Monday, December 30, 2002


* 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!

Saturday, December 28, 2002


BATMAN (struggling,): So...hungover... 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... bed.

ROBIN: Holy moment of clarity!

Friday, December 27, 2002

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, and Bob Powers, creator of, 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)
A mere $5.00 (free frat-house vodka!)

Okay, that is all.

Thursday, December 26, 2002


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.

Wednesday, December 25, 2002


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

Tuesday, December 24, 2002


* "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 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!

Sunday, December 22, 2002

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...


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.

Friday, December 20, 2002

In honor of the holiday season, I present:


YEAR: 10 Million B.C.
PLACE: Central Asia
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
CRAPPY GIFT: Acid-washed toga

YEAR: 31 A.D.
PLACE: Nazareth
GIVER: St. Peter
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
CRAPPY GIFT: Genetically pure Dachsund

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

Thursday, December 19, 2002

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.


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.

Wednesday, December 18, 2002

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

Tuesday, December 17, 2002


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!"

Saturday, December 14, 2002


Go here and click on Chewy for some Yuletide cheer.

Friday, December 13, 2002


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!

Thursday, December 12, 2002


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. 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

Wednesday, December 11, 2002


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.

Tuesday, December 10, 2002


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:


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

Monday, December 09, 2002


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

(, this is exciting...)


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.

Sunday, December 08, 2002


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.

Friday, December 06, 2002


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.

Thursday, December 05, 2002


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?



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.

Tuesday, December 03, 2002


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!


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 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!!!!


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?


Monday, December 02, 2002


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.