WELCOME TO THIS VERY SPECIAL WEEKEND UPDATE!

Look, there are newsletters and there are newsletters. This one is the real f'in deal, peoples.

Contained herein:

Details about Two For Flinching, my debut CD to be released by Comedy Central Records on October 24th;
Announcement of the "Name My CD" contest winner, as well as the announcement of a new Finny-related contest;
A brief report on the 2006 Just For Laughs Comedy Festival in Montreal;
and more!

Yeah, you heard me right: MORE!

If you don't read this newsletter, you must be some kind of dick!

CASUAL FRIDAY:
I HAVE FRIENDS, Pt. I

Look, I have friends. No seriously, I do. And many of them exist in this glorious realm known as Cyberspace. Let's meet a few of them, shall we?

Adam Felber, the creator of Fanatical Apathy, has a new novel out ("Shrodinger's Ball") that got a sterling review in The New York Times. You should pay him lots of attention because he's important and shit.

"Happy Cruelty Day", the book written by Girls are Pretty curator Bob Powers, won't be out until March 2007. That gives you plenty to check out his website and wonder what Bob's fucking problem is.

The last in my trio of authorial-type friends is Chris Regan. He was a writer for The Daily Show, one of the co-writers of America the Book, and now he's in the process of turning his fantastic news website This Day in Mythstory into a volume of its own.

Speaking of great writers, check out Todd Levin's Tremble.com. He's so good I kind of hate him a little bit. Dick.

Check out RobPRocks, the website of comedian/songwriter/all-around swell guy Rob Paravonian. Of particular interest: "Life as a Comic", a videoblog that gives you a fly-on-the-wall look at what a comedian's life is really like.

And I'd probably be severely beaten by my lovely wife if I failed to mention that she is the creator of not one, but two fantastic websites. One is Daily Dose, where she tells fun little NYC-related anecdotes, talks shop (did I mention she was recently hured as the PR Director for Comix?), and occasionally gives away free tickets to all sorts of great shows. The other website is Love, Daddy: Letters From My Jailed Deaf Dad. I believe this one speaks for itself. Check it out and shake your head in disbelief at the fact that it's all 100% true.

I suppose that's enough for now. But I have more friends (honestly, I do!) and they all have great websites, so I'll be pimping them down the road.

RANDOM MUSING THURSDAY:
THE MAGNITUDE OF THIS BLOG ENTRY CANNOT BE OVERSTATED

Yesterday I saw a dude who had completely shaved his head yet still wore a full beard (kind of like the first two fellas on this rather odd webpage). I don't approve of this look. The beard always looks phony--like something you might find in the Halloween aisle at KMart. Goatees are perfectly acceptable, despite being a tad out of date--in fact, goatees probably contributes to the general bad-assedness that dudes who shave their heads are going for. And moustaches are fine, especially if you're a gay man in his forties. But full beards just look downright silly. I think it's the temples/sideburns area, the way the hair just startsall the sudden. I'm sorry, but sideburns have to emerge from something, to flow forth from somewhere. They can't just stand alone on the upper face--it defies nature! That would be like me shaving all the pubes above my johnson, but leaving a bushy testicular 'fro.

Or maybe it's not. One thing is for sure, though: I just creeped myself out.

WEDNESDAY IS LIST DAY
THIS COLLEGE SEMESTER'S MOST FREQUENTLY DROPPED COURSES

History of the Thermostat, 1950 to Present

Race, Class, Gender and Quizno's

Musical Traditions of Manchester, New Hampshire

Fryolater Tech III

Cognitive Assessment of Wilmer Valderrama's "Yo Mama"

Brunch Studies 301: The Restoration

Introduction to Your Teacher's Assistant's Off-Campus Apartment and Genitalia

Ecology and the Music of Rush

Origins of the Cargo Pant

Practicum in Post-Colonial Buttfucking

TUESDAY NEWSDAY:
THE CARDS NEVER LIE!

As you may have heard, it turns out Miss Cleo is a purveyor of the Sapphic arts. Like many, I was shocked--who knew my $3.99 a minute was going toward Marlene Dietrich posters and rare import Phranc bootlegs? Miss Cleo vows to contonue her psychic readings, only instead of tarot cards she'll now be reading WNBA ticket stubs. And instead of the traitional crystal ball, Miss Cleo will be gazing into a regulation softball.

Regardless, this story should serve as an inspiration to every young girl out there who dreams of one day becoming a shameless scam artist, robbing poor people of their life's savings with cruel promises of love and prosperity...but thinks that dream is unavailable to her simply because she enjoys eating pussy.

SELF-ANALYSIS MONDAY:
THE IMPROPER BOSTONIAN, Pt. I

This past weekend I headlined The Comedy Connection in my hometown of Boston for the first time. I call Boston my hometown because, as far as I know, The Improv has yet to open up a branch in Acton, Massachusetts. Having moved to NYC when I eighteen, I was never a part of the rather established Boston comedy scene. Boston is perhaps the biggest comedy petri dish in the world--it may not be where everyone ends up, but a large percentage of the "greats" started here and many still remain. Seriously, ask around and you'll discover that something like one out of every three working (or aspiring) comics in this country grew up in the Massachusetts area. I have some theories as to why this may be, but that's for another blog entry. Anyway, Boston has such an established scene, they don't really need (or want) to bring in "headliners" like, say, Tampa does. So other than a few colleges and a couple of short spots at The Comedy Studio, this was really my first opportunity to "play Boston" and I jumped at the chance. The weekend had a number of high points and a few insanely awkward points. Here's a brief rundown of a rather surreal three days.

I got in on Thursday afternoon and almost immediately went to promote the show on Backstage with Barry Nolan. Barry Nolan is a guy you might recognize from "Extra" or "Hard Copy", and when I was a kid he used to host a Boston-area show called "Evening Magazine". Now he's back in Boston hosting this local cable show. When you're a kid, you have no concept of difference between local and network TV, so in my mind Barry Nolan was as big a star as Tom Selleck or Mr. T. So it was bizarre meeting him in person and even stranger to have him pretend to give a crap about whatever nonsense was coming out of my mouth.

That night I performed at Kowloon, a massive chinese restaurant in Saugus, MA, which is about ten physical miles and 10,000 cultural miles from downtown Boston. Saugus is the kind of place where middle aged women still sport Bon Jovi hairdos and use words like "retarded" and "queer" (pronounced "ree-TAH-did" and "KWEE-yah"). It sounds like a potentially rowdy crowd, and it might have been, if there were more than seventeen of them. In a room that sat about 300. Ouchie! Naturally, being my first real Boston show, this was a major kick in the spiritual nads. To make it even more awkward, an old friend of mine from high school was there (she'd emailed me earlier in the week to make sure the show wasn't sold out. Oof.) And the piece de resistance: there was some sort of high school dance going on in the room next door, so every time a waiter would enter or leave the showroom, we'd be bathed in the soothing sounds of the Ying Yang Twins. It was just about as close as you can come to a Spinal Tap moment in the comedy world. And yet, despite all of this, I hactually had a fun time--it's pretty hard to take yourself too seriously in a situation like that. It was one of those nights where I would have been better served to throw out all my material and just do crowdwork, as the seventeen people who were there were all really fun and lively people, Bon Jovi hair notwithstanding.

The next morning I went and did a couple of radio interviews, which is par for the course when you're doing "the road". The first was WZLX, a classic rock station I used to listen to a quite a bit in junior high school--I begged the DJs to "get the Led out", but they refused. Then I went over to a station called WROR, which is kind of one of those "soft hits" stations that you associate with insurance company cubicles. The DJs, "Loren and Wally" have been around forever, to the extent that i remember kind of making fun of them when I was a kid (granted I was, at the time, a moronic Dokken-loving pre-teen). So just as with Barry Nolan, I found myself shaking my head at the peculiarity of the situation. Interestingly, I had a great time on WROR, bantering with the genial chaps in between James Blunt and Kenny Loggins tunes. Part of me loves the idea of some human resources woman heading out to the comedy club to see that polite young man she heard on Loren and Wally, only to be confronted by my thoughts on teabagging and dickhole-stabbing.

Okay, this blog entry is sprialing out of control. I will continue my Boston update on next week's "Self-Analysis Monday". In the meantime, more nonsense.

CASUAL FRIDAY:
ART APPRECIATION

Good day, fans of high culture! I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to two of my favorite artists:


Brandon Bird

and...


Larry Van Pelt

Take a look around their respective sites. As you might imagine, I enjoy them for vastly different reasons.

RANDOM MUSING THURSDAY:
DISTRESS SIGNALS

This is sort of a continuation of what I was writing at the tail end of Monday's entry.

I haven't been suckered into any bad-ass sportcoats, but I will admit to buying a few pairs of ridiculously overpriced jeans. At first I couldn't understand how jeans that were in such poor condition could cost so much. But then I was informed that, depsite appearances, said dungarees are not ripped or frayed--they are "distressed". My guess is, "distressing" is a process where a pair of jeans is given an AIDS test and then, two weeks later, asked to come in to the office to "discuss the results". It's all pretty ridiculous and I am absolutely a hypocrite for going ahead and buying into it.

I don't mind the idea of jeans looking faded and a bit tattered but I think the wear and tear marks should, at least, mimic the kinds of wear and tear one might acquire in real life. Faded around the knees? Perfectly understandable. Frayed down by the heel? Fine and dandy. But a four inch rip in the middle of your shin? That's fucking inane. I saw one pair that featured corresponding extreme fade marks on the outside of the thighs. Other than sliding down chimneys, how exactly would your pants ever come to be abused in this particular way? I'm guessing the model name for this particular pair of jeans would be "Low-Rise Hipster Santa Claus Boot-Cut". And I'm a complete hypocrite, because I purchased the most ridiculous pair of all. I own a pair of jeans with fifteen to twenty 3" circular wear-and-tear marks distributed evenly across the thighs and shins. I can't explain it--this beefy Queens sales guido told me they were cool and I was too intimidated to put them back on the shelf. I paid $130 of my hard-earned money to not offend a guy wearing a spandex muscle shirt. On the upside, I now have a pair of pants that makes it look like I have large powder blue measels.

I imagine the whole concept of distressed jeans must be a real slap in the face to the Indonesian pre-teens who are making the garments in the first place. "So let me get this straight," thinks young Ramelan*, "Americans like wearing jeans that are faded and torn? They actually want them that way? And they'll spend upwards of $200 for them?! Um...does anyone want to buy my jeans? Because they're plenty fucking "distressed"! Are these idiots for real?! Screw this, I'm out of here! Oh, right--I'm chained to my sewing machine. (sigh) Okay America, I'll make your silly pants...but I'm going to make them look as ridiculous as possible. Enjoy your faggoty-ass dungarees, Hipster Santa Claus!"


* Yes, I googled "Indonesian baby names". It's called cultural sensitivity, people.

My dad and I hosted Friday Night Stand up on Comedy Central on Father's Day 2005. Here are some SFW clips to kill some time:

Part II of the Thank Dad It's Friday
Part I of St. Patrick's Day at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin
Part II of St. Patrick's Day at the Guinness Storehouse in Dublin

TUESDAY NEWSDAY:
WILLIE NELSON, THE ANTI-ANTI-DRUG

Listen, I have something to say to all of the kids out there: don't do drugs. No matter what you're friends tell you, getting involved with drugs will absolutely not make you look cool.

Unless you're a 73 year old musical legend! Try and tell me that Willie Nelson is not the greatest human being on the face of the earth. Nope, you can't do it. What's more lovable than the image of a bunch of elderly dudes tooling around the country in a tour bus fueled by french fry grease, sitting around jamming and getting baked? I'll tell you what: those same elderly dudes on that same tour bus, blitzed out of their minds on 'shrooms. This scenario "reality Show Gold" written all over it, but apparently the Man has a problem with a bunch of groovy oldsters trying to communicate with their spirit guides. Has Willie Nelson not earned the right to have us look the other way every once in a while? Thanks a lot, Officer Buzzkill--you've officially harshed a very mellow man's mellow.

I've never actually done real drugs before. Sure I've smoked pot a number of times, but I'm not a particularly good stoner. I'm willing to bet that when Willie smokes up, he doesn't lock himself in the bathroom because he's afraid no one at the party thought his "Knight Rider" reference was funny. I most certainly have certainly never done anything kooky like mushrooms. This, despite the fact that I was, during my restless teen underachiever years, accused of being a drug addict on a regular basis by my teachers and parents (a quote from my mother: "What are you on? Blue-ies? Green-ies?! RED-IES?!!"). But no, I'm a big square when it comes to that stuff. If I was going to become a bonafide druggie, though, mushrooms is definitely where I'd start--after all, they like "totally come from the Earth, man". Still, I doubt I could ever hang with Willie and his gang of septuagenarian hallucinators. While they sat around reminiscing about "that night in Muskeegee back in '77", I'd be licking the upholstery and trying to cram my head through the hole in Willie's acoustic guitar.

Still, if your'e reading this Willie (and I suspect he is, since rumor has it that Willie Nelson is an obsessive self-Googler), I hope you'll consider taking me out on the road for a few days. I promise not to narc and I'll do my best not to ask you what you were thinking with that Julio Iglesias bullshit.

SELF-ANALYSIS MONDAY:
WEIGHT! WEIGHT! I NEVER HAD A CHANCE TO LOVE YOU

So I've lost some weight over the past few months (click here for further video evidence). To answer a quick couple of questions, 1) No, I did not have gastric bypass surgery, and 2) I don't have a "secret", other than learning how to reconcile myself with hating life. Since January, I guess I've taken off somewhere in the range of 70 pounds. I've never discussed it on stage because...well, it's not funny.

Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic about this de-fattening, but what's there to laugh at, really? Ten months from now, when I go on a KFC bender and gain all the weight back? That will be hilarious. Until then, I'm sort of in comedy limbo. You see, there's nothing less funny than actual accomplishment. See? Even that last sentence probably caused you to bristle a bit. "Ooh, you achieved something? Whoopdee freakin' do, you self-satisfied jackhole!"

Maybe it's a reflection on how I see the world, but the whole situation makes me feel unspeakably awkward. Every time someone says something complimentary, no matter how much I appreciate the gesture, I can't help but imagine that anyone overhearing the conversation is thinking, "Man, what a fucking tool." That's okay, though--people mocked at Joe Piscopo when he got into shape, and look at him! He's still hilarious!!!

Oh, wait. Shit.

Anyway, I've become something of a silly queen since my physical re-alignment. Yes, I was forced to get rid of my entire wardrobe, which necessitated a good bit of shopping. But the truth is...and I have a truly difficult time saying this...I've been enjoying it. You have to understand, for the past ten or so years I've shopped exclusively at a small boutique specializing in antique military apparel (you may know it as Old Navy). Either that or I'd go to The Gap and hope to find an XXL generous enough to conceal my man-teats. But now I can walk into petty much any store out there and pose in front of the mirror like a gen-u-ine metrosexual. It's a new me, I tell you. A new, unlikeable me.

By the way, I've been noticing a rather bizarre fashion trend lately: the Badassification of Functional Garments. It seems that the nouveau thing in Hipsterwear is silkscreening some gothic and/or violent design onto a nondescript piece of business casual. I'm sure you've seen it--normal green polo shirts that, for some reason, feature winged demons, pentagrams and severed limbs? I don't know how the trend got started but it's great news for me, as I'm constantly trying to reconcile my love of 100% cotton pull-overs with the teachings of Anton LaVey. Lords know how many times I've been shopping at Brooks Brothers thinking, "Man, I love that powder blue button-down. If only I could simultaneously convey the image of a gargoyle buttfucking a nun..."

I guess this is just all part of the internal negotiation a guy goes through when he finally admits that the band is breaking up and that it's time to get a real job. "Look, I'll wear your stupid blazer, Mr. Goldman Sachs! But no one is going to deny me my love of broadswords and large-breasted vampiresses!"

Or maybe I still have a bit to learn about fashion.

CASUAL FRIDAY:
I HEART JANICE

So my friend Todd sent me this wonderful link, and it fills me with delight. Now I know it might seem a bit lazy to just post a link to a silly viral video that's probably already made the e-rounds. But that, my friends, is why we're calling it "Casual Friday".

Viva You Tube.

RANDOM MUSING THURSDAY:
POLE POSITION

I've always admired Olympians. So much dedication, so little payoff. Sure, I'm dedicated to stand up comedy, but let's be real here--my "dedication" allows me to get away with being drunk one third of the time. But when you're training for the Olympics, you're up at dawn every day, eating right, savaging your body. And for what? A Wheaties box? Maybe a four minute interview on "Regis & Kelly"? That hardly seems worth all the time and effort. And that's just the chosen few in the "glamour" events--figure skating, the decathalon, synchronized pommel horse tossing. But what about the rest of the poor souls who've devoted their lives to The Games? What's America's fifth best pole vaulter up to these days? Temping, I suspect. Seriously, if you're consdiering pursuing a career in pole vaulting, learn how to use Powerpoint.

How did pole vaulting get started? How does one even discover he's good at it? There are no pole vaulting Little Leagues. Dad never takes you out into the backyard and flings your shit over the hedges. I'm willing to wager the fifty best pole vaulters in the world are not even aware of it--they're just working in construction, completely unaware they're sitting on wellspring of useless potential. Until, one day, some dude is carrying a length of pipe across a construction site, he trips, and up he goes. "Holy shit," the poor soul thinks, "I could have been a pole vaulter."

But perhaps he's lucky--like I said, there's not much of a future there. Eventually he's going to have to let the dream die and apply for a real job and, sadly, pole vaulting is not exactly a "resume builder". He's never going to flip through the Classifieds and stumble upon a listing that reads, "HIGH POWERED POSITION IN CORPORATE FINANCE FIRM. $200G PLUS COMPANY CAR. ELEVATOR BROKEN; PLEASE ENTER DIRECTLY AT THIRD FLOOR". Bascally, one's only hope as a former pole vaulter is to find a university gig and try to convince other deluded youngsters that they should devote their lives to learnng how to run fast while carrying a long, bendy stick.

This, by the way, is not unlike the scam run by most acting teachers.

WEDNESDAY IS LIST DAY:
WORLD'S LEAST REPUTABLE CHARITY EVENTS

Massage for a Cure

The Concert for Nantucket

The NAMBLA Interfaith Water Balloon Toss and Texas Chili Cook-Off

Spinabifida Raps!

The National Tourette's Syndrome Foundation Silent Auction

An All-Star Salute to Scott Peterson

Adopt-a-Gay-Bathhouse High Society Ball

The Ayman Al-Zawahiri Invitational Golf Classic

Fingerpopalooza 2006

Operation Rescue presents: An Evening with Josh Groban

TUESDAY NEWSDAY:
YOU'RE DOING FINE, OKLAHOMA!

There is a major cultural battle afoot in Snyder, Oklahoma, a town best known for...well something, I'm sure. This past week, town sheriff Tod (leave off the extra "D" for savings!) Ozmun was forced to resign amid a barrage of public criticism. It seems his wife Doris got bored and posted some nude photos of herself on the web. Now I know what you're thinking: sounds perfectly harmless, right? In fact, it sounds downright intriguing. Hell if you're a guy, this scenario may conjure up some sort of "horny housewife"/"law enforcement" type fantasy. You're probably envisioning Doris this very moment, basing her on your favorite childhood archetyopes--me, I immediately went to Heather Locklear circa T.J. Hooker. At first glance, this looks like a witch hunt. So this young lady decided to put on a little boobie show--so what? What kind of Puritanical, shithole town would punish a man because his wife showed the decency to share her yabbos on the privacy of the world Wide Web?! How DARE you, Snyder, OK?!!

Well before you call the ACLU or start up an online petition, perhaps you should read the article and meet Ms. Ozmun personally.

Feel a bit different now, don't you? It's okay to admit it, fellas--we're all a bit shallow. I'll be honest: I feel shitty discussing this poor woman's looks in a public forum, but 1) I'm sure if she's self-googling, this site is pretty far down the rather extensive list of "sheriff+wife+nude" search requests and 2) anyone who posts nekkid photos of herself in a public forum is pretty much inviting reviews.

Anyway, I'm now pretty firmly on the side of the townsfolk of Snyder. They're being miscast as anti-sex crusaders when it's quite possible that they, as a citizenry, are simply skeeved out. For you and I, this is just a blip on the news radar. But the average Snyder-ite is forced to bump into Doris Ozmun on a regular basis--at the supermarket, at the free clinic, at the monster truck rally. And every time he does, he will inevitably conjure up an image of her naked. Try looking at her picture again--you're picturing her naked aren't you? AREN'T YOU?!! No? well, how about NOW?! Not too pleasant, eh? Now imagine sharing a Red Lobster salad bar with her.

Let's not judge the people of Snyder, Oklahoma too harshly, mm-kay?

CASUAL FRIDAY:
THERE BUT FOR THE GRACE OF GOD...

Here is a picture taken this past Spring outside of a relatively shitty restauarant next door to my relatively shitty hotel in relatively shitty Hartford, CT. I believe this picture says all there is to say about the perils of show business:



Breathtaking, is it not? Obviously, this theatrical extravaganza is a poor man's "Tony & Tina's Wedding" made all the more pathetic when you consider that "Tony & Tina" ain't all that expensive. Despite my being there a good ten days before opening night, I immediately rushed into the The Chowder Pot IV (not to be confused with The Chowder Pot I - III), hoping against hope that "Joey and Maria's Comedy Wedding" was in previews. Alas, it was not to be and I was forced to endure my chewy swordfish and cheesy potato monstrosity while listening to your garden variety George Thorogood/Eddie Money soundtrack. If only...

At least I had the good sense to capture this glorious image of Man's inhumanity to Man on digital film. It's served as a source of genuine inspiration to me over the past few months--whenever I turn in a terrible set or lose out on a big career opportunity, I gaze at this photo and think to myself, "It most surely could be worse".

RANDOM MUSING THURSDAY:
MAD HOPS, YO

Why does Corona have dibs on the whole lime-in-beer thing? Last week I asked a bartender to put a lime in my Brooklyn Lager and he acted like I asked him to fart into the bottle. Is there something specifically citrus-ready about Corona, or did they just call "Shotgun" on limes? And why aren't other beer companies staking claim to their own silly garnishes? Where's the vision, I ask you? From now on, whenever I order a Sam Adams I'm going to demand the bartender scrounges up a slice of mango. Henceforward, Bass Ale will be accompanied by a single barbecue spare rib (to be used as a swizzle stick). And Heineken? Best served with the fingernail of a homeless dude.

Oh, and I hear Budweiser is quite delicious when you mix in a little beer.

OOOH SHIT! THAT'S RIGHT, ANHEUSER-BUSCH! FACE!!! BETTER PUT SOME OINTMENT ON THAT BURN!

WEDNESDAY IS LIST DAY:
HISTORY'S LEAST POPULAR PIRATE NAMES

Captain Clogs

Peg Arm Pete

Perfectly Adequate John Silver

Abstinence Annie

Cap'n Thomas Aquinas

Reacharound Joe

Bell Jar Bill

Powerpoint Jack

Gentleman Jimmy Walker

Yellowteats