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.
Friday, November 29, 2002
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!
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!
Wednesday, November 27, 2002
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!
Tuesday, November 26, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, November 25, 2002
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.)
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.)
Saturday, November 23, 2002
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)
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)
Friday, November 22, 2002
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.
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.
Thursday, November 21, 2002
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!)
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
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?
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?
Tuesday, November 19, 2002
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!!!!!"
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!!!!!"
Monday, November 18, 2002
Sunday, November 17, 2002
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.
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.
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Friday, November 15, 2002
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!
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
Monday, November 11, 2002
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.
(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.
Friday, November 08, 2002
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.)
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.)
Thursday, November 07, 2002
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.
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.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
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.
"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.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
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.
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.
Monday, November 04, 2002
MY NEW FAVORITE WEBSITE
I'm not kidding. Go here, click on the first photo and just keep toggling forward.
(Thanks, John Batchley)
I'm not kidding. Go here, click on the first photo and just keep toggling forward.
(Thanks, John Batchley)
Sunday, November 03, 2002
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.
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.
Friday, November 01, 2002
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.
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.
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