Friday, January 31, 2003


I ended up chatting with some Clevelanders (Clevelandites?) after last night's show, and they all seemed fixated on the fact that I live in New York City. There was a slight sense of awe in their voices, but not in an admiring way. It was more a "Why the hell would anyone want to live there" kind of thing. If there's one thing that travelling has taught me, it's that people in other parts of the country have serious love/hate feelings about New York, and it tends to be more Hate then Love.

What I realized is, the country hates New York City for the same reason that the rest of the world hates this country--both New York and America have no problem letting people know that they're the best. You see, every town in this country has civic pride. I'm sure the mayor of Cleveland, for example, doesn't hesitate to publicly sing the praises of his city. But I'm sure he's aware, on some level, that Cleveland is not the cultural hub of this nation. The difference is, when New Yorkers claim to live in the best city in the country...well, there's a ring of truth to it. And that rubs people the wrong way. So, where in Cleveland it might seem like civic pride, in New York it comes off as unforgivably arrogant.

Similarly, I'm sure Belgians are very proud of their country, but the simple reality is that they live in...well, Belgium. Now, imagine if you can, being a guy from Brussels and turning on the TV to see George W. talking about how the United States is the greatest nation in the world, an appraisal no American politician seems shy about making. I imagine it would piss you off a bit. Why? Because some little piece of you would know it was true--but why do they have to say it all the time?

So, in the same way that Bostonians like to portray New York as one big crack den (something I still encounter, every time I head home for the holidays and pick up a newspaper), people from France and Germany like to bitch about America being a cultural wasteland.

What's my point, you ask? Don't have one. I just like talking shit.

Thursday, January 30, 2003


So I'm back at the library, and I'm sitting next to the very same crazy woman who talks to the screen. Apparently, she's the Norm Peterson of the Cleveland Public Library.

I feel like poop. I had a bit of the 'sauce' last night, just as I happened to be coming down with a slight cold. Combine those two elements with sleeping in a strange room, not to mention my general non-ability to get a good night's sleep, and you have the recipe for one of those long, horrific fever-dream nights. I swear to god, the night felt about 45 hours long. I kept slipping in and out of this strange dream, revolving around a professional sport where my friends and I took turns kicking each other in the stomach. Bliss, I tell you.

I feel better now, but I'm still in no condition to walk around a museum for hours on end, so the Hall of Fame will have to wait until tomorrow--I can't wait to check out the Stryper exhibit! I also plan on seeing this 'giant eraser' that everyone keeps raving about. That should take up a good 40 seconds. It's a full life. As for now, I'm staggering around with a slight touch of delirium--which, I have to admit, ain't all that bad. I feel like I've been 'huffing'.

Alright fuckers, I'm gone.

Wednesday, January 29, 2003


So, I've actually found Cleveland to be rather pleasant thusfar, other than the fact that everything (including most restaurants) seems to close before 7pm. 7pm?! Okay, that and one other thing: My rather large room at the Holiday Inn Express has the faint scent of urine. But other than that, things are peachy. The club I'm performing at (Hilarities, in the heart of downtown Cleveland) is quite nice. And the crowd, despite being rather small (it was a Tuesday and the night of the State of the Union, after all), was relatively bright and attentive. That's really all you can ask for, as a comic. Well, that and a backstage hummer from a beautiful waitress (I haven't yet brought this up with the management, but is it something I should really have to come right out and ask for? I mean, DUH! It's called 'being polite'--maybe you ladies should look into it.)


I'm currently sitting at one of the computers at the Cleveland Public Library. To one side of me, there is a man banging on his keyboard as if it fucked his wife, and on the other side, a very large woman in a furry leopard print hat. She seems to be having a conversation with the internet--she keeps saying things like "Whaaaaaaat?", "Yeah, that's what I thought!" and "No, I don't think so". It's almost enough to make me feel like I'm back in New York.

I haven't been to the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame yet (I don't want to shoot my tourism wad on the first day of my visit), but I am about to head off to...the mall! That's right, suckas! Jealous much? I'll think about you all when I'm checking out the super dope candles at Wicks 'n Sticks, or chilling at the Food Court! On the way, I'm pretty sure I'll be passing a "Quizno's", which advertises on television but, cruelly, doesn't exist in NYC. I have been dying to find out if toasted is, in fact, better. Now, it appears that I'll have that chance. God bless America.

Tuesday, January 28, 2003


Okay, so I'm once again off on a comedy sojourn, this time to the shining metropolis known as Cleveland, OH. Why, you ask? Well, I decided that this eleven-degree NYC weather is simply too balmy for me--I need some of those bone-chilling gusts sweeping in off the Great Lakes. I will be there for six entire days, which should give me just enough time to see all of the Cleveland sights, such as:

* The Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame
* The Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame gift shop
* The Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame rest rooms
* The hot dog vending cart outside the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame
* My hotel room
* Any bar that happens to be between my hotel room and the Rock 'n Roll Hall of Fame
* Rite Aid

If things get tedious, I may even go see a Cavs game. They're a professional basketball team, for those of you who do the I'm-too-intellectual-to-have-ever-heard-of-a-sports-team thing. Oh, and on that subject, I recently disovered that the Superbowl is gay (this takes a minute or so to load, then scroll down a bit).

So off I go to LaGuardia now. I'll be checking in from Ohio and I will be bored off my ass, so let's makes this week's comments extra juicy--lots of unbridled hostility, petty bickering and clumsy sexual innuendo. Make me proud.

Monday, January 27, 2003


Okay, fuck this. I've spent the last 45 minutes sitting in front of this screen, trying to think of something funny to type. I could talk about the Superbowl party I went to last night, and how I was exactly two seconds away from winning the 'pool' and taking home $85 (damn, that fucking last minute touchdown bullshit), but that will just make me bitter. Or, I could talk about the halftime show and Sting's neverending crusade to obliterate any credibility he once possessed, but I just don't feel like it. I'm determined to say nothing of interest today. My condolences.

Therefore, it seems fitting that I direct you people to this rather amusing cartoon.

It's gotten a lot of press, so you may have already seen it.

Well, that's all. Stop reading now.

Okay, I will just wonder aloud about Sting for a moment. Does he have gambling debts that we're not aware of? Maybe a few secret families he needs to support? Because I can't think of any other reasons for him to do the shit he does. The whole time he was onstage, butchering his own legacy (btw, dude--you're too old for that shirt), I could have sworn I heard the faint sound of a cash register in the background.

Off the top of my head, let's review the embarassing shit Sting has done in the last decade or so, in an effort to make coin and/or appeal to the TRL generation:

* Allowing The Mouth-Breather Formerly Known as Puff Daddy to turn "Every Breath You Take" into a pathetic tribute to the late Notorious B.I.G.
* Appearing onstage with "Diddy" at the MTV Video Music Awards and perfomring said tribute song.
* Performing that unforgivably horrid "Desert Rose" song (the one with the Morroccan fellow vaterwauling in the background) in a Lexus commercial.
* Penning 5 songs for The Emperor's New Groove, a recent Disney flop.
* Performing "I Want it That Way" with the Backstreet Boys(!), again at the MTV Video Music Awards.
* Appearing in three separate Outback Steakhouse commericials a few years ago.
* Last night's superbowl travesty.

Okay, I made up the Outback Steakhouse thing. But for a moment, it seemed plausible, didn't it? If that's not a fucking indictment, I don't know what is.

Saturday, January 25, 2003


So here I am in Roswell, GA. I just walked a mile and a half to this library, as I am completely fucking addicted to checking my Email/blog. By the way, finding a library in Roswell, GA is a lot like looking for the Lost Ark of the Covenant. People have either never heard of it, don't believe it exists, or won't tell you where it is for fear of reprisal.

"The Library?, never heard of it. I mean, why would I know where the library is? I don't even know what the word means, this...'library' of which you speak! Nope! You are talking to the wrong guy, my friend!! (Whispering,) You fool! You'll get us both killed!"

I've been told that this is a "White" suburb of Atlanta, which is predominantly "Black". (Not sure why I'm usuing quotation marks there, as the people actually are White and Black. Anyway...) Now I don't want to blithely make the stereotype of Southern people being racist, but I should mention that I did just pass a house with actual lawn jockeys out in the front yard. LAWN JOCKEYS! They also had two of those old "jiggaboo" figurines sitting in the garden--grinning, bug-eyed caricatures with black skin and big, red lips.

Classy. Very classy.

I will say this, though--everyone here is very nice. Like, ridiculously so. I had lunch at a place called "Folks Family Southern Kitchen", which is kind like a Cracker Barrell kind of place. And it sounds odd, but I got the feeling that my waitress really was happy to serve me. It was kind of creepy. She was really excited to be there, to be wearing the "Folks" uniform and passing out chicken fried steak to local rednecks and soccer moms. I both envied and pitied her, in that oh-so-condescending New York pseudo-intellectual way. I mean, she seemed to be in a state of pure contentedness, but I kept fighting the urge to shout, "Why the fuck are you so happy? Are you aware that you're a waitress at a homestyle chain restaurant in Roswell, GA? You do know there's more to life than this, don't you?" But I suppose that's what makes her a happy, well-adjusted human being and me...well, me.

Okay, that's all for now. Hope you're all enjoying your respective weekends.

Friday, January 24, 2003


I'm going away for a couple of days, to visit a charming 48 year old Belgian man I met in an internet chat room. He says he'll give me toffee.

Okay, that's not true (it was taffy, not toffee), but I am going away for what was to be My Weekend with Screech. Instead, I'll be opening for this guy. Why do I have the feeling he's going to ask me not to take the Lord's name in vain while on stage?

(Please let this weekend not suck...please let this weekend not suck...)

I'll file a report tomorrow, if I'm able.

Thursday, January 23, 2003


"A Tribute to Secular Humanism!"

"Puddlemania!", the songs of Puddle of Mudd, as performed by Andrea Bocelli and Charlotte Church

"An All-Star Salute to Product Placement", brought to you by Delta Airlines, Exxon, Bud Lite, Ford Motors and Doritos

"Let's Hear it for Segregation!"

Sammy Hager presents "America Fever", starring Michael Buffer and the cast of "Spin City"

"Tights Ends, Wide Receivers", a Celebration of Hardcore Gay Sex

"The Death of Music", featuring Britney Spears, 'Nsync and Aerosmith (Hey, wait a minute...)

"Noam Chomsky Forever!"

Wednesday, January 22, 2003


* I've been quite busy today, but I did beef up the "Chet Van Orr" thing from a couple day ago.

* If given the choice between the new Ben and Jerry's "Karamel Sutra" ice cream and self-esteem, I'll stick with the ice cream.

* There were auditions today for "Last Comic Standing" a new reality show where they put ten stand-up comics in a house. I chose not to audition, as I'm quite sure the show will be designed to make everyone involved look as ridiculous as possible. I'm sure some of them will deserve it, but I'm not going to subject myself to it. You see, comedy is like The Force and there are many, many people in this community who have given themselves over to the Dark Side--vanity, pettiness, jealousy and the 100% hateful need to be "funny" at all times. And every single time someone writes an article or films a documentary about stand up comedy, those are the kind of people they highlight. It makes sense--jackasses make for better storylines and douch-ey behavior simply reinforces people's negative stereotypes about stand up comedy. When people imagine a "baseball player", they think of Barry Bonds or Sammy Sosa. When they imagine a "guitar player", they think of Eric Clapton or Jimmy Page. However, when people hear the words "stand up comedian", they are reminded of that one douchebag they saw that one time--the guy with the mullet who did Lewinsky jokes and couldn't get any laughs. So no, I shan't be auditioning for "Last Comic Standing". Maybe it's a matter of dignity, or maybe I'm just afraid that the only thing worse then getting picked for a show like that is not getting picked for a show like that.

* You should all watch the debut of "Chappelle's Show" on Comedy Central, tonight at 10:30pm. I'm not in tonight's episode (I'm in one that will air in something like 4-6 weeks), but I guarantee you it's going to be funny as hell.

Tuesday, January 21, 2003


I'm watching Fox News right now (for joke writing purposes only), and they just issued a 'FOX NEWS ALERT': Hispanics are now America's largest minority group.

This is a statistic that merits an alert? Do they have reporters stationed at hospitals? ("Marlena Rodriguez just had twins--GET ME THE NEWS DESK!") And it it just me, or is there something slightly racist about the term 'alert' in this context? Why not a 'bulletin', or 'breaking news'? 'Alert' implies "Oh, shit!"

"Ladies and gentlemen, Hispanics are now America's largest minority group......... Run! RUN! Lock up your daughters! Avoid Taco Bell at all costs!! Fox News is issuing an official Minority Warning!!! Aaaagghhhhhhh!!!!"

Monday, January 20, 2003


It's 6:27am and I just spent the last 2.5 hours watching Black Hawk Down. How in sweet christ am I supposed to get to sleep after watching this thing? And, perhaps more importantly, what the fuck is my problem that I would start watching a movie at 4:00am on a Monday morning? This is the way I'm starting my week? I'm not well versed in corporate philosophy, but I'm going to go out on a limb and guess that this is not one of the "7 Habits of Highly Effective People".

I was contemplating writing a '7 Habits of Highly Ineffective People' list, but decided it would be too hacky--a Google search for that phrase confirmed my suspicion.

Instead, I offer you "America Sings", a wonderful selection of 'song-poems'. It's very long, but also very wonderful. A bit of explanation as to how this thing came into existence can be found here. There really is so much to love here--the sub-Solid Gold dancing, the leotards, the feathered hair. It's beautiful to watch the awkward banter between the co-hosts. She obviously believes that this gig is going to catapult her to super-stardom, whereas he comes across more like Jennifer Jason Lee at the end of Last Exit to Brooklyn*. Particularly noteworthy is the company's name: Columbine Records. There's definitely a joke there, but I think I'll forego making it.

Anyway, enjoy.

(* If you haven't seen's just say it ain't pretty.)

Sunday, January 19, 2003

A brief message from CHET VAN ORR, '80s Movie Asshole-for-Hire

Yo Bradley, check it out� Look who just showed up.

Look geek, I don�t know how you found out about this party, but how about you take your little friends and head back to Nerdville?

See, you think you�ve got everybody fooled, but I�m onto you. You think I�m just going to let you waltz in here and steal my girl? In my senior year? Two weeks before the big homecoming game? Four days before the prom? Three hours before the Interdenominational Water-Balloon Toss and Texas Chili Cook-Off? Well, my friend, you are sorely mistaken. Am I right, Bradley? Up high.

(Big laugh, fake punch)

Look, you may have gotten lucky in the unicycle relay race, but don�t make the mistake of thinking you belong here. See, I own this school. I�m captain of the Bungee Surfing team, Vice-treasurer of the Origami Club, and my father owns the biggest tiffany lamp dealership in the State of California. And you? You�re a dork. You�ve always been a dork, and you�ll always be a dork. So do yourself a favor and go back to Hillside, where you belong, before somebody gets hurt.

Carlise, it�s time for you tell tell your little friend goodbye and get in the car. I said, get in the car!! What, you can�t actually tell me that you�re going to break up with me for this�geek?!

Well, I guess you really are a slut�just like your dead mother. Come on, Bradley, we�re out of here.

Bradley, let�s go. Bradley?


Dickwad, you and I are going to settle this. Tonight. Stay out of it, slut�this doesn�t concern you! Miller�s Creek, behind Shopper�s World. Midnight. Be there.

Oh, and don�t forget to bring your jet ski.

Friday, January 17, 2003


As I'm sure many of you have read, former Bee Gee Barry and Robin Gibb are investigating the mysterious circumstances surrounding brother Maurice's recent passing. Now, I'm waaaaay too classy to exploit this man's death in order to get a cheap laugh by making a "Staying Alive" joke. Nope. I'm above it.

It is worth noting, however, that a preliminary autopsy revealed that Mr. Gibb may have suffered a terminal case of "Night Fever".

Yeah, I know. I know.

Thursday, January 16, 2003

MORE PLUGGING! (For me, this time)

Look, I know I occasionally litter this sacred web space with mentions of my career, most notably the show I host every Friday night. But I recently discovered something very curious and it's got me feeling a bit freaked out.

Perhaps some of you have read about the mysterious "Dark Side of the Rainbow"? For those unfamiliar, here's the gist: when played in tandem, "The Wizard of Oz" and Pink Floyd's album "Dark Side of the Moon" share a set of eerie coincidences. For instance, Dorothy's house gets swept up by the tornado during the Pink Floyd song "Great Gig in the Sky" and the album's final sound of a beating heart coincides with Dorothy placing her ear to the Tin Man's chest. Interesting, no?

Well, I was reviewing the lineup for this week's stellar installment of PORTABLE COMEDY, and I discovered that, if properly sychronized, this week's show shares a creepy similarity to Kenny Rogers' "Greatest Hits". First off, there's the whole "greatest" thing. On Friday, January 17th, Portable Comedy will be welcoming not one, but TWO writers for "The Daily Show with John Stewart", in my opinion the "greatest" show on TV. Secondly, one of Kenny Rogers' biggest hits was "Lady", and who do I just happen to have booked on tomorrow night's show? That's right: a lady. Two, actually. I don't know about you, but I just got goosebumps.

Oddest of all, I was just this week considering opening a chain of rotisserie chicken eateries. Still not convinced? Well, you'll have to come out to the show and see for yourself. Check out the lineup, yo:

ERIC DRYSDALE (In addition to his Emmy Award-winning work on "The Daily Show", Mr. Drysdale has appeared on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend". He knows when to hold 'em, but is sometimes unclear on when to fold 'em.)

CHRIS REGAN (Like his aforementioned colleague, Mr. Regan is an Emmy-winning "Daily Show" writer and "Premium Blend" alum. Whatever you do, don't call him the coward of the county.)

ALLISON CASTILLO (Ms. Castillo has performed at the presitgious Aspen Comedy Festival and was the subject of an MTV documentary on life as a comedian. She is truly one of the funniest islands in the comedy stream.)

JONATHAN CORBETT (In addition to performing at the Montreal Comedy Festival, Mr. Corbett recently appeared on "Premium Blend". Try as you might, you won't be able to avoid falling in love with this dreamer.)

PRESCOTT TOLK (Mr. Tolk performs all over the city and country and is a regular at the world-famous "Comic Strip" here in NYC. If forced, he will indeed take his love to town.)

CLARA BIJL (Straight from France, the land of Romance--not to mention bread that carves up the roof of your mouth--it's Clara Bijl. She will undoubtedly decorate your life.)

And, the details:

7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
$5.00, FOLKS!

NOTE: It's been very crowded lately, so make sure you get there early, in order to ensure a seat!

Hope to see you there.

P.S. Yes, I know I'm shameless

Wednesday, January 15, 2003


A few days ago, I was having a semi-drunken conversation about the environment, and I happened to mention acid rain. A friend of mine, someone I consider a rather intelligent person, bellowed "Whoooooaaa, acid rain--there's a blast from the past!" Even more shocking, no one else at the table thought it a ridiculous thing to say. Now, as is often demonstrated on this very page, I'm not someone who fails to appreciate the value of Kitsch. Still, I find it unsettling that I have friends who store information about colossal dangers to the very existence of our planet in the same part of the brain usually reserved for Wang Chung song titles.

(Look, I know this entry isn't very entertaining. The well is a tad dry today, people--my apologies.)

Tuesday, January 14, 2003


There's a party tonight for a television show I have a small part on, but it's just for the writers, crew and network people--no actors allowed. I think this is a grand policy, considring most parties consist entirely of actors. But I am a teensy bit bummed I wont be there, as there should be lots of hot production assistant ass in attendance. You see, we all have fetishes, and my major turn-on is a woman in a headset. Christ, is that hot! It gives a woman an air of authority--she's got things to arrange, bigwigs to placate, peons to belittle! And if she's also carrying a clipboard? Forget it, I'm in love. Sure, the women at this party won't actually be wearing headsets at the time, but that might even make it hotter--it'll be the night the production assistants let their hair down. Production Assistants Gone Wild!

I'm not so into roleplaying, but I'll know I've found my special someone when she suggests we play a hot little game of "Big Name Talent / Production Assistant". It will begin with me sitting in the 'green room', wearing a terrycloth robe, eating crudite and sipping mineral water (room temperature with no bubbles, as per my contract). Eventually, she will saunter in wearing a silk camisole, the requsite headset/clipboard combination and a thick belt, from which dangles a large set of keys.

"Mr. Finnegan, I think we're ready for you over here on the bed," she'll say.

Monday, January 13, 2003


My friends Anne and Sydney are, collectively, The Ukes of Hazard. They recently produced their first music video, which can by enjoyed here. It's goddamn funny and the production values rock. If you're not an anus, you will enjoy it.

Sunday, January 12, 2003


Gentlemen, there is absolutely no reason to moan while you pee. Yeah, I know you really had to go. Yeah, I know it feels good. Yeah, I know. Stop moaning.

Also: If I don't know you, please don't start a conversation with me while we're both holding our dicks. Hell, even if I do know you. And if you are going to start a conversation with me while your dick is in your hand, please do not use your other hand to affably pat me on the back.

That's no good.

P.S. You can find these and other trenchant observations in my new book, "BREAKING THE SEAL: One Man's Adventures in Drunken Urination" (HarperCollins), available this Spring.

Friday, January 10, 2003


"Who's Johnny?" by DeBarge

"Carry On My Wayward Son" by Kansas

Theme song from "The Great Space Coaster"

"Love Plus One" by Haircut 100

"We Shall Overcome" (Trad.)

"Chicken Soup with Rice" by Carol King

"Me and a Gun" by Tori Amos

"The Monster Mash" by Bobby "Boris" Picket and the Crypt-Kickers

"Man in Motion (Theme from St. Elmo's Fire)" by John Parr

"Operation: Mindcrime" by Queensryche

"Darling Nikki" by Prince (simply because your performance will never live up to it)

"The South's Gonna Rise Again" (Trad.)

Thursday, January 09, 2003


My professional comedy career has just taken an enormous hit. Later this month, I'm travelling down South to do three shows at some place called "The Funny Farm" for a rather puny amount of money. Why am I doing this, you ask? For the experience? Sure, I can always use more road gigs. Because I have nothing better to do that weekend? Well yeah, you got me there. But the real reason I was so excited to accept the gig was that I was scheduled to open for...

(drum roll, please)

...Mr. Dustin Diamond.

That's right, ladies and gentlemen--I was to be opening for Screech. I can't tell you how much I was looking forward to this. First off, I'm sure he draws big crowds, no doubt including dozens hot Gen X chicks on a nostalgia kick--in other words, my target demographic. Secondly, Screech has only been doing comedy for something like a year (apparently his "act" is comprised, largely, of "Saved by the Bell" anecdotes), so I probably would have come out looking like a pro. Secondly, a friend of mine did a show with him once and said that he's a genuinely nice guy, but a huge partier and an avid poontang enthusiast. I was really hoping to come back with a couple of good I-saw-Screech-snorting-blow-off-a-cocktail-waitress'-ass stories.

Alas, I got a call this morning and it appears that Screech has bailed. What the fuck does Screech have to do that he can't come out for a weekend and provide me with a few anecdotes? Stars, I tell you!

(Well...maybe notstars...but you know what I mean.)

And to think I was hoping for an introduction to Tiffani Amber Thiessen... Shattered dreams, shattered dreams.

Wednesday, January 08, 2003


You know, I consider myself a relatively progressive, forward thinking individual. So when a friend of mine accused me of being a misogynist a few weeks ago, it really stuck in my craw. But then I thought about it for a while and I came to the conclusion that, yes, perhaps I do have some issues. But I will say this: any negative feelings I have toward women are only in response to what I feel is unfair persecution.

You see, there are many women in this country (many women) who are virulently Anti-Christianfinnegan. That's right, I said it! We've been living the lie for far too long! Anti-Christianfinneganism is alive and well in this country, and the sooner women confront that fact, the sooner they'll put an end to this terrible legacy of shame and intolerance.

Most of us only recognize Anti-Christianfinneganism in its most overt forms. And sure, there are still those women out there, the ones who will openly declare, "I hate Christian Finnegan." But by condemning only the obvious Anti-Christianfinneganist, we're ignoring some larger issues. The real danger comes from the subtle Anti-Christianfinneganism that pervades all levels of society--even if women try to disguise it with political buzzwords, like "self-respect" and "taste". I mean, how many times have you heard women say "Hey, I don't have a problem with Christian Finnegan, BUT....."? Like we don't know what that's about! When pressed, they all fall back on the same tired cliches:

"Look, I don't have a problem with Christian Finnegan, but why does he have to grab his penis all the time?"

"Christian Finnegan's lazy and doesn't want to work!"

"I wouldn't have a problem with Christian Finnegan, if he'd just stop farting into his own hand and then smelling it."

It's sad, I tell you. I mean, you'd think women would feel ridiculous saying some of this shit out loud--don't they see that they're just falling prey to socialization and cultural bias? Even women who claim to be ultra-progressive often exhibit signs of Anti-Christianfinneganism. You know what I mean--that whole "Hey, one of my best friends is Christian Finnegan" syndrome. As if Christian Finnegan is something "exotic" or "dangerous". In a nutshell, something other. Well women, I hate to break it to you, but I'm not some exotic creature who exists just to make you feel better about yourself. I'm just like you. I laugh like you. I cry like you. I get my period, just like you.

Um...wait, scratch that last part.

The point is, if women are ever to move forward as a gender, it's vital that they look at themselves in the mirror and face the cold, hard truths of Anti-Christianfinneganism. You all need to respect Christian Finnegan. To embrace Christian Finnegan! To open your doors to Christian Finnegan, especially late at night when he's horny and drunk! The time is now, women!

Seriously, the time is now--call me.

Tuesday, January 07, 2003


Earlier this evening, I used a gift certficate (a Christmas present) to purchase Grand Theft Auto: Vice City. This was a very stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid stupid thing to do.

Stupid stupid stupid.

If you don't hear from me within 4-6 weeks, please send medical attention.

In the meantime, enjoy this.

Monday, January 06, 2003

Okay, after a very long hiatus, I present Part III in my 'swing party' saga. This probably won't make a whole of sense unless you go to the archives and read the entries for 12/20 and 12/22. For the sake of flow, I'm going to re-post the last paragraph of Part II. Anyway, please enjoy. More to come soon.


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.

�Private party,� he mumbled preemptively. �Members only.�

Clarice leaned in and, with a conspiratorial whisper, stammered �Um�I was told to tell you that we�re�um�friends of Dave.� Friends of Dave. Somehow declaring myself a Friend of Dave seemed far more embarrassing than admitting friendship with either Dorothy or Bill W.

�That�s fine, but your friend still can�t come in.� Meaning me.

�Why not?�

�No jeans�, said the swarthy gentleman, with a dismissive flip of his hand. Of course. I should have known this was a classy orgy. How could I have been so stupid?

My clumsy breach of sex club protocol resulted in Clarice and I having a classic �old married couple� argument right there in the lobby of the Fulton Street Health club. This was �just like� me, I was told. I countered with the typical I-know-I-screwed-up excuses: �How was I supposed to know�, �You could have mentioned something before we left my apartment�, and the classic "Oh, well fuckME, then!" We were about to take our little spat out onto the street when a brawny fellow in Bouncer-wear (shiny suit, mock turtleneck), appeared from the hallway and motioned to us. We were �OK�. His granting us entrance undoubtedly had less to do with bonhomie than it did Clarice�s heaving bosom, which was straining mightily against her sweater. Still, it was enough for me to offer him a friendly tip of the imaginary cap�he responded with a glance that said �we�re not friends, jackass�.

Clarice paid the $150 and we were told to head on in to the locker room (classy, classy, classy!)) and give our coats to Dottie. Dottie? It struck me as odd that any woman named Dottie would be caught dead in a place like this. In my mind, swing parties were the province of saucy sexpots with names like Venus and Amber and Genevieve. �Dotties� were post-menopausal, grandmotherly types with wrinkled earlobes and receding gums�certainly not the kind of woman you�d want to imagine in a purple camisole. So you can imagine my surprise when Clarice and I walked into the cold, fluorescent light of the locker room and discovered that Dottie was�exactly what I�d feared. And yes, she was wearing a purple camisole.

�Hand me your jackets, kids,� said Dottie, with a gummy grin. Despite her advanced years (I�m thinking 62-ish), it was obvious that Dottie was quite a �free spirit�. This communicated itself most clearly via her left breast, which was roaming independently of it�s lingerie casing. Now, the possibility of seeing an elderly woman�s bare tit is, generally speaking, the kind of thing I�d prefer to be made aware of before ponying up $150. But it was Clarice�s money, so I wasn�t going to cause a scene. Besides, Dottie was just the coat checker�surely there were dozens of tantalizing fucktoys just waiting for us on the other side the locker room. We�d simply have to put Dottie and her wrinkly, dangling appendage out of our minds�as if that would ever be possible. We handed her our coats and were directed to a large room with flashing lights and loud music.

As Clarice and I rounded the corner, we entered what struck me as a high school reunion, as staged by David Lynch. At one end of the room, a massive tarp covered what I suspect was a set of nautilus machines�the deep divots in the carpet were another clue that this was, in fact, the main workout area of the Fulton Street Health Club. At the other end of the room was a caterer serving drinks from behind a bar and a deejay-for-hire wearing a shiny silver vest and bowtie. A Taste of Honey�s �Boogie Oogie Oogie� blared from the P.A. system and a disco ball duct taped to the ceiling threw tiny shards of light around the room.

The makeshift �dance floor� was populated with 25 or so middle-aged men and women in various states of dress. One heavyset gentleman lumbered from side to side with his shirt fully unbuttoned, offering all in attendance the occasional glimpse of his hairy man-boobs. Behind him was the guido in the see-thru mesh shirt and pleated pants dancing with the onetime Miss New Jersey contestant in the thong-and-blouse combo. And off to the side, the tuxedo-clad James Bond wannabe gyrating awkwardly in the vicinity of a topless mother of four. And to think I was wearing jeans�how uncouth!

Other than Clarice and me, the only attendee under the age of 35 was an Asian woman sitting on the lap of an elderly businessman. She wore enough makeup to embarrass a Thai hooker and a lycra bodysuit seemingly designed as a �camel toe� display case. She was not the least bit attractive, but I still found comfort in her presence�with her long fingernails and exaggerated �do me� facial expressions, she was the only person in the room who appeared to belong at a sex club. Everyone else gave off the impression that someone had spiked the punch at an insurance company Christmas party. Suffice to say, this was not the scene I�d spent the last week masturbating to.

And with that delightful image, I will bring this chapter to a close. Stay tuned for Parts IV, V, and (probably) VI.

Sunday, January 05, 2003


This coming Wednesday, ABC is debuting a new reality series called "The Bachelorette", wherein 25 douchebags try to hook up with the same woman. What's funny is, I actually pitched a show just like that a few years back--it was called "Every Party I Went to in College".

Friday, January 03, 2003


I began reading these stories yesterday afternoon and was repulsed. I went out, did my laundry, bought myself lunch. Upon my return, I went back to the site and read some more, all the while completely disgusted. I then went out for the evening, returning home hours later for a third helping of ickyness.

I still have a few more of these vile stories to get through tomorrow. Repulsive, I tell you.

Wednesday, January 01, 2003


I have spent this, the first day of 2003, doing absolutely nothing. That's bad, right? I mean, I can't help but have the feeling that I've set a very bad precedent for the coming year. I'm wearing sweatpants, fer chrissake. So, just to give this day some air of poignancy, I will now catalogue my personal highs and lows of 2002.

COOLEST MOMENT of 2002 (Career-wise)
Having Dave Chappelle quote a joke of mine back to me. (He's the guy from Half Baked, and one of my very favorite comics.)

LAMEST MOMENT of 2002 (Career-wise)
Performing last in a two-hour-plus show, where the audience was comprised of a husband and wife on vacation from the Netherlands and two men in their Eighties (one of whom had no teeth), who'd shown up for an incorrectly advertised showing of the film High Noon.

BIGGEST MIXED BLESSING of 2002 (Career-wise)
Being cast in a VH1 series called Movie Obsession, thanks in large part to my insane (and inane) love of music/movie trivia. At one of the table reads, a bigtime programming exec told me and the other two "stars" of the show that we were to be part of "The New Face of VH1", the channel's well-publicized attempt to re-invent itself. She told us that we should expect to be a "big part" of what they'd be doing, in terms of on-air talent. I had been a guest comic on Never Mind the Buzzcocks, another "New Face" show, so I was pretty jazzed about the whole thing. Well, "The New Face of VH1" turned out to be a failure of epic proportions--articles chronicling its demise were published in Entertainment Weekly, Rolling Stone and TV Guide, to name but a few. Thankfully, Movie Obsession was so below the radar that it was rarely ever mentioned as one of the shows that contributed to the debacle. Still, all of the people responsible for "The New Face of VH1" were shitcanned and I can't help but believe that there's got to be some sort of black mark next to the names of those of us who were considered those "new faces".

Enjoying a rather involved "first kiss" at a Lower East Side bar and suddenly realizing that this woman and I were making out to Black Sabbath's "War Pigs".

Being out on a date within a few days of getting over a stomach virus and letting rip one of those "Sweet Christ, I hope that was just a fart" farts. (Yes, I'm very classy. No no, you're quite welcome.)

Walking into my old temp agency after a two year, and what I assumed was to be a permanent, absence.

GREAT ALBUMS of 2002 (In no particular order)
Beck, Sea Change
Interpol, Turn on the Bright Lights
My Vitriol, Finelines
Peter Gabriel, Up
Brendan Benson, Lapalco
Sparta, Wiretap Scars
Queens of the Stone Age, Songs for the Deaf
The Flaming Lips, Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots
Sneaker Pimps, Bloodsport
Norah Jones, Come Away with Me
Wico, Yankee Hotel Foxtrot
N.E.R.D., In Search of...
Coldplay, A Rush of Blood to the Head

Avril Lavigne, "Uncomplicated"

Not taking my ex girlfriend up on her offer to take me with her on vacation to The Virgin Islands.

Not taking my ex girlfriend up on her offer to take me with her on vacation to The Virgin Islands.

That guy who was talking shit that time we were hanging out with what's-his-face. You know....that guy? What a fucking asshole.