and "bust Christmas carols". I did so love this song when it came out, wlthough I had no idea where "Hollis, Queens" was, nor what "collared greens" were, nor "cold hundreds of G's". Looking back, I think you can pinpoint "Christmas in Hollis" as the precise moment when Run-DMC stopped being taken seriously by black people. I think it may have has something to do with the "mischievous elf" in the video. It's probably difficult to come off as "hard" once you've appeared on film with a dude in tights and pointy shoes. I still get psyched when it comes on the radio or MTV, only to disappointedly turn the station two minutes in, once my "Irony Meter" starts dipping into the red. GRADE: B-


* "Wonderful Christmastime" (Paul McCartney) -- Sweet Christ, if this is the worst song ever recorded, I'm not sure what is. Recorded in the early days of synthesizer technology, this little yuletide ditty (or don't-y) now reminds one not of the Beatles' majesty, but of a rejected theme song for some cooking show on Queens public access television. Every time I hear that "seeeem t'be haaa-ving...", a little piece of me dies. I will always love Sir Paul, but I fully expect that "Wonderful Christmastime" is what's piped through Hell's stereo system while Satan pierces your genitals with burning rods. GRADE: F-


* "Backdoor Santa" (Bon Jovi) -- Insert joke here. GRADE: D

There are, of course, dozens more ("Happy Christmas (War is Over)" by John Lennon and Wham!'s "Last Christmas", to name but two), but I'm getting tired and it's not like anyone going to be checking in here today, anyway. And if you ARE, go wrap some goddamn presents, or something!

This is Part II of the long essay thingy I began on Thursday. It probably won't make a whole lot of sense unless you scroll down and read Part I first. That said...


A DAY IN 'THE LIFESTYLE', Part II

I�ll be honest: the concept of polyamory has always seemed perfectly acceptable me. When you�ve had as many failed relationships as I have, it�s only natural that you�d start to question whether monogamy is the natural order of things. Why the hell should we chain ourselves to one person when our internal chemistries so obviously try to convince us otherwise? If you can handle the jealousies and insecurities that are bound to arise, I say go bone as many people as time and discretion allow. It doesn�t take a genius to see that that�s where we�re headed as a society, anyway. The era of free agency is upon us�if concepts like �loyalty� and �exclusivity� seem increasingly quaint in the world of business, that can�t help but continue to reflect itself in the way we relate to each other, sexually. Besides, I like the idea of strangers �doin� it�

Does that mean I�m necessarily willing to wade through a room of half naked weirdoes in search of a willing vessel? Oh, I most assuredly think not. I said as much to Clarice, but she informed me it was too late�she�d already given Dave my Email address and I was to expect to hear from him soon.

I didn�t really take her seriously at the time. Clarice was always planning little adventures that never got off the ground�like the time she pitched the idea of luring horny men back to her apartment, where I�d be waiting to beat them up and steal their wallets. She just liked to make plans.

So I was surprised the next evening when I got an instant message from someone calling himself Gr8ASSets. Very subtle.

�Hey there,� he wrote. �U must be Christian, right? I�m a friend of Darcy�s.� Darcy, yet another one of Clarice�s pseudonyms. �Did she tell you about the party?�
I played dumb. �What party?�
�The New Year�s Eve party,� came his response. And then, after about three minutes of my not responding, �THE PARTY.� He punctuated this statement with a semi-colon and a close-parentheses symbol, which I�ve since learned is chatroom shorthand for �wink-wink�.

I wrote back that �Darcy� did in fact mention THE PARTY to me, but that I wasn�t sure I was going to be able to make it. Gr8ASSets assured me that the party was to be full of �cool people just hanging out, doing whatever�. A potential deal-breaker came when he informed me of $150 cover charge per couple. Now I�ve always said that if you can�t stay out or trouble by being moral, being cheap is the next best thing. I often wonder how many potential vices are kept in check not by righteous fortitude or personal dignity, but by a simple lack of funds. Poverty keeps you honest, and there was honestly no way I was going to pay $150 to frolic in the buff with anyone, no matter how Gr8 her ASSets were. In the end, Clarice offered to cover the admission fee (that�s the thing with strippers�they�re rarely at a loss for cash). So now it was purely a question of ethics.

So how was I able to turn that mental corner and fully embrace the idea of attending what was, essentially, an orgy? I chalked it up to �comedy research�, of course. One of the great things about being a comedian is that it serves as a great alibi whenever there�s something I secretly want to do but can�t justify, morally. As debauchery write-offs go, I think �Maybe I can get some material out of this� comes in a close second to �I�m working on my thesis.�

At around 10:45pm on New Year�s Eve, Clarice and I arrived at the address provided to us by the mysterious �Dave�. Immediately, I was surprised and vaguely disgusted to see a sign that read �Fulton Street Health Club�. Of course�if I was going to be made to feel physically inadequate, it only made sense that it would take place in a gym. With it�s mirrored walls, fake marble pillars and paintings of anonymous rural vistas, the lobby of the Fulton Street Health Club resembled an upscale Greek diner. Completing the image was a heavyset, mustachioed gentleman slumped behind a portable cash register.

In honor of the holiday season, I present:

A BRIEF HISTORY OF BAD GIFT CHOICES


YEAR: 10 Million B.C.
PLACE: Central Asia
GIVER: Og
RECIPIENT: Gar
CRAPPY GIFT: Muddy rock fragment in vague wheel-like shape

YEAR: 1327 B.C.
PLACE: Ancient Egypt
GIVER: King Tutankamun
RECIPIENT: Ankhesenamun
CRAPPY GIFT: Bag of snakes

YEAR: 753 B.C.
PLACE: Ancient Rome
GIVER: Remus
RECIPIENT: Romulus
CRAPPY GIFT: Acid-washed toga

YEAR: 31 A.D.
PLACE: Nazareth
GIVER: St. Peter
RECIPIENT: Jesus
CRAPPY GIFT: "Kiss the Messiah" BBQ apron

YEAR: 516 A.D.
PLACE: Camelot
GIVER: King Arthur
RECIPIENT: Guinevere
CRAPPY GIFT: Coupon for "10 free jousting lessons"

YEAR: 1503
PLACE: Florence, Italy
GIVER: Leonardo Da Vinci
RECIPIENT: Francesco di Bartolommeo
CRAPPY GIFT: Portrait of unattractive local woman

YEAR: 1865
PLACE: Washington, DC
GIVER: Andrew Johnson
RECIPIENT: Abraham Lincoln
CRAPPY GIFT: Theater tickets

YEAR: 1943
PLACE: Berlin, Germany
GIVER: Adolf Hitler
RECIPIENT: Eva Braun
CRAPPY GIFT: Genetically pure Dachsund

YEAR: 1987
PLACE: Acton, MA
GIVER: Robert J. Finnegan
RECIPIENT: Me
CRAPPY GIFT: Horrifying "Comedy and Tragedy mask" sweatshirt (airbrushed, with faux-rubies encrusted on sleeves)

Okay, here's the deal. Against my better judgement, I'm going to serialize a 'piece' I've been tinkering with for what seems like eons. I say 'against my better judgement' because I fear that, out of context, "Part I" reads a bit...well, smarmy. Alas, alas. Anyway, I have the first and last thirds written, while the middle is still in 'detailed outline' form, as it has been for the last three months. But I really want to get around to finishing it, so I thought opening it up to public scrutiny might give me the kick in the ass I need. I may post sections of it on consecutive days, or I may not post "Part II" for a week. We shall see. This is the introduction, basically.

Okay, enough procrastinating. Enjoy.

A DAY IN 'THE LIFESTYLE', Part I


For the first three weeks of our relationship, I was under the impression that Clarice was a photographer's assistant. After all, that's what she told me. Sure, I wondered how a photographer's assistant could afford to keep a room in SoHo and an apartment in Long Island working only two nights a week, but I didn't over-think it. I'd soon learn that Clarice lied about pretty much everything, including her name - I referred to her as Clarice simply because I'd given up on her telling me the truth. I knew her as Clarice, other people knew her as Emma, Nadine, Heidi and a half dozen other pseudonyms. 'Truth' was just not something that overly concerned Clarice, and once you accepted that, she was an awful lot of fun to be around. She was exceptionally bright, the only person I've ever met who could get through an entire issue of ArtForum magazine without falling asleep. She was also H-O-T hot. Well, that's not exactly it. You see, I'd dated attractive women before, but Clarice was something wholly "other". A strawberry blond, six feet tall, hyper-busty, she was the kind of woman usually confined to Japanese anime and Whitesnake videos. In short, she looked like a cheap stripper, which is exactly what she turned out to be.

The repressed Catholic in me would love to say I immediately broke things off when I found out that Clarice was flaunting her bosoms for cash, but that was not the case. I am many things, but I am not a hypocrite�if I�m the kind of person who ogles attractive women at every available opportunity (and I am), I certainly can�t hold it against a woman if she chooses to exploit that almost specifically male character flaw in order to pay her rent. Truth be told, Clarice�s career, combined with her abject hatred of pretty much everyone around her, gave her an outsider quality that I found rather adorable.

As far as "exotic dancers" go, I guess Clarice was an odd bird. She liked to quote ee cummings from memory and used words like "diaphanous" in everyday conversation. Clarice was that elusive archetype, the kind of woman Cinemax makes cheesy erotic thrillers about: The Slutty Intellectual -- emphasis on slutty.

She was also nutty as a fruitcake, but that only added to her charm. Other than the time she spent with me and the two nights a week she spent at work, Clarice lived like a hermit in her basement apartment, writing surrealist manifestos and researching various conspiracy theories -- all of which she blindly accepted, no matter how ludicrous. The Illuminati? Sure. Templars? Absolutely. Covert death squads operating under the joint supervision of the CIA and DisneyCorp? Helloooo! There were times when she wouldn't leave her apartment for days at a time because she was convinced that the UPS man was a private investigator hired by one of her ex boyfriends. Basically, she was Howard Hughes with bad breast implants.

To no one's surprise (including my own), my romance with Clarice ran its course within a few months. But even after our physical relationship ended, she and I maintained an active friendship - one existing almost entirely in the realm of cyberspace. I looked forward to finding out what strange shit was going to appear in my AOL inbox from day to day-one day it might be a link to a John Wayne Gacy fan-page, the next day maybe the transcript of a smutty conversation she'd had in chat room for amputees. So it was not at all out of character when Clarice sent me an Instant Message asking if I'd ever consider going to a "swing party". "Like, dancing?" I remember asking. "No," she declared. "Like, having sex with lots of people you've never met before." Ah, silly me.

Clarice had answered an online personal ad seeking out 'cool people, to hang out and do whatever'. Through the site she'd become acquainted online with a guy named Dave, who'd invited her to a 'party' on New Year's Eve. Problem was, the shindig was 'couples only', and that's where I came in.

I have to go out for a few hours. I promise I'll try and write something funny a bit later. But, for now...

KIKKO-MANIA, Parts III and IV

I share with you two more installments of wacky Japanese hilarity. Though these make no specific mention of soy sauce, I think you will agree that they are definitely fuits off of the same tree.

The first thing you'll notice about these two is how unbelievable the music is. Think Tenacious D, without any irony whatsoever.

My favorite part from this first one is definitely when the big, vaguely feline-looking creature starts doing the "Laugh-In" dance (you'll know it when you see it).

As for the second, all I have to say is "YOU! CAN YOU FEEL MY SOUL!"

SPEAKING OF CHEWBACCA...

Go here and click on Chewy for some Yuletide cheer.

12 DAYS AND COUNTING!!

Well, the holiday season is in full swing and you fine folks are probably banging your heads against the wall trying to figure out what to get me. Look, I know you;d rather surprise me, but I'm not always the easiest person to buy for, so I thought I'd give you guys a few Yuletide suggestions. So, without any further ado, here is my Christmas List (abridged):

* Autographed photos of Andrew Lloyd Webber and Chewbacca (together, if possible)

* Subscription to "Goth Fisherman Magazine".

* Baby's First Fry-o-later (from the makers of Easybake Oven)

* Lifelike, self-cleaning Jane Eyre sex doll

* Trade paperback copy of "Yankee Rose: Letters from David Lee Roth to Simone de Beauvoir, 1977-1986" (Bantam)

* Gray's Papaya platinum card

* VHS copy of "Wildest Police Cavity Searches -- CAUGHT ON TAPE!"

* Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Catfight

* Traditional Irish Claddagh cockring (I'll wear it with the heart pointing outward, as I've yet to be "won")

And, of course,

* Hashish

Time's a-wastin', folks--let's get shopping!

DON'T READ THIS


I have nothing to say today. Nothing. You really shouldn't even bother reading this today--you'll just be disapointed. No, I'm not in a bad mood. I'm not in a good mood, either. I am simply neutral. I am utterly without inspiration. Really, you should stop reading this right now. I have nothing to say. No, I'm not joking--I really don't have anything whatsoever to share with you. I wonder how long you'll read this, wonderging when the funny stuff is going to start. Well, you should just give up right now, because it's not going to happen. Seriously. Shoo! Go away! Nothing to see here, folks. What do I have to do to get you to stop reading this? This is not some sort of witty post-modern deconstruction of "meaning" in the context of language and culture. Although it would be interesting if it was. Not funny, necessarily, but intreresting. But no, there's nothing intellectual about today's post. I just wanted to take this moment to impress upon you exactly how devoid of meaning today's entry. And yet, you continue to read. That really is something of a character flaw on your part, you know. Don't go around bitching and moaning about how Tower of Hubris was really lame today, because I gave you all the opportunity in the world to stop reading and you chose not to listen. I mean, what can I do? I throw up my hands. If I wanted to make people reading, I would pull a couple of cheap little tricks, like putting random words in bold-type. That way, as you were reading the above sentences and thinking "Man, this is fucking boring," you would see the boldface words out of the corner of your eye, leading you to believe that there was something important coming up. But I'm not going to do that. Hell, I could even

start a new paragraph, which would lead one to believe that I was moving on to something new (and, one would have to assume, more interesting). And if I was a real prick, I could just throw in some random hypertext, making you think I was sending you to some hilarious and/or informative website. But I'm not. You clicked it, didn't you? Man, what the fuck is your deal? I made that URL up, just to prove a point. http://www.zebrafart.com--it doesn't exist. Let's just hope I don't get to the point of JUST CAPITALIZING A BUNCH OF SHIT. Because that's annoying. And now you're thinking "Man, this jackass is just going to keep on typing, isn't he? What a dick!" Well, all I have to say to that is

A SMALL PLEA

My friend, the glorious Susie Felber, writes funny horoscopes, dream interpretations, and other comedic interpretations of the Great Unknown for the Comedy Central website. It has come to my attention that a spike in "hits" to her page would be rather beneficial to her, creatively and financially.

I therefore invite you, the small readership of this page to bask in her wit and wisdom by going here.

You there, yet? Great. Now, go ahead and bookmark the page. Then, go back there tomorrow. Then, the next day. And the next. And the next. Pretty soon you won't be able to leave the house in the morning without consulting The Great Susie. She's your new spiritual crutch!

Many thanks.

A NEW HOLIDAY GAME!

Anyone who's ever worked in a cheesy, we're-all-part-of-the-team office environment si well familiar with the concept of "Secret Santa". This is where you pull a co-worker's name out of a hat and buy him/her a bottle of Body Shop tangerine scented hand lotion, Virgin Megastore gift card, or any other kind of uninspired holiday gift meant to say "Merry Christmas--I tolerate you!"

But there are always going to be people in your office who you don't particularly like, and for those people I suggest becoming a "Secret Secret Santa". This is where you give various people in your place of business unsolicited "gifts" meant to convey a slightly more pointed message. For instance, two years ago I bought a giant jug of mouthwash, wrapped it in colorful paper, and left it on my boss' desk with a note attached:

"Dear Joanne,
Your mouth smells like ass.
Love, Secret Secret Santa

P.S. Seriously, you really need to take care of that."

And then last year, I bought Rob from human resources two Frankie Goes to Hollywood albums and a buttplug, once again accompanied by a note:

"Dear Rob,
Everyone knows!
Happy holidays, from your Secret Secret Santa

P.S. You do realize that your computer keeps a record of what websites you've vistied, don't you?"

This year, I mixed things up a bit. Instead of a co-worker, I'm playing Secret Secret Santa to that fucking prick at Golden Dragon who put broccoli in my Sesame Chicken, even though I specifically told him not to! Earlier today, I murdered a small kitten and left it hanging from the takeout window (I made a little noose with Christmas ribbon--it was sooo cute!). I left the following note taped to its paw:

"YOU."

This is going to be the greatest Christmas ever!!!

I HAVE RETURNED!

And because I love you fine people so much, I present...

(...man, this is exciting...)

...MORE KIKKO-MANIA!!!

If you loved the original adventures of Kikkoman (which I originally linked to back in November), just wait until you get a load of his arch-enemies!

I will not rest until I know how the fuck this shit came into existence.

WEST PALM, BEEEAAATCH!

Here I am, back at the glorious West Palm Beach Public Library. I head back to NYC tomorrow morning, for which I am excited spiritually, if not physically. I ain't gonna lie to you--it's pretty fucking nice to be wearing shorts in the middle of December. But after a mere three days, this place is already starting to grate on me a bit. There seems to be absolutely no angst in West Palm Beach. Stress, sure. But no angst. What is the difference, you ask? Stress is a menial, situation-based feeling, e.g. "Shit, I'm late for my tanning booth appointment!", or "Where's the waiter with my goddamn mojito?" Angst is stress put to a higher cause. It is timeless, ephemeral. It is the late night crush of self-doubt that says "Who the fuck am I, why the fuck am I, and what sort of hellish nut-punch can I look forward to tomorrow?" It is also the impulse from which most of the world's great art is created. There's none of that is West Palm Beach.

Everyone here is laidback, even the panhandlers. Just now, as I was walking down beautiful South Rosemary Avenue, a neck-bearded twenty-something (probably a fan of Phish and/or Widespread Panic) called out to me from across the street. "Hey there, man," he shouted, offering a friendly wave. He was no less than thirty yards away from me and sitting with his feet up beneath a canopy at an outdoor cafe. I didn't know the guy, but I thought maybe he recognized me from the comedy club, so I responded with a casual "Hey, man. What's going on?" He then cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed "You got a cigarette?"

What was he envisioning would happen? Was he expecting me to drop what I was doing and walk over to him? Say what you want about NYC's freeloaders--at least they're go-getters.

Oh, and one more thing about West Palm Beach in December. Santa Clause wearing a vest and short-sleeved shirt? Pretty lame.

GREETINGS FROM PARADISE (sort of)

Afternoon, winners! I'm currently sitting in the West Palm Beach Public Library, which looks more like the loft from The Real World: Hawaii than a place of learning. It's so "pretty" here that it goes somehow beyond the point of being attractive and borders on some sort of strange ugliness. Except the other library patrons, of course--they're the regular ol' kind of ugly. Beside me are three mulleted fellows (one wearing a baseball hat with the confederate flag embroidered on the front) sitting on a sofa, idly scratching their nuts and babbling. i think they're upset that someone checked out all three copies of the new Salman Rushdie novel.

Flying out of the NYC snowstorm yesterday was just about the most hellish travel experience I've ever had, in a life of rather hellish travel experiences. My flight was cancelled, I was funnelled onto a different plane, with just about every dues-paying member of the AARP. Better yet, I was seated on the aisle, about two rows up from the bathroom, so for the entire flight (including the 2 hours we sat on the icy runway prior to takeoff), I had chatty and inconsolable elderly people bumping up against me in the neverending line for the restroom.

On a nicer note, I at in a jacuzzi this morning. Jealous much?

Ok, the library is about to kick me off the computer, so I shall have to cut this short. I apologize that today's entry is more a travelogue than properly hilarious penis joke and/or paean to pop culture.

HEY THERE

Come in--there's something we need to discuss.

Please, sit down.

Look...boy, this is kind of hard to say. Um...well...I'm just going to come right out and say it: I need a little break. No no, you're great! You're the best group of mostly anonymous, faceless blog readers that's ever happened to me. But there comes a time in every comedian's career when he has to branch off, see the world, get a little taste of what else is out there. It's like, you love pizza, but would you want to eat pizza every day? Right? Know what I mean?

Please, stop crying. That came out wrong. I'm just saying... I'm not saying it's over. It's just four days. four days! Never mind where I'm doing comedy this weekend. Never mind--it's not about that. Okay, it's Florida. Happy now? That's right, I'm going to do a weekend of shows in Florida just to make you angry! It's always got to be about YOU, doesn't it?

FER CHRISSAKE, I DON'T WANT--

(...)

I'm sorry. I didn't mean to yell. It's just...I've just got to get away for a few days. Will I be posting blog entries while I'm in Florida? I don't know. I don't know. BECAUSE I DON'T FUCKING KNOW, THAT'S WHY!!

(...)

Listen, I...I'm not sure if I'll have access to a computer. If I do, then I'll post. Yes. Yes, I know. Look, I'm well aware of the existence of internet cafes, okay? I mean, it's not like I'm stupid! No, I'm not being a wise-ass. I'm just saying...sometimes, you just say things that...don't need to be said fifteen fucking times.

I did not call you stupid! I did not! That's not what I'm saying! That's not--

Look, what if I posted a funny link? You know, like this one?

You liked that, didn't you? Yeah, I knew you couldn't stay angry! How about a picture of seven Doug Hennings in a station wagon, posted on my friend and Daily Show with Jon Stewart writer Eric Drysdale's new site?

There's the blog readership I (don't) know and (do) love! If I don't "speak" to you before Monday, have a glorious weekend.

Toodles, folks.

AN INTERNAL MONOLOGUE

THE SCENE: A very crowded, douchebag-laden subway car, 2:34am. The train has mysteriously slowed to a complete halt in the long tunnel between Manhattan and Queens.

___________________________________________________


What? What...what's going on? Oh come on. Don't do this to me. Please. It's too late for this shit. No no no. I need to sleep. Please, not tonight.

Move. Move. The train is going to move�now. Now. Now. FUCKING FUCK!

Now�now�now.

This is bullshit. This is totally fucked. Are they even going to make an announcement? Isn�t anyone else on this train pissed? What the hell is that woman babbling about? Shut up. Shut up. No one wants to hear...no one wants to hear your fucking conversation, bitch! Why would anyone feel the need to talk so loud? Do you think anyone gives a shit about your fucking boyfriend's band? Seriously! You obviously think people want to know, or else you wouldn't be yelling! And fuck your friends, too. They're all assholes. This subway car is filled with assholes.

God. Oh dear god. Move. Move. Please fucking move. Please let this fucking train move. GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!!

Okay, calm down. Relax. It's got to move soon.

What? What the...what the fuck are you saying? How the fuck do you get a job making subway announcements if you can't speak English? I mean, christ! Dude, the word is "Queensborough"! "Queeeensboooorough"! And "Plaza", not "Plodga"! FUCK YOU!!!

A train? In front of us? Bullshit. I stood on that motherfucking platform for 35 minutes�there�s no goddamn train in front of us. This is the only train that even runs on this line! But now you�re telling us that a train has somehow magically appeared in front of us? What, a mystery train? The motherfucking great space coaster? FUCK YOU AGAIN, YOU STUPID COCK FUCKER!

Finnegan, stop it. You�re just making yourself crazy. Close your eyes and relax. Relax. Pretend you�re somewhere else. I�m at the beach. I�m at the beach. I�m at the--

Dude, if you step on my fucking foot again I'm going to stab you in the throat with a pen. If you step on my foot one more fucking time...ohhhhhhh.....ohhhhh....oh my fucking god. I'd going to hit someone. I think I may actually hit someone. I'm going to start screaming and then I'm going to punch that fucking asshole on the side of the head. No one knows. No one has any idea that I'm about to start fucking hitting people. It�s almost funny. They�re about to witness someone freak the fuck out, and they have no idea. I�m going to count to ten and if this train isn�t moving�

1�2�3�4�why is that bitch still laughing?! What the hell is her problem? SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHU TUP SHUT UP SH UT PSH UTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP!!!!

(sigh)

Please. Please let me go home. I�m not asking for a lot. I just want this train to start moving, so I can go home and go to sleep. That�s all I want. Please. I just want this train to move and for every person on this subway car to get face cancer and die. That�s all. Please?

(REPEAT AND FADE OUT)

Que?

Last night, I saw a retarded guy wearing leather pants. That's fucked up, right? I mean, people should wear whatever they want to wear, but...

It's just kinda weird, that's all.

A few general rules

Anyone who claims to be "too nice" is a fucking prick. Anyone who really was "too nice" wouldn't be the kind of person who would notice it, much less declare it.

No woman looks better with bangs than without.

"Whack-A-Mole" is the world's unsexiest activity.

Oh, and one more,

There is a direct relationship between what a bartender is forced to wear while on duty and the Douche Propensity of his clientele. The dressier the bartender's uniform, the douchey-er his patrons are likely to be.

HAPPY POST-THANKSGIVING!

Ok, I know Turkeyfest is technically over at this point, but I have so many things to be thankful for and I'd like to take a quick moment to give credit where credit is due. Please indulge me, folks.

* I'm thankful for elastic waistbands.

* I'm thankful for the quick resolution to my lawsuit against Chuck E. Cheese, Inc. 'The Ball-Crawl is safe for all ages', my ass!

* I'm thankful for the love of my new ladyfriend, Fox News personality Greta Van Susteren.

* I'm thankful for the existence of you-know-who, simply as a reminder that I'm not the biggest fucking jack-ass on the planet.

* I'm thankful for that new topical ointment!

* I'm thankful to our dark lord Satan, for all of the wonderful career perks! My soul is thine, o glorious one!

* I'm thankful for my growing collection of Pay it Forward action figures. I just got the new Kevin Spacey with the tear-jerkingly scarred face!

* And, last but certainly not least, I'm thankful for the sweet refuge of hardcore drugs and pornography--you are the wind beneath my wings!

I AM SO MOVING TO JAPAN!


The lovely Daegan sent me the link to these wonderful television commercials, which I believe provide even more proof that Japan is a nation of inspired lunatics. Never mind that the page is primarily a bunch of question marks, just start clicking on the hyperlinks and marvel at the, um, "amply equipped" wildlife!

GREETINGS FROM THE 'WHO GIVES A SHIT?' DEPARTMENT!

Alright, I know most of you don't give a shit, but I thought I'd reveal the ansers to the little test I gave out this past Friday. The winner of this little challenge is Jeff Reguilon, who got nearly all of them correct. He will be the proud recipient of some bullshit prize that I've yet to decide on. In the meantime, though, here are the answers:

____________________________________________

Hey you (Pink Floyd). Hello (Lionel Ritchie).

Hush (Deep Purple)! Voices carry ('Til Tuesday).

I've got a feeling (The Beatles). I can't fight this feeling anymore (REO Speedwagon). You are the sunshine of my life (Stevie Wonder). Have I told you lately that I love you (Van Morrisson or Rod Stewart)? You're the one that I want (John Travolta and Olivia Newton John). U got the look (Prince)! Let's spend the night together (The Rolling Stone). Why (Annie Lennox)? Because the night (Patti Smith or The Boss). This is the time (Billy Joel). Please, please please (James Brown)! Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me (The Cure)!

I hate myself for loving you (Joan Jett). I fall to pieces (Patsy Cline)! Don't be cruel (Elvis Presley). Accidents will happen (Elvis Costello)--I can't help myself (The Four Tops). That's the way love goes (Janet Jackson). Try a little tenderness (Otis Redding).

Wait (White Lion).

Think (Aretha Franklin).

Of course (Jane's Addiction)!

Tonight's the night (The Shirelles or Rod Stewart). The show must go on (Leo Sayer or Queen or Pink Floyd)! Joy to the world (Three Dog Night)! Let's dance (David Bowie)! Do ya (ELO)? Come as you are (Nirvana). Rough boys (Pete Townshend), fat-bottomed girls (Queen), everyday people (Sly and the Family Stone)--surrender (Cheap Trick)! Let a smile be your umbrella (The Andrews Sisters or Perry Como)! The best is yet to come (Frank Sinatra)--don't stop 'til you get enough (Michael Jackson)!


And now, back to your lives. Our great national drama is over.

MESSAGE OF LOVE


So the holidays are nearly upon us, which means people will be expecting presents, for which I have very little in the way of funds. So you all know what that means! Christmas presents? No money? Say it with me, kids: MIX TAPES!

What the fuck does it say about me that I'm 29 years old and still making people mix tapes? Sure, technically they're CDs now, but for all intents and purposes, they're still 'mix tapes'. The thing about making a mix tape for someone is that, while you're doing it, it feels s if you're doing something both productive and creative, when in fact you are doing neither. And my passion for making them is a product of the low-budget Junior High egotism that seemd to define my very existence. Because, in the end, a mix tape is always much more about the person giving it than the person receiving it. It's meant to say, "Hey, look at all of the cool music Iown! Aren't you impressed? You want to befriend / have sex with me, right?! Please, tell me I'm valid!" My curse is that I'm fully aware of how fucking retarded this mindset is (unlike these people), and yet I cannot turn away from my calling.

If I were to consistently put the same amount of energy into my comedy career as I do into burning goddamn CDs, I'd be a bigtime playa. In fact, I like to consider myself The Jerry Seinfeld of Mix Tapes. Lordy, the hours I will labor over things like 'track order'. You see, in my mind, I'm taking the person (usually a woman) on an emotional journey--I actually picture it in my head!

Okay, I'll start things off with something buouyant and austere, like Spoon's "Everything Hits at Once", to which she will involuntarily bob her head by the middle of verse two. From there, it's on to "Feedback Queen" by Lotion. Five listens from now, she'll be dancing around her living room to this song in a manner that is simultaneously awkward and unspeakably beautiful, but for now she's just digging it silently, wondering how it is she's never heard of this band. "Christian is so cool," she'll say to herself, "And, now that I think about it...attractive".

But she has no idea that I'm also extremely deep and capable of despair--at least, not until song #3. Man, by the time she gets to minute five of Cat Power's "Colors and the Kids", she will be sobbing into a throw pillow! "Christian has touched my very soul," she will cry to the heavens, "I must feel his tender kiss upon my face and neck! I absolutely must!"

Whoa, wait a minute. What am I thinking? Am I some kind of fucking moron? "Feedback Queen" driectly into "Colors and the Kids"? That's crazy talk! The shift in emotion is waaaay too abrupt. I need to slip in a 'transitional track'--something uptempo, but with a hint of poignant melancholy. Hmmm... I've got it! "Achin to Be", by The Replacements! It's the perfect mix of happy and sad! Plus, when she reads the back of the dazzling CD case I've made her, she'll think "Oh, The Replacements! I've heard them referenced in conversations with people I respect and I've always wondered what they sounded like--and now Christian Finnegan is giving me that chance!"

And then, as she scans down to the bottom of the track list, "Oh my god," she'll gasp, "Aretha Franklin's 'Ain't No Way'? My parents used to sing that to me when I was a little girl! What a breadth of knowledge! How could he have known? Is it fate? Could this be...love?

I'm sure you get the idea. What's pathetic is that when you give someone a mix tape, she's never quite as thrilled to get it as you want her to be. She'll give it a perfunctory scan while you resist the urge to start babbling how long it took you to make it, why you picked each particular song, etc. Does she not understand just how precious a gift you've bestowed upon her?

A couple of weeks will go by and you won't hear anything from her. Or, maybe you will. In fact, maybe it's the best gift she's ever been given and she's called/Emailed specifically to tell you how incredibly appreciative she is. But it won't matter to you. Sure, she claims to "really like" a few of the songs, but has her life been truly affected by what you've shared with her? Has her world begun anew, the sun and moon and stars replaced by dreams of you and you alone? No*? Well, I guess you'll just have to try harder next time.

Basically, I won't be satisfied until one of my mix tapes convinces someone to kill herself. Not necessarily out of despair, but because she has been so awakened the the relentless and unyielding beauty of the universe, she simply can't bear to return to the drudgery of life BMT (Before Mix Tape).

I dare to dream.

(* It was probably that damn Shaggs song you put at the end--you should have known she wouldn't find it funny.)

WHO'S THE MACK, LADEEEES?

It's Saturday night and I've got my party on! I'm looking fly in my dirty sweatpants, sipping on an icy glass of Mountain Dew, and watching some mad Harry Potter action on the cable TV, y'all!

Hoo-doggy! Party party party! Makin' shit happen! Freakin' the crazy phunky stuff! Getting all up in that...sexy...party...fun...

...p-p-party...

(sob)

POP SONG POETRY


Hey you. Hello.

Hush! Voices carry.

I've got a feeling. I can't fight this feeling anymore. You are the sunshine of my life. Have I told you lately that I love you? You're the one that I want. U got the look! Let's spend the night together. Why? Because the night. This is the time. Please, please please! Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me!

I hate myself for loving you. I fall to pieces! Don't be cruel. Accidents will happen--I can't help myself. That's the way love goes. Try a little tenderness.

Wait.

Think.

Of course!

Tonight's the night. The show must go on! Joy to the world! Let's dance! Do ya? Come as you are. Rough boys, fat-bottomed girls, everyday people--surrender! Let a smile be your umbrella! The best is yet to come--don't stop 'til you get enough!


BONUS CONTEST:As you probably figured out, the above is comprised completely of song titles. I will give a prize (I'll think up some shit) to any person who can identify every artist referenced. All of the songs were reasonably big hits (except one, which is on an album at least half of you own). You can either paste your answers in the comment field, or Email me at ChristFinnegan@aol.com. It's ON, weenies!)

P.S. Googling is for pussies.

KIKKO-MAN!!!

I'm trying to ween myself off of sending out so many links, but for the love of fuck...

To paraphrase a friend of mine: The nation of Japan is completely insane--let us pray they never convert to Islam.

(And I pity all of you who don't have sound on your computers!)

THE CLOUD HAS LIFTED!

The nightmare is over! After not allowing me to 'publish' all day, Blogger has finally worked out whatever bug was fucking their shit up and I'm once again able to bring the joy of text (both hyper and otherwise) to the world! Hallelujah! Praise be to Jeff*! This is going to be awesome! I can't wait to publish this sure-to-enthralling blog entry! Now, the only thing to figure out is...what the fuck do I have to say today?

(sigh)

Ok, here's something.

I went into Old Navy yesterday to buy a plain black t-shirt, and I couldn't find one. Oh, they had plenty of t-shirts, but none without the words "Old Navy" emblazoned across the front. Who exactly is buying the logo-laden t-shirts? Surely people must be, or else the stores wouldn't bother displaying them so prominently. But why? I can understand why someone might wear something with the word 'Gucci' on it. Or 'Tommy Hilfiger' or 'Sean John' or 'D&G' (although I did once have to ask a chick what the hell that stood for). An prominent logo is a statement about the person wearing it. You're basically announcing to the world, "Gucci is a very fashionable brand name, and I'm the kind of high-class person who can appreciate that" or "I'm wearing Tommy Hilfiger because I have enough money to justify spending $145 on a glorified rugby shirt". But are there people out there who are dying to let people know that they shop at Old Navy? Apparently so.

I'm not judging, here--I would say, conservatively, that 50% of my wardrobe was purchased at that damned store. But my repeat business is purely a matter of economics. Where else can you get a three pairs of jeans, a rollneck sweater and flip-flops for $7.00? I'm certainly not ashamed of shopping there--it's just common sense. But I'm not so keen on announcing that shit to the general public. By wearing an Old Navy logo t-shirt, exactly what sort of message are you trying to get across?

"Ooooo, an Old Navy t-shirt! I bet that guy eats at Gray's Papaya! I wonder if he buys Rite Aid brand mouthwash and toilet paper! I wonder what it's like to sleep on a futon!"

Aren't you relieved that Blogger fixed its problem so you didn't have to miss that?

From the 'Eternally Single' file:


I don't bother to chat up random women in bars anymore. It always starts okay, but I eventually end up sounding like one of those local news "Shame on You" investigative reports.

"EXCUSE ME, MISS! EXCUSE ME! I JUST HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS! WHY ARE YOU COVERING YOUR FACE, MISS? WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE? YOU'RE JUST NOW INFORMING ME THAT YOU HAVE A BOYFRIEND, AND YET YOU'VE ALREADY ALLOWED ME TO BUY YOU THREE VODKA CRANBERRIES--WHY IS THAT, MISS? DOES THAT SEEM FAIR TO YOU? NO, I WON'T GO AWAY! IT SOUNDS TO ME LIKE YOU'RE TAKING PEOPLE FOR A RIDE! HOW DO YOU SLEEP AT NIGHT, MISS? NO, I WON'T! NOT UNTIL YOU ANSWER MY QUESTIONS! WHY WON'T YOU JUST ANSWER...WHERE ARE YOU GOING, MISS? WHERE ARE YOU GOING? YOU CAN'T RUN AWAY FROM THE TRUTH!!!!!"

Busy Evening

Enjoy this fun little game...

GREETINGS FROM HALF-ASSED BLOG ENTRY CENTRAL!


If there's one thing I've learned since starting this Tower of Hubris thing, it's that no one reads a damn blog on Sundays. Seriously. Saturdays aren't so heavily trafficked, either. And I certainly don't blame anyone--while reading my little fart jokes and pop culture ramblings may be a suitable respite from workday drudgery, it's not necessarily something you're going to do in lieu of going to a movie, visiting a museum, drinking yourself into oblivion, etc. So, seeing as hardly anyone will be reading this tonight, I thought I'd take this opportunity to get some shit off my chest. After all, It's been probably 17 years since I last went to Confession.

* Firstly, in the past 17 years, I've taken the lord's name in vain 31,025 times.

* In that time, I've also had 779,228 impure thoughts.

* Whoops, make that 779,229.

* I've also perpetrated over 6,206 impure deeds (at least 14 of which involved another person)

* I've coveted my neighbors' belongings 8,590 times.

* Very few of my "neighbors" are married, but I've coveted my friends' girlfriends 4,312 times. Like my buddy Pete's girlfriend Stacy... Mmmmm, Stacy...

* The 'impure thoughts' tally is now at 779,230

* Fuck that, 779,231.

* I've also been slothful at times, not to mention prideful and vain. I'm not proud of everything I've... Um...

* I just had impure thoughts 779,232 through 779,241.

* Oh yeah--I also killed a guy back in '94. My bad.

Oh, Leonard. Why?

(Note: Turn on your speakers)

At long last, WHAT MY FAVORITE ALBUM SAYS ABOUT ME, PART V!!!


KORN "Follow the Leader" -- Being grounded by my parents is making me feel totally suicidal, man.

FAITH HILL "Cry" -- I do what I'm told.

QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE "Songs for the Deaf" -- Help! I'm being rocked so hard I can barely keep my tongue in my cheek!

THE GRATEFUL DEAD "Terrapin Station" -- Never mind what I did when I was younger! I'm your father and I'm telling you: marijauna is bad news, mister!

EMINEM "8 Mile, Original Motion Picture Soundtrack" -- Well no, I don't really hang out with black people. But I get it. You know, their whole 'deal'.

VAN MORRISSON "Moondance" -- Dude, 25 cent buffalo wings!

UB40 "Labour of Love" -- Sure, it's been 15 years, but I'll never forget my sisters in Kappa Phi!

MEDESKI MARTIN & WOOD "Last Chance to Dance Trance" -- Ugh, no thank you. I only drink microbrews.

AVRIL LAVIGNE "Let Go" -- I belong to that popular new marketing demogrpahic known as "Teens who don't think they belong to a marketing demographic"!

MARY J. BLIGE "No More Drama" -- I am exactly 50% gangsta, 50% gay guy.

DINOSAUR JR. "Whatever's Cool with Me" -- Though I'm not yet ready to say it out loud, I'm seriously considering "going perm".

MICHELLE BRANCH "Spirit Room" -- Damn that Megan's Law! Damn it to hell!

THE 'DANCE THRESHOLD'

My friend Victor is one of those guys who will start dancing at the drop of a hat. One minute we'll be discussing symbolism in the works of Gunter Grass, and all of the sudden music will start playing and he's "popping and locking". What's truly weird is that he'll continue the conversation as if there was nothing odd going on. So here I am discussing the finer points of The Tin Drum with a guy doing The Robot. It makes me feel a tad awkward, but I don't hold it against the dude; he just has a very low Dance Threshold. Music's playing? Victor's dancing--simple as that.

I, on the other hand, have an extremely high Dance Threshold. In fact, my dance threshold is just shy of Christopher Reeve's. Firstly, I either have to know everyone in the room very well, or not at all--if it's a room full of people I've only met once or twice, I ain't dancing. I have this theory that you have to hang out with someone five times before you;re officially done judging them. No reason to ruin someone's opinion of me based on a purely executed 'Running Man'. Secondly, I have to appreciate the music that's playing. This is where snobbery comes in, I suppose. But by dancing to some horrible Ja Rule abomination, I feel like I'm somehow somehow confirming it's right to exist, and I can't have that. Basically, unless there's a beautiful woman luring me (and me, personally) to the dance floor with cleavage and/or visible underwear straps, I'm perfectly happy to hang out on the periphery. That way, I can stand in the corner and mock people for expressing themsleves.

My threshold for doing that is rather low.

ATTENTION, LADIES!

Hopefully, this will help you stop with all the whoring.

Thank god for life's simple pleasures.

A short review I wrote of the new Steven Segal movie, Half Past Dead, despite having only having watched the trailer.

(It's a long story...)


Ah, the great mysteries of the universe: What happens to us when we die? Is there life on other planets? And, of course, how the hell is Steven Segal still a movie star? It�s been more than twenty years since Segal first brought his greasy hair (now in a sassy bob) and half-assed karate moves to the big screen. Now he�s back with Half Past Dead, first runner up to Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever in the Worst Movie Title Ever pageant.

This time around, Segal is teamed with mouth-breathing rapper Ja Rule as high class criminals arrested and consigned to a newly refurbished Alcatraz. But this ain�t your daddy�s Alcatraz! No, this one�s really cool because�well, it�s got computers and stuff! As expected, there�s also a sadistic prison guard in need of comeuppance�because really, what�s a prison movie without a sadistic guard in need of comeuppance? Things go from laughably bad to laughably worse when a gang of high tech hoods (they also have computers!) breaks into Alcatraz to steal the $200 million in gold buried underground. Because that�s where you�d hide 200 million dollars�under a prison. Um, yeah.

What follows is around ninety minutes of punching, kicking and dialogue that sounds as if it was lifted directly from a playground shoving match. Take this priceless exchange: �You wanna play rough?� grunts the aforementioned prison guard. �Sorry,� responds Segal in his classic I�m-trying-to-be-Clint-Eastwood stage whisper, �I�m not into men�.

Hooo-boy! He just called that guy a homo! Zing! IN YOUR FACE!

So will Half Past Dead be the movie that finally convinces America to consign Steven Segal to the historical shitcan? Probably not�as long as there are half-retarded teenage boys lighting each other�s farts across this great nation of ours, douchebags like Segal will have an audience. But hell, a man can dream.

OOH LA LA!

Seeing as it's officially Friday night, I might as well show you just how incredibly cool I am.

(Warning: Don't go to this link or youre at work or in a Kinko's-type environment)

CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!

This was sent to me by the beautiful Lindsay. But sadly, no, that is not her in the picture. In fact, if you're a perceptive sort of person, you've probably realized that you can make the little sign say whatever you like, simply by changing the text at the end of the URL. So the perkily-breasted woman in the photo isn't actually in love with me.

(sigh) Hussy.

If only a one of the women who read this blog were to actually send me a topless photo of herself. Boy oh boy, that would be neat! But I would never suggest something so tawdry--after all, I am a gentleman and a scholar.

(Yes, I'm very ashamed of myself.)

Hey, check it out--it's the Tower of Hubris entry guaranteed to make at least two or three of you hate my guts!


Look, Saddam Hussein is an evil prick and if he were to, say, run into a speeding bullet with his forehead, there�d be dancing in the streets�no argument there. But I�m not convinced that average Iraqi citizens are really our biggest problem in the Middle East, especially when your compare them to our �friends� in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, etc. Homicidal military dictators ruling with an iron first aren�t really so frightening�we've been dealing with those knuckleheads since the dawn of time. It�s the Jihadists we should really be focusing all of our bitchslap attention on. Say what you want about Iraq, but at least they have the good sense to build shopping malls and let women walk the streets without potato sacks over their heads. Sure, Saddam�s government spews all that �America is the Great Satan� propaganda, but I guarantee you: if Bon Jovi played the Baghdad Civic Center, the show would sell out in 20 minutes. A case in point...

But if there's one reason we should invade Iraq, it's only because France is telling us not to. I really think it's high time we stopped pretending that France's opinon matters. On anything. To a lesser degree, that goes for the European continent as a whole. America�s relationship to Europe is kind of like that moment when you get through puberty and realize that, if you wanted to, you could kick your big brother�s ass. And he kind of knows it, too, which makes him totally insecure. So he�s constantly going out of his way to remind you that he�s older, bossing you around, giving you noogies, etc. And sure, you let him get away with it, because on some level you feel kind of embarrassed about the situation. I mean, he's still your brother--why rub his face in his secondary status? But eventually, he pushes you just a little too far and you have to say, �Dude. Cut the shit, or I'm going to have to kick the crap out of you.�

I think that�s where we�re at with Europe.

Yeah, I know--I'll stick to dick jokes and Kajagoogoo lyrics from here on in.

WORST KARAOKE CHOICES


"Woman is the Nigger of the World" by The Plastic Ono Band

"Theme for Close Encounters of the Third Kind" by John Williams

"Heart Don't Lie" by LaToya Jackson

"Epic" by Faith No More

"The Harlem Shuffle" by The Rolling Stones

"Demon Sanctuary" by Naked City

"Pencil Neck Geek" by Classy Fred Blassie

"2112: Part I. Overture, Part II. The Temples Of Syrinx, Part III. Discovery, Part IV. Presentation, Part V. Oracle: The Dream, Part VI. Soliloquy, Part VII. Grand Finale" by Rush

"Rock of Ages" (Trad.)

"The Same Deep Water as You" by The Cure

"Let the Mighty Eagle Soar"* by Attorney General John Ashcroft

"I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor (Sorry, drunken former sorority girls! Put down the microphone.)

_____________________________________________

* Cruise around the rest of this site for a number of hilariously bad musical mistakes by the likes of Leonard Nimoy, Jim Nabors and Yoko. It also inlcudes that magnificent Linda McCartney "Hey Jude" backround vocal track (see my rantings of 10/29/02), recently voted The Official Theme of Hell.

Gimme an M! Gimme an A! Gimme an L! Gimme another A! Gimme an I! Gimme an S! Gimme an E!

Christ, I have absolutely nothing to say today. The well is fucking dry, people. Anyone want to come over and pull my head out of the oven? My life is a fucking Nick Drake song.

I don't even think I can fake being funny today. Nevertheless, I shall try to eek out one joke. I'm going to open the dictionary to a random page and try to write a joke inspired by the first word I see.

(drum roll, please)

THE WORD: "Estate"

THE JOKE: The worst part about dating a real estate agent? Every time she gave me a blow job, I'd have to pay a "finder's fee"!

(sigh)

I'm going back to bed.

MY NEW FAVORITE WEBSITE

I'm not kidding. Go here, click on the first photo and just keep toggling forward.

(Thanks, John Batchley)

DEJA ME, DEJA YOU


This past Wednesday, I made a public inquiry about the scientific definition of "deja vu". Well, call it Kismet if you like, but it just so happens that Tower of Hubris is occasionally visited by Megan, who is currently working on a PhD in neuroscience at Boston University. She was kind enough to supply an answer (or, as much of an answer as currently exists).

And with that, I give you Megan:

Though I can't tell you definitively that this is how it works, I can tell you what the neuroscience community thinks about deja vu. Very briefly, there are a lot of parts of the brain that are involved in memory formation, but one main one (the hippocampus), that's involved in both formation of new memories, and retrieval of already formed memories. Anyhow, when deja vu happens, some aspect of what's going on (person, statement, etc) triggers the recall process, so the hippocampus goes into recall or 'this is familiar' mode, whereas the rest of brain is still trying to store the memory. So you get a sense of familiarity, even though it's a totally new event. Unless you're sitting around bemoaning relationships--- then it's just another night in the life of a twentysomething. Hope that all makes sense...

Fuck yeah! Give it up for Megan, schlongfloggers! Someone who knows shit that's actually useful--how novel!

Still, I do have a small bug up my butt on this subject. In America, when we get that eerie feeling of having seen or experienced something before, we say something like "Whoa...deja vu". 'Deja vu' is the term we, as a culture, have agreed to use to describe this particular phenomenon. But in France, 'deja' and 'vu' aren't necessarily a term meaning anything--they're just words. So, when a French dude feels like he's been somewhere before, he's basically just saying "Whoa...already seen". My point is, I think this phenomenon should have it's own name, rather than simply one language's literal definition. I propose "The Oogies". That way, Pete from Hartford would say "Whoa...the Oogies!", and Pierre from Marseille would say "Wheu...les Oogues!"

I like to tackle the important subjects.

Ok, you're not on board with me on that one? Well, I have another idea. If we're going to use 'deja vu' to describe the senstation of having seen something before, I'd like a to introduce a new term into the English language: 'jamais vu', which describes the phenomenon of having seen something that you hope to never ever see again. That way, if you happen to see a homeless guy taking a dump on the N Train, you can simply say "Whoa...jamais vu!"

Walk in on your mom giving your dad a blow job? Jamais vu!

The new Avril Lavigne video? JAMAIS VU!

Oh no, you're quite welcome.

So, what are you up to tonight? Any plans?

Please, don't tell me you're going to some damned Halloween party. Because there is absolutely nothing lamer than post-October 31st Halloween parties. Sure, you can get a bunch of dorks in costumes to mill around your apartment for a few hours, but the stench of denial will hang in the air and it won't be pretty. "No, Halloween is not over! We're having a good time! My french maid / caveman / ax murderer costume is still relevant! I'm still relevant!!"

(shudder)

What other holiday tries to pull this shit? Ever been to a July 5th fireworks display? How about a mid-February New Years Eve blowout? Nope. And yet, I suspect that almost everyone reading this knows at least one person who's having some ridiculous "Halloween Spook-o-rama" this weekend. Pathetic, I tell you.

Seriously--that shit is weak. Blow it off.

If you don't have any plans and you live in or around NYC, I urge you once again to come on down to Portable Comedy, the always-wonderful show I host every Friday night at the Gershwin Hotel. No pseudo Halloween bullshit here--the only scary thing about tonight's show is how much blood will be pouring from the audience's eyes, nose and ears!

Um, you know...because they'll be laughing so hard. Yeah, it's going to be that funny. Bring gauze.

Here are the details, if you think you might be interested:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 1st, 2002
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 EAST 27th ST. (b. 5th and Madison)
10:00PM
A MERE $5.00!

(It's been packed lately, so make sure you get there early.)


Okay, enough bullshit self-promotion. Go sleep off your sugar hangovers, kids.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN, DICKBAGS!

THINGS I WISH I KNEW, BUT DON'T

* If any of the ex-girlfriends who later "came out" stayed out.

* What the fuck a 'comptroller' does (I knew it has something to do with Finance, but beyond that I'm clueless. I suppose I could just look it up, but why take the time when there's so much whining to do?).

* Why Adam West isn't still a star.

* Why smart, beautiful women so often date complete d-bags.

* How often, after seeing me with a smart and beautiful woman (it's happened), some guy decided that I was a complete d-bag.

* The medical explanation for deja vu--and not just the bullshit answers everyone tosses around as fact at dinner parties.

* How many of the people I can't stand know I can't stand them.

* The name of the girl who's always on the subway platform's favorite obscure song (the one she thinks no one else in the world has ever heard, perhaps Denzil's "Sunday Service Hengistbury Head"), so I could nonchalantly hum it in her presence and make her think we're soulmates.

* Why one of my armpits is markedly less hairy than the other.

* Ted Turner's pin number.

LINKY-DINKY-DOO

I love the fact the fact that you, the fine people who visit this page repeatedly, have taken to sending me wonderful and bizarre links. I consider it my responsibility as a citizen to pass this shit on the group as a whole and I'd like to thank everyone who's sent me cool stuff (Except that one douchebag who sent me a link to a rape site--real funny, shitfuck).

Yesterday, I was sent two wonderful lnks that I've been obsessing over ever since.

This was sent to me by the lovely Susan. I believe it pretty much stands alone.

This next one was sent to me by the wondrous (and buff) Jodi and there's a story behind it.

It's a recording of Enrique Iglegias, whose name seems to pop up on this site at least once a month, performing a concert in Romania. As I'm sure most of us know, people like Enrique never actually sing into a live mic--they tell the audience how much they love them in between songs, but once the music starts the mic goes dead. You can't get away with plain ol' lip-synching these days, as the lack of bulging neck muscles is a dead giveaway (just think of any early '80s music video). So when you see pop stars performing nowadays, they're actually singing, but only into a dummy microphone to the sound of their own prerecorded voices. The legend here is that one of Enrique's sound men recorded what was actually coming out of that skeevy mole-ridden fop's mouth. The recording eventually made it's way onto the Howard Stern Show--they used to play it all the time, along with an equally hilarious recording of Linda McCartney's background "vocals" from a Paul McCartney concert. Everntually, Enrique actually appeared on Stern and performed live, in an effort to prove that the tape was a hoax. You can believe what you want, but I personally have doubt that it's actually Enrique's voice. Performing in a radio station studio is an entirely different bird than performing for thousands of screaming Romanians who can't hear what you're actually singing anyway.

Either way, it's pretty fucking funny.

I AM A GLEEFUL MORON!


Look, I'm a reasonably educated fellow. Among my favorite writers are Raymond Carver, Flannery O'Connor, and Salman Rushdie. I know my Back from my Bartok, my Klee from my Klimt. I have studied Kierkegaard, Feuerbach and Satre and can explain why they're different apples off of the same philosophical tree. I am familiar with Baudrillard's Simulacra et Simulation and I know the actual definition of the word "Postmodernism".

Why am I telling you this? To impress upon you just how fascinating a human being I am? Well, yeah. But there's another reason. I'm stating my credentials a pretentious pseudo-intellectual douchebag as a preface to my typing the following sentence:

Over the weekend, I saw Jackass: The Movie and it was the most fun I've had at the movies in years, perhaps ever.

Someday I will meet a brilliant, beautiful woman who thinks watching a guy fire bottle rockets out of his anus is unspeakably hilarious.

(Sigh)

Someday.

VIVA LAS CONNECTICUT!

Friday night I did a stand up comedy show at Mohegan Sun. For those of you not in the Tri-State Area, Mohegan Sun is a monstrously large casino on a Mohegan Reservation in Connecticut. Who's a playa? Oh, that's right: me.

I have to say, as cheesy as the whole experience was, I loved every minute of it. For a few hours I was treated like a professional entertainer, someone to be addressed as Mr. Finnegan, someone who deserved to be escorted to the stage at showtime. I performed in a gorgeous showroom that probably sat 500 (I was just the opening act). The stage was probably 40 feet wide and I performed in front of a full big band set-up, which was for some "Rat Pack Revue" that plays there every other night of the week. Downstairs in the green room, there were sandwiches, pastries and crudit�s . Crudit�s! It's amazing what a plate of celery sticks and dip can do for your ego. For one night, I felt like a respected member of the entertainment community, as opposed to the normal snake oil peddler vibe

In fact, the only thing that wasn't classy and professional about the gig was the group of muletted shitbags that comprised the audience. Look, I know times are different and people don't necessarily put on a suit to go to the casino, but is it too much to ask for you to take take off the sweatpants? Hey lady, love the lace-up denim pirate shirt.

After the show, I was hanging out in the casino, just checking out the scene. I have this vague sense that I have it in me to become a hardcore gambling addict, so I generally avoid any card game where the stakes rise above fifty cents per hand. But I'd had a pretty good evening, so I decided to be a big dork and toss ten bucks into a slot machine. Well somehow, without me really knowing it, the machine hit twice in a row and I won a quick $165--hardly big money, but that's just about two days worth of temping for me, so I'm pretty damn ecstatic. As the coins were plunking down into the bin, two very hot UConn students wandered over and just start talking to me. It's as if they were using Spider-sense. And I thought to myself, "Holy shit, it really is that simple--money equals chicks." Now I know this equation is a bit insulting and it certainly doesn't apply to any woman you'd actually want to spend some serious time with, but it's a plain fact that cash (and I'm sure $165 seems like a lot of money to a couple of college girls) is a goshdarn aphrodesiac and that if you have some your chances of getting a woman's attention are significantly higher. Please, don't deny it. It's true.

So I chat with these two girls and I chat for a while--I casually mention that I was in the comedy show (READ: I'm a very important person and you should consider having sex with me), they casually mention how incredibly poor they are (READ: We don't care about your stupid fucking comedy show--give us money).

So here's the scene: I'm feeling very good about myself after a great show, I have a few hundred (including the money I got for the show) bucks of disposable income my pocket, a beautiful hotel room, and the attention of two sexy coeds who don;t seem to have anywhere special to be. Sounds like the classic set up for a threeway sex escapade, does it not? Well, I don't want to brag, but...did I mention I won $165 from a slot machine?

(sigh)

Finnegan, you're pathetic. Go rent some fucking nards.

IT IS DONE.

My chaotic week is almost over. In the comments from yesterday's crappy non-entry, 'Special buddy' asked what exactly I've been doing for 16 hours a day all week. Well, feel free to take a guess:

1) I was rehearsing The Heat is ON!, my one man show based on the life of Glen Frey.

2) I was working on my new self-help book, "MAN'S BEST FRIEND: Expanding Your Worldview through Pooch-Fucking".

3) Did lots of street promotion for AVN Awards afterparty I'm hosting with Diddy, Busta and Kurt Waldheim at Jaundice, NYC's hottest new dance club.

4) Sobbing. Pure sobbing.

5) I've been studying to become a high priest of the Church of Satan--and for anyone who ares defy my authority, I have only one thing to say: Aedineum mysolocleus veniesculum rui! Rui! RUI!!!

6) After losing my job at a well-paying but soulless corporation, I met a precocious terminally ill orphan boy who moved into my house and taught me the true meaning of life--which, incidentally, turns out to be 'poopie jokes'.

7) I've been shooting a very funny piece for Dave Chappelle's new Comedy Central show, which should be airing sometime around February.

8) Two words: tantric masturbation.

WORD OF THE DAY

"Jackanapes": n. An impudent person. "Why that jackanapes interrupted our game of Soggy Biscuit--how rude!"

Use it as often as you can, kids.

NOSE, MEET GRINDSTONE

16.5 hour day yesterday. More of the same for today, tomorrow and probably Friday. Hopefully I will get home with a bit more energy tomorrow and write something substantial. But I'm too tired to write complete jokes right now, so you'll have to settle for some punchlines to jokes I haven't written yet. Such as:

"I've I'd known that, I wouldn't have invited your sister!"

"That's funny, Senator Gramm--I had no idea you'd joined the Catholic priesthood!"

"Hey, what's a little semen between co-pilots?"

"Um, that's not my dog."

"Well if that's Willie Tyler...WHERE THE FUCK IS LESTER?!"

"Because that's just what gerbils do, Mom."

"Has anyone told Ivan Lendl?"

"So I crammed a stick in the end of it and told her it was a fudgesicle!"

"I've heard of deep tissue therapy, but this is ridicuous!"

"Lefty loosey, righty tighty."

"I hate you. I've always hated you, but this... This is unforgivable. Now please go find a place that's far away from me and the people I love and die. Seriously, you're a terrible person and I will never forgive you for what you've done. You stink of failure and death. Go fuck a razorblade-filled tube.....................IN BED!"

FUCK!

I have to be up at 5am tomorrow morning. Five! A.M.! When it's still fucking dark! That sucks dong! Dong, I tell you!! DONG!!! Agh!! AAAGGGHHH!!!!!

OK, I feel a bit better now.

(sigh)

Suffice to say, tomorrow could be a long one. That is why I will once again be falling back onto the blog restorative power of Linkage.

Take THAT!

And THAT!

And...THAT!

I'm sorry, but you had it coming to you.

And now, a few words from David Lee Roth:


Hey hey, lookie what we have here! Welcome to the fascination fiesta, mon frere. It feels like someone decided to have a Sumo match but forgot to invite Mr. Talcum Powder! Don't forget what Machiavelli said, 'You gotta lick it before you kick it'! It's like, you're talking 'bout Saturn and all anyone can talk about is the rings, baby! Whether it's Frank Sinatra or Franco American, the peoples got to have their entertainment. And I'm not just talking about the karmic manifestation of yellow-belied sapsuckers, my friend. I'm talking about the shish boom bang of this great circle of life--although when you think about it, most cowpokes act like it's an octagon, if ya know what I mean. I don't care if you're wearing saddle shoes or your Sunday best, there comes a time in every little sandcrab's life when he's got to do a little sideways walking to the other side of the beach, am I right? I mean, this is name brand debauchery here, Jungle Joe--when you're U.S. Steel, you're not looking over your shoulder at every Ben Franklin who comes up in your rear view full-length mirror! We're talking Alexander the Great meets Toucan Sam! Here come da judge! Listen up, kiddos. Best not to stare too long at the sun, because then you just got stars in your eyes. I'm like the minister of misinformation in World War IX--and that battle most definitely has a bulge, Sally Ride! The revolution won't be televised, but it will be on DVD, CD-ROM and little tiny Japanese cameras in the corner of your mind's eye. In the immortal words of Joe Louis, 'It's better to be eagerly catastrophic, than catastrophically eager'. Just remember, the little acorn didn't become the great oak by stapling an egg to his back and doing the hokey pokey. Lights, camera, ecstasy--that's what I'm all about!

Today is my last day at this particular "freelance position" (that's French for "temp job"). Anyone want a Comfort Mate (tm) fine-point pen? How about a couple of hanging folders? A flat-screen monitor? Seriously--I'm feeling majorly pissy today and feel like doing some serious corporate thievery. When the mail comes, that shit's going straight into the paper shredder.

There's a very nice woman in this office who goes to great pains to correct me when I say "I'm just a temp", which happens at least twice a week. "Don't say that about yourself," she'll say soothingly. "We're all on equal footing here!"

What she doesn't understand is that my frequent mentions of "just" being a temp have nothing to do with low self-esteem or feelings of inferiority. I claim to "just be a temp" the same way German soldiers claim to have been "just following orders" inWorld War II. It's basically my way of saying "You see this hollow, depressing corporate environment? This sad world of xerox toner and Dilbert cartoons? You chose this. This is your life. But me? I'm just a temp."

The most annoying thing about this particular temp job (I've certainly had worse) has been the elevator situation. The office is on the 54th floor of the building, so it's not unheard of to stop ten fucking times on the way to and from lunch. I think the most depressing moment I've had over the past couple of months came last week, when I was taking the elevator up in the morning. By some freak aligning of the planets, I made all the way from Floor 1 to Floor 54 without a single stop. Not even one! As the elevator came to a stop, I felt a sense of genuine optimism and glee wash over me. "My elevator didn't stop even once!" I thought to myself, "How awesome is that! This is going to be a fantastic day! A fantastic month, even! I'm in love with my life! Yaaaaayyyyyyy!"

But then, as the doors slowly opened and I looked out into the stale beige walls AIG Worldwide Insurance, that joy reversed itself like a teenage stomach full of tequila and beer. I commenced with the self-flagellation.

"Um, did you just get psyched because your elevator didn't make a stop? The elevator to your temp job?? The elevator to your temp job at an insurance company??? How unspeakably pathetic. You, Finnegan, are a douche."

I felt legitimately nauseas for the rest of the day.

LINK MANIA!

I tend to get pissy at myself for posting too many links on this site, but lately people have been sending me some truly amazing shit. Take this masterpiece, for instance. What can one say, except Long Live the Hass! (this probably requires broadband).

And this other one? Simply mind-altering. This weekend, I plan to smoke some weed (a rather infequent act for me), put this bad boy on a loop and watch it all fucking night long. Why? Because I know how to live large, foolz. (This one definitely requires broadband, I should mention.)

By the way, if any of you New Yorkers ever feel like coming to the comedy show I host every Friday night, drop me an Email and I'll put you on the mailing list. Tomorrow night's show features a guest appearances by author Frank McCourt*, actress/choreographer Debbie Allen**, and members of the Spin Doctors***.

______________________________________

* horseshit
** utter horseshit
*** untrue, but within the realm of possibility--I mean, it's probably not like they have plans

TOWER OF HUBRIS, your source for up-to-the-minute music news!

I don't know if you guys have heard, but The Smiths are getting back together! Yes! It's true! In fact, Morrissey and Johnny Marr have already written a new song, and it's ripped from today's headlines!

But wait--it gets better! Morrissey and I happen to be very close personal friends (we play on the same intramural flag football team), and he's given me exclusive permission to reprint the lyrics here for your enjoyment!

So without any further ado, here's "Sniper Sniper", the brand new smash hit by The Smiths:

SNIPER, SNIPER (Morrissey/Marr)

Oh sniper, sniper, sniper
You're the one for me
You're the one I cling to
In the shopping mall car park, can't they possibly see?

You took leave from your soggy little town
and set down and hung around,
then lost what you'd found

You take your mark from your vulgar van
your lovely and vulgar, vulgar van
In this sad world of vicious petrol pumpers,
you're the one who takes my hand

Is it so wrong?
Do they feel the way that I do?
I'm just the boy with the empty shell and tear-stained rag
Do they feel the way that I do?

Oh sniper, sniper, sniper
You're the one for me
Your'e the one I cling to
In the shopping mall car park, can't they possibly see?

Dear boy, they are what we are not
Young hottentot, he crossed the lot,
you kissed my cheek and you took your shot

And what you wrote on that tarot card,
That humdrum twisted silly tarot card,
It left me shyly waiting by your bedside
Like a lovestruck bird left to die in the yard

Is it so wrong?
Do they love you the way that I do?
You left a sickening scar that I pray won't soon heal
Do they feel the way that I do?

Oh sniper, sniper, sniper
You're the one for me
You're the one I cling to
In the shopping mall car park, can't they possibly see?

I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
I have a heart that beats and I deserve to be loved
(repeat to fade out)

NONSENSE FOR SALE!


I�ve become convinced that I simply have too much random trivia clogging up my brain. After all, might it be that brain space is finite? Who knows what I might be capable of, were my mind not been so utterly crammed tight with pop culture debris? What if knowing all the lyrics to the Silver Spoons theme song is what�s keeping me from finding a cure to Cancer? Is it possible that the area of my brain currently occupied by Damone�s �you gotta have �The Attitude�� soliloquy from Fast Times might otherwise be put to use discovering the recipe for cold fusion? It�s quite possible. It�s imperative that I clear out some cranium space to make room for more important stuff.

Therefore, I am announcing this one-time-only Mental Garage Sale. It works like a normal garage sale, except that instead of paying me for used goods (in this case, random bits of trivia), I�ll pay YOU if you can promise that you�ll take this shit off my hands and help me make some room in this big, fat Irish melon-head of mine. The more desperately I�m willing to erase a piece of information from my mind, the more I�m willing to pony up! With prices like these, I MUST BE INSANE!

Just look at these fabulous deals!

* The names of Bo and Luke Duke�s cousins, who briefly replaced them on The Dukes of Hazard ($1.50)

* The names of all four members of Winger ($7.50)

* The titles of four Buckner & Garcia songs, other than �Pac Man Fever� ($8.25)

* Fred Dryer�s catchphrase on �Hunter� ($1.10)

* Plot of the 1987 Jon Cryer vehicle, Hiding Out ($6.05)

* The names of the two nerds in Fonzie�s autobody class, when he became a teacher in Happy Days' final season ($.65)

* Large sections of the Starlight Express libretto ($112.50)

* Complete lyrics to the �Hanker for a hunk of cheese� song ($34.35)

* Name of K.I.T.T.�s nemesis on Knight Rider ($1.90)

* Existence of actor Chris Makepeace ($14.00)

Go ahead! Make me an offer!

STOP THE INSANITY!

Something must be done to end this horrible, horrible epidemic.

(Please don't go to this link if you're in an uptight work environment or happen to be my step-mother.)

CLIMB ABOARD THE TOWER OF HUBRIS BANDWAGON!

This site is becoming something of a cultural phenomenon. If you don't believe me, just check out some of the press we've been getting:



"Adequate!!! Functional!!!! Pretty good!!!!!!!" � WBAI Radio


"Tower of Hubris will change your life! If you don't find this stuff funny, you�re a fucking dick!" � Time Magazine


"Tower of Hubris is so funny, I think I have Cancer!" � Vanity Fair


"Comedy like this only comes once in a lifetime! Christian Finnegan is the new master of poo poo jokes! And he also makes jokes about pee pee! Brilliant!" � Kindergarten Weekly


"Like a fiery kiln bringing a precious vase to fruition, Tower of Hubris is the training ground for a new breed of humorist--one beholden neither to the cheap comedic pandering of yesteryear nor the kneejerk sarcasm and lazy deconstructionism that so often passes for 'alternative' culture. Christian Finnegan is, quite simply, a national treasure." � Juggs


"Aaaaaggghhh! Oh my god! I've been stabbed! I'm-I'm bleeding! Sweet christ! So much blood... So...much...blood..." � Architectural Digest

It's Thursday, Rocktober 10th--TIME TO GET THE LED OUT, BITCHES!

(Speakers: on)

For fuck's sake, can't an hour go by in an office without someone saying something stupid and/or enraging?

Listen, no one is his own worst critic. Nope, not even you, you arrogant fuck. Because while you may feel an intense wave of self-doubt wash over you once or twice a month, that shit is fleeting--there are plenty of people out there who are doubting you on a full-time basis. I don't care how much you think you hate yourself, there's always someone out there who hates you more. And if you're the kind of person who says "I'm my own worst critic" with any sort of regularity, there's a good chance that person could be me.

(See, I told you I'd return to bitchy form before too long!)

The cap of my Mistic Grape Strawberry juice drink is urging me to "Go Bold. Get Dipped."

Um...what?!

What the fuck could this possibly mean? Get dipped? I mean, that's fucking retarded sounding, right? Did I wake up old all of the sudden? Are kids honestly saying "Get dipped", or is this yet another example of some advertising copywriter just making shit up in an effort to appeal to the Age 12-17 demographic? I thought there might be some explanation on the web site (also touted on the bottle cap), but I can't seem to find any definition of getting "dipped" and how it relates to drinking fruit juice, so I'm forced to assume that they're trying to pass this off as lingo. I suspect it's meant to appeal to young snowboarding enthsusiasts and other purveyors of the 'Xtreme' lifestyle, but who fucking knows.. Please, if any of you have ever been dipped, plan to get dipped, or know anyone who's ever even used the term, SPEAK UP!

In the meantime, here are a few Xtreme catchphrases I'd like to see worked into the teen conversational repetoire:

"Humburger"

"Toasting the shimmies"

"Stork time"

"Quit tramming my stubbers"

"Porpoise, dude!"

"Four score and seven years ago"

"Ansel Adams-ular"

"Primo tubers"

"Plessy vs. Ferguson"

"Get ladled"

Enjoy this very funny article form this past month's New Yorker. It's written by Noah Baumbach, director of Kicking and Screaming and Mr. Jealousy, two films I like very much. They both star Chris Eigeman, who gets my vote as Film's most under-utilized actor.

Please forgive the utter sincerity of today's post. I promise to default to my bitchy status quo by nightfall.