Monday, June 30, 2003


So, in the spirit of bonafide anticlimax in which Tower of Hubris specializes, here's my ridiculously (over three weeks) late summary of the US Air Guitar Championships.

Going into the evening, I was pretty much in the dark about how things were going to go. But I knew there was lots of hoopla about the event (CNN was sending someone down and there was a rumor that Howard Stern might show up), so I was pretty psyched about doing it. I don't think the producers of the show had any idea how much interest there would be in the event, because the space they rented was about the size of a Tic-Tac box--I think they ended up turning away about three times as many people as could actually fit in the club. So by the time I got there, the scene was already...shall we say, crowded. And by "crowded", I mean that subway-train-during-rush-hour, fat-sweaty-guy-pressed-up-against-you, slowly-feeling-the-rage-build-up-inside-you kind of crowded. That was at 8:15pm. Problem was, the show didn't start until after 9:30pm.

So I stood off to the side of the stage, trying to ignore the growing chants of "START THE FUCKING SHOW! START THE FUCKING SHOW!" At one point, one of the producers told me to go up onstage and announce that the show is going to start in 20 minutes. I flat out refused and, if I'd stuck to my guns, I'm sure the whole evening would have been a lot more fun. But I eventually compromised and agreed to tell the audience that the show was starting in "5 or 10" minutes--if it ended up being 20, so be it. Unfortunately, the minute the crowd realized that the show was not in fact finally starting, things started to get a little prison riot-esque. From that moment forward, I was the enemy. I'd prepared a bunch of music-related material, but it pretty much all got chucked to the wind, and I spent the majority of my time onstage explaining to a few of the more vocal audience members that I did not in fact "suck", and that I had absolutely no plans to "go the fuck home".

As far as the actual contestants (22, in all) went, most of them were pretty lackluster. A few took aural beatings from the audience that made my treatment seem downright regal. Most had stage names, many of them air guitar-related, a la "Air Raid", "Air Apparent" and "Air-do-well". Personally, I preferred the ones that were less literal, such as "Trans Am Mama", mono-monikered "Czar", and my personal favorite, "Bjorn Turoque" (as in, "Born to Rock"). Honorable mention should go to "Snatchface", a young woman who'd painted a horizontal vagina across her forehead. Get it??? It's a SNATCH!! On her FACE!!!

I was surprised, though, at how few of the contestants really "went for it". There were a few impressive costumes, but when it came time to rock out, most of them pulled a major Cindy Brady--i.e., froze up like a mofo. I think some of them wilted under the constant barrage of "GO KILL YOURSELF!" and "SHOW US YOUR TITS!!" And some of the song choices were a tad baffling--I'm sure it seemed like an hilarious idea to air guitar to Irene Cara's "Fame", but in the face of a hostile crowd of drunken jack-offs, it was akin to placing a bullseye on your forehead.

When it gets right down to it, the entire evening was about one dude: C-Diddy. He blew the metaphorical roof off the dump with a stirring rendition of "Play With Me" by Extreme. He was wise enough to know that, while we all may love Husker Du (one guy "jammed" to "Ice Cold Ice", which was a total yawnfest), indie rock sucks shit as air guitar fodder. It's got to be metal, and big cheesy glam metal, if at all possible. Plus, his costume was a marvel to behold. A Hello Kitty breastplate? I mean, seriously--tell the guy what he's won. If you would like to see a few pictures of both C-Diddy and myself, go ahead and revel in his mastery.

So all in all, it was a very interesting evening. Not necessarily the yuk-filled lovefest I'd anticipated, but an interesting evening nonetheless. I imagine the poducers probably learned a lot from this first attempt, and that future editions will probably be a whole lot more fun. Hell, I'd do it again.

Friday, June 27, 2003


Fruit Smoothee

MC Excel Spreadsheet


Felch Lover

DJ Tasteful Floral Arrangement

Ost EO Perosis

MC Sudden Infant Death Syndrome

Grape Smuggla

DJ Backwash

Cordon Bloooooo

Rob Da Perfektly Adekwit Emcee

Hall Monitah

MC Gavin Macleod

Thursday, June 26, 2003


Mr. John Batchley (who apparently absolutely nothing to do with his work time) decided to run a bit of TOH text through AltaVista's Babel Fish Translator, sending it from "English to Japanese" and then back from "Japanese to English". The results are pretty damn funny.

If you don't know what "Engrish" is, you'll definitely want to check it out.

Anyway, here is yesterday's TOH post, re-imagined in the voice of a Japanese exchange student:


I yesterday do not stop because document office work of public finance is satisfied depending upon the office of this person. Before I who have the necessity me to bring the indentification I of some type find to my apartment and leaving I called him. " Your D.L., he called to me exactly ". The Um... what?" as for you as for the necessity to bring with special necessarily it is not... exactly your D.L. " That because the fact that you spoke him concerning the license of my operator is actualized took approximately 30 seconds honestly in me. Do I mean the D.L.? L fucking D?? Exactly which rank ' rapidity of thing freakin ones where we would not like to make the time when you say four syllables is you, it becomes?, is that supposed you it seems that is important making? or, the incomprehensible attempt is there ' a special language of the hip ', who who? can obtain the person namely ' operator license ' already says... because in the shit square is! Recently, it is that completely concerning your D.L.

Exactly, as for me the I " you average was the person whom you have understood in order to verify, namely my license?" Him it can grow, answers, ", license of your
operator. " License of my operator of Ohhhhhh! The God where you make that because of me clear, appreciates in the professor! I was planned by the fact that it brings my search and fishing industry license..., perhaps you you know that as my H.A.F.L.

And next, once more: " You you because it has that your D.L.. " Sawayama you express and start and so you can obtain the fact that is, exactly verify the Dude, me favor and S my D do.

Wednesday, June 25, 2003


I had to stop by this guy's office yesterday to fill out some financial paperwork. I called him before I left my apartment to find out what kind of indentification I needed to bring with me. "Just your D.L.," he told me. Um...what? "you don't need to bring anything special--just your D.L." It honestly took me about 30 seconds to realize he was talking about my driver's license. I mean, D.L.? D fucking L?? Just how much of a freakin' hurry do you have to be in that you don't want to make time to say four syllables? Is that supposed to make you seem important? Or, is that some weird attempt at 'hip' lingo? Yeah man, nobody's saying 'driver's license' anymore--that shit is for squares! These days, it's all about your D.L.

Just to make sure I was understanding the guy, I said "You mean, my license?" He responds, "Yeah, your driver's license." Ohhhhhh, my driver's license! Thank god you clarified that for me, professor! I was planning on bringing my Hunting and Fishing license--you may know it as my H.A.F.L.

And then, once more: "So yeah, just make sure you have your D.L. with you and that should be plenty." Dude, do me a favor and S my D.

Tuesday, June 24, 2003


* Yesterday was the first warm (85 degrees), non-raining day in at least three months. Today is also quite Summer-y. My question: At what point is it okay for me to start complaining about the heat? Is 24 hours long enough? Because this shit can blow me almost as much as rain can.

* Former MTV veejay Adam Curry has a blog. No, I'm not kidding. Very odd...

* It's ridiculous what kinds of amenities you learn to live without, being in New York City. Every time I visit one of my friends in the suburbs, I feel like I'm a time traveller visiting the future. "What is this machine of which you speak that...washes your dishes for you? What sort of strange magic is this? Oh, and look behind this door: You have your own personal laundromat! How many quarters do these machines take? FREE?!! I do not understand this word, 'free'! And what is that feeling....? You seem to air blowing directly out of your walls!!! This must be the work of the devil! I must flee up this stairca-- Wait a minute, how in heavens do you have a staircase within your apartment?! House? I know not any 'house', demon spawn!"

* I'm wearing a Hawaiian shirt today, folks. No, you cannot stop me. Behold!

Monday, June 23, 2003


Firstly, it was the lovely Kambri's birthday yesterday. Be a peach and pay her a visit.

On Saturday night, we went bowling with a few of her friends and I proved to them all that I am indeed the least coordinated human being in the Tri-State area. Truly, a staggering display of ineptitude. I also earned $9 by swallowing a combination of honey mustard sauce, ketchup, wine, beer and toothpaste. And to answer your question: Yes, I am nine years old.

Despite my lack of ability, I actually love to bowl. That is, once I gave in to the utter kitsch of the bowling alley experience. When I used to go bowling with friends, I'd treat the experience as if I had giant quotation marks floating above my head. Hey, look at me--I'm putting on my "bowling shoes"! And now, I'm picking up a "bowling ball"! Just like idiots do! Can you all see my tongue tucked firmly in my cheek?!!! Eventually I realized that my air of cultural superiority doesn't translate to the world at large. To everyone else, I'm just another jackass at the bowling alley, with a beer in one hand and a 12 pound ball in the other. No one's saying "Wow, when that flabby dude bends over to throw his ball directly into the gutter, I can see his asscrack--how ironic!!!"

By the way, sorry that last week's entires were a tad sparse--God spent the last seven days farting in my face. I don't want to whine about silly career crap, but I just have to vent for a moment. On Monday, I was hired for a rather lucrative (and hush-hush) temporary writing gig. I spent the next four days working my anus off, ordering in all my meals, sleeping five hours or less, nose to the proverbial grindstone. On Thursday, I get a callback to host a television show that looks like it's going to be very popular. Apparently, the producers wanted to bring three guys (one of whom would be me) down to Maryland the following day for a final interview/audition. Unfortunately, the manic schedule for the writing gig made taking a daytrip impossible--sad as it is, my finances won't allow me to forego a monetary bird-in-hand in order to take a gamble on the big big bucks--or at least, bigger bucks than I'm currently seeing (of course, there are Ecuadoran busboys who are seeing bigger bucks than I'm seeing). Plus, my sense of professional ethics convinced me not to flake out on the writing gig. So I turn down the callback.

Later that afternoon, I spend 78 minutes listening in to a conference call on my shitty cell phone. I'm already waaaaaay over my minutes allotment, so I figure that phone call probably cost me somewhere in the vicinity of $140-180. The next morning, I find out that all of the writing I've turned in is completely inappropriate for the project. I spend a frantic six hours trying to revamp what I'm doing, but no dice--they decide to find someone else. Sweet. So, as I somehow knew would happen all along, I wind up with zilch (relatively speaking).

And here's the kicker: the project I was working on? Small Wonder: The College Years.

Okay, that's not true. Still, a genuinely sucky week. Guess who's starting his $1000-a-week cocaine habit tomorrow?

Friday, June 20, 2003


This is why I'm going to make sure not to piss off my girlfriend.

By the way, you should all come out to Portable Comedy tonight--it's going to rock. Here's the info:

7 East 27th street
(b. 5th and Madison ave)

Thursday, June 19, 2003


There will be no TOH entry today. Nope. This doesn't count as an entry--it's just me telling you that there will be no such entry. A subtle distinction, but a distinction nonetheless.

Why is there no entry today, you ask? Because I'm currently so damned busy that I feel like taking a claw hammer to my own face. Even the four seconds it took me to type that last sentence is four seconds I should have spent working. I'm that busy, people!

So what exactly am I so busy doing?

Whoever thinks up the funniest answer to that question will win the jpeg of a monkey in whore makeup.

Wednesday, June 18, 2003


I've developed a prominent callous on the side of my left index finger. After spending 20 minutes trying to figure out how it got there, I picked up my Playstation controller and realized that it rests very comfortably...against the side of my left index finger.

I am extremely cool.

Speaking of extremely cool, it's time to check in with Super Hunky.

Sunday, June 15, 2003


Life is a brutal and confusing mess. Luckily for us all, I've found the secret to eternal happiness.

(NOTE: If you're at work, you may want to save this link for home--you'd have a bitch of time explaining to your boss why you were checking out the "ForeverABaby Sailor Suit Romper".)

Friday, June 13, 2003


Today is Friday the 13th. As you are no doubt aware, there is a lot of superstition associated with this date. Historians cite a number of theories as to the importance of Friday the 13th--some point to Friday, October 13, 1307, the day Pope Boniface VIII sentenced the Knights Templar to death, while others claim that the date was vilified by the Church even earlier than that, due to it's Pagan significance. Of course, Friday the 13th isn't the only "bad luck" myth in our culture. Here are some lesser-known ways people can fall prey to bad luck:

* Walking under a ladder

* Breaking a mirror

* Breakdancing in front of a mirror

* Failing to toss oregano over one's shoulder after uttering the words "Famous", "Original" and/or "Ray's"

* Reading poetry in the State of New Jersey

* Accidently urinating on a hare krishna (intentionally urinating on a hare krishna is perfectly safe)

* Walking under a Cheryl Ladd poster

* Making love to an Olive Garden busboy during a full moon

* Loaning money to Matthew Huntwork, who lives at 128 Seminole Road, Concord, MA (Seriously, avoid this at all costs)

* Drinking Tequila while eating bologna

* And, of course, failing to attend tonight's anus-kicking installment of PORTABLE COMEDY at the Gershwin Hotel! After two weeks of guest host-ery, I am reclaiming my riteful place as emcee of the best back-of-a-hotel comedy show Friday night has to offer! Please join me and my guests:

ROB PARAVONIAN (He's appeared on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" not once, but twice! He's also a favorite at colleges all over the country)

SHELAGH RATNER ("Heavyweight Champion" of the world famous "Moth" reading series)

JONATHAN CORBETT (Another "Premium Blend" alum, Jon has also appeared at the prestigious "Just for Laughs" festival in Montreal.)

ANGE GOLDSTEIN (Winner, Boston Comedy Club's "Rising Stars of Comedy Competition")

JOANNA PARSON (Host of the very wonderful Happy Hour Salon at Siberia)

RAY DeVITO (Nationally recognized touring comic--seriously, he's been just about everywhere)

STEPHANIE ESCAJEDA (Great LA comic making a rare NYC appearance)

Here are the details, folks:

7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison Ave)

Please, folks--it's not worth the risk of not showing up.

Thursday, June 12, 2003


Earlier this evening, I smoked pot for the first time in perhaps two years. It's been hours and I'm just now beginning to come out of it. I had planned to write something really funny and interesting tonight, but I think it's a safe bet that won't be happening. I know comics who claim that marijuana helps them write material--how could this be possible? I've spent the last hour and forty-five minutes staring at a moosehead-shaped pencil my old roommate bought in a Canadian gift shop. Here is a brief portion of my internal monlogue, regarding the moosehead-shaped pencil:

"There's something very powerful about this moose. Regal, even. It's as if he's completely at peace with his place in the universe. Those piercing eyes. What secrets are you keeping, King Moosehead Pencil? Resolute! That's the word I was looking for. He's resolute. Resolute. That's a weird word. Rezzzohhhloooot. Resolute. Resoloonie. Resolube. Resoloogie. Reso...reso... What the fuck are you looking at, Mr. Moosehead? Nice antlers, dickface."

Somehow, I don't think my killer "moosehead pencil" material is going to get me any couch time with Letterman. I think I'll stick with bourbon--at least alcohol makes me think I'm brilliant.

I'll post something interesting later today--I promise. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to watch V.I. Warshawski until I fall asleep in my desk chair.

(P.S. To my dear father, who tends to internalize my blog entries: Don't worry, Dad--I'm not going to become a reefer addict. And no, I honestly don't think I have a drinking problem, but I appreciate your concern.)

Tuesday, June 10, 2003

Listen, I'm going to post the Air Guitar Championship summation, but I need to tinker with the photos a bit first. My sincere apologies for jerking your e-chain. But in the meantime...


I really should consider doing laundry sometime soon. Everything in my closet stinks vaguely of Febreeze, and it's starting to get a bit icky. When I first discovered Febreeze, it was like a gift from the fucking heavens. Seriously--I think I've been inside a laundromat maybe three times since February. The problem with Febreeze is: while it removes unpleasant scents quite effectively, it does have a scent of its own--a relatively pleasant scent, but a scent nonetheless. So now, when I meet someone and I catch a whiff of Febreeze, my "Spidey Sense" goes off. I pretty much know that I'm dealing with a goddamn pig.

I remember going on a first date last year with a woman who basically had a cloud of lemony freshness hovering around her--a reverse Pigpen, if you will. I ended up spending the entire date obsessing about what she actually smelled like. What was this otherwise perfectly attractive woman hiding? My fear was, without the help of Febreeze, she'd reek powerfully of cigarettes and jizz. And that's the kind of notion that, once in your head, ain't leaving any time soon. We never had a second date.

"Cigarettes and Jizz", by the way, is my favorite Charles Bukowski short story.

Monday, June 09, 2003


Coming later today: a full report on the US Air Guitar Championships, which I hosted this past Friday. Including exclusive photos!


By "later today", what I really mean is "tomorrow morning"!

Saturday, June 07, 2003


In a few hours, I'll be heading down to our nation's capital in order to attend my cousin's wedding. My entire extended family will be there. This means that, over the next 24 hours, I will have to answer the question "So, how's your comedy going?" approximately 412 times. It's not that I have that many relatives (although, being Irish, there are quite a few). It's just that they tend to go to that particular well at least three or four times apiece over the course of an afternoon. One of my 2nd cousin's uncle's wives will ask about it and then, four hours later when the conversation has hit a lull, she'll whip it out again--only this time, it's phrased a bit differently, a la:

"So comedy is going well, then?"
"Do you feel happy with the way everything is going? You know, with your comedy?"
"Comedy is pretty crazy, isn't it?"
"What's it like to do stand up comedy? Do you have a hard time remembering all your skits?"
"Well, Peter and I still aren't talking. He probably wishes I was dead and sometimes I think he's right to think that. (sob sob) So tell me about your comedy."

This should actually be an interesting trip, as I'll have my girlfriend with me (yes, I have one--shockingly enough). This is only the 2nd time in my entire life that I've brought a significant other to a family function, and the other time was over ten years ago. I figure this should be enough to quell the "Is Christian gay?" rumor for at least a year or two. They'll be relieved to discover that I haven't been living some sort of secret life for the past decade--I've simply been too much of an emotional fuck-up to maintain a longterm relationship. WHEW!

The wedding reception is being held at the national headquarters of the Daughters of the American Revolution, a group that espouses political ideals that tend to fall just to the Right of John Ashcroft's. This is very bizarre, considering that everyone in my extended family is a rank-in-file Massachusetts Democrat (Dukakis Country, y'all!). The bride, my cousin Caitlin, even worked for a women's health organization, fer chrissake. I guess we're going to "fuck shit up from the inside", yo. I've already got my "Free Moustache Rides" t-shirt packed.

Alright, that's enough for now. Time for me to get three hours sleep.

Friday, June 06, 2003


This is actually pretty amazing, up until the end of the last clip. At that moment, it becomes a creepy harbinger of future exploitation.

This is kid is royally fucked.

Wednesday, June 04, 2003


As I've mentioned before on this page, I'm a bit of a Playsation buff. And by "Playstation buff", I mean: complete dork. I was thinking that there should be a brutal fighting game (a la Mortal Kombat, Tekken, etc) that pits various historical figures against each other. I'm actually not joking abot this whatsoever--I genuinely think it would be cool. It wouldn't surprise me at all if the idea has already been trademarked. After all, think about it: Mussolini vs. Marcus Aurelius! Cleopatra vs. Ben Franklin! Malcolm X vs. The Lindberg Baby! Of course, each historical figure would have to his his/her own "Special Move". For those of you who are unfamiliar with the fighting game millieu, every character has its own wacky maneuver which, if triggered at the right time, will devastate the other character. So, by pushing a complicated combination of buttons, you can make your character shoot a big blue fireball, perform a brutal spinning head kick, or rip out your opponent's spine. Well, with history, the possibilites for special moves are endless. And you could just keep putting out new editions of the game, with different characters. Here are some ideas for viable historical figures, along with what they're Special Moves might be:

Special Move: The Emancipator
Taking advantage of his rumored Marfan Syndrome (aka Gigantism), Lincoln's hands suddenly become freakishly large and he fatally boxes his opponent's ears.

Special Move: Le Judgement
His opponent weakened, Robespierre pull a guillotine out of his powdered wig and swfitly executes his rival, declaring him an enemy of progress.

Special Move: The Calcutter
Swinging her rosary beads with blinding speed and deadly accuracy, Mother Teresa eviscerates her opponent, spilling his guts out onto the arena floor.

Special Move: The Historical Inevitibility
Marx rips his bourgeois opponent into tousands of tiny, perfectly equal parts. He then sweeps up the pieces and deposits them into the "Dustbin of History".

Special Move: The Mongolian Barbecue
Khan douses his opponent with oil and then roasts him alive on a rotating cast iron grill, which he pulls out of his beard.

Special Move: Knitting Needles of Fury
In a burst of staggeringly violent knitting, Betsy leaves her opponent riddled with gaping, star-shaped holes.

Special Move: A Midsummer Night's Brutality
Quill in hand, Shakespeare carves out his opponent's heart while simultaneously composing a sonnet in his honor.

Special Move: The Back (of the) Buster
After weakening her opponent with her cane, Rosa lifts her opponent high above her head and breaks his spine across her knee.

Special Move: The Nutcracker

Special Move: The Equestrian
His opponent disoriented, Caligula begins fellating a horse. The opposing fighter is so disgusted, he vomits up his own internal organs.

Special Move: The Hunger Strike
Emaciated and insane with hunger, Gandhi pounces on his opponent and begins tearing off hunks of flesh with his teeth.

Special Move: The Blue Period
A vicious chokehold, wherein Picasso gets his pudgy croissant fingers around the opposing fighter's neck and squeezes until his face turns blue and his head pops like a zit. (Alternate Special Move: The Guernica--a pummelling so fierce, the opponent ends up with both eyes on the same side of his face.)

Special Move: The Republicizer
This is basically just a kick to the face while simultaneously having sex with a young boy.

JOHN MERRICK (aka The Elephant Man)
Special Move: The Not-An-Animalizer
Merrick unleashes a tale of woe so heart-wrenching, the opponent begins sobbing uncontrollably. It is at this point that Merrick attacks and brutally headbutts him to death.

Special Move: The Butter Substitute
Carver batters opponent cholesteral...? Okay, this one sucks.

Tuesday, June 03, 2003


I always knew that, if I kept on performing, incriminating photos of me would one day surface. God, I was drunk that night.

(I'm the Asian dude.)

Monday, June 02, 2003


I just saw your ad for Maxim Hair Color. Would you mind not making that annoying facial expression anymore--you know, that open-mouthed, drooling thing? The one that's obviously meant to imply that you are, at that very moment, being fucked vigorously (perhaps by a Maxim reader)? It's fucking creepy, yo. You are a relatively attractive woman, but there comes a point when a "do me" face wanders into "I Just Placed 3rd in the Special Olympics" territory.

Sunday, June 01, 2003


I've always found the term "The Birds and the Bees" confusing. Are the bird and the bee supposed to be fucking in this scenario? Because that's going to confuse a kid right off the bat--why is the bird having sex with the bee? When trying to teach a young boy about the mysteries of the human body, is interspecies poontang really the way to go?

So a young boy turns 12 or 13, his body begins to go through certain changes, and his father sits him down to talk about The Birds and the Bees, right? But there are things about human sexuality that a 13 year old is just not going to be able to comprehend. I have a friend in his mid-30's, for instance, and his body's starting to go through certain changes. That's why I think, when a man turns 33 (or so), his father should sit him down again and have a second conversation about The Birds and the Bees. Something along the lines of...

"Well son, there's going to come a time in every bee's life when...well, maybe the stinger doesn't respond quite the way it used to. Oh sure, he used to pollinate four of five flowers a night. He didn't even care what the flower looked like--he was just happy to be doing it! These days, maybe the bee can pull it off once a night...maybe twice, if he has a few hours to recuperate in between. And there might be nights where maybe the bee is just not interested in that sort of thing. Nobody's fault--he's just not in that mode that night. Makes sense, right? Well, the bird will try to tell the bee it's because he has a 'drinking problem'. Like the bird's so fucking perfect, right? Ooooh, I'm the bird! I'm always right! Nothing's ever my fault! And the bee will say, 'Well, maybe if you took care of yourself a little more, this wouldn't be a problem!' And the bird will say 'What is that supposed to mean? What are you trying to say? That I'm not exciting anymore? I can be exciting! Do you want to try something new? Just tell me what you fantasize about and we can try it!' Now, son, this is a trap for the bee. Because if the bee just innocently suggests that maybe we bring another bird into the scenario, all the sudden the bee's an asshole! And the bee better have himself a good lawyer, that's for sure!"

Birds, I tell you. Birds.