Busy Evening
Enjoy this fun little game...
Sunday, November 17, 2002
GREETINGS FROM HALF-ASSED BLOG ENTRY CENTRAL!
If there's one thing I've learned since starting this Tower of Hubris thing, it's that no one reads a damn blog on Sundays. Seriously. Saturdays aren't so heavily trafficked, either. And I certainly don't blame anyone--while reading my little fart jokes and pop culture ramblings may be a suitable respite from workday drudgery, it's not necessarily something you're going to do in lieu of going to a movie, visiting a museum, drinking yourself into oblivion, etc. So, seeing as hardly anyone will be reading this tonight, I thought I'd take this opportunity to get some shit off my chest. After all, It's been probably 17 years since I last went to Confession.
* Firstly, in the past 17 years, I've taken the lord's name in vain 31,025 times.
* In that time, I've also had 779,228 impure thoughts.
* Whoops, make that 779,229.
* I've also perpetrated over 6,206 impure deeds (at least 14 of which involved another person)
* I've coveted my neighbors' belongings 8,590 times.
* Very few of my "neighbors" are married, but I've coveted my friends' girlfriends 4,312 times. Like my buddy Pete's girlfriend Stacy... Mmmmm, Stacy...
* The 'impure thoughts' tally is now at 779,230
* Fuck that, 779,231.
* I've also been slothful at times, not to mention prideful and vain. I'm not proud of everything I've... Um...
* I just had impure thoughts 779,232 through 779,241.
* Oh yeah--I also killed a guy back in '94. My bad.
If there's one thing I've learned since starting this Tower of Hubris thing, it's that no one reads a damn blog on Sundays. Seriously. Saturdays aren't so heavily trafficked, either. And I certainly don't blame anyone--while reading my little fart jokes and pop culture ramblings may be a suitable respite from workday drudgery, it's not necessarily something you're going to do in lieu of going to a movie, visiting a museum, drinking yourself into oblivion, etc. So, seeing as hardly anyone will be reading this tonight, I thought I'd take this opportunity to get some shit off my chest. After all, It's been probably 17 years since I last went to Confession.
* Firstly, in the past 17 years, I've taken the lord's name in vain 31,025 times.
* In that time, I've also had 779,228 impure thoughts.
* Whoops, make that 779,229.
* I've also perpetrated over 6,206 impure deeds (at least 14 of which involved another person)
* I've coveted my neighbors' belongings 8,590 times.
* Very few of my "neighbors" are married, but I've coveted my friends' girlfriends 4,312 times. Like my buddy Pete's girlfriend Stacy... Mmmmm, Stacy...
* The 'impure thoughts' tally is now at 779,230
* Fuck that, 779,231.
* I've also been slothful at times, not to mention prideful and vain. I'm not proud of everything I've... Um...
* I just had impure thoughts 779,232 through 779,241.
* Oh yeah--I also killed a guy back in '94. My bad.
Saturday, November 16, 2002
Friday, November 15, 2002
At long last, WHAT MY FAVORITE ALBUM SAYS ABOUT ME, PART V!!!
KORN "Follow the Leader" -- Being grounded by my parents is making me feel totally suicidal, man.
FAITH HILL "Cry" -- I do what I'm told.
QUEENS OF THE STONE AGE "Songs for the Deaf" -- Help! I'm being rocked so hard I can barely keep my tongue in my cheek!
THE GRATEFUL DEAD "Terrapin Station" -- Never mind what I did when I was younger! I'm your father and I'm telling you: marijauna is bad news, mister!
EMINEM "8 Mile, Original Motion Picture Soundtrack" -- Well no, I don't really hang out with black people. But I get it. You know, their whole 'deal'.
VAN MORRISSON "Moondance" -- Dude, 25 cent buffalo wings!
UB40 "Labour of Love" -- Sure, it's been 15 years, but I'll never forget my sisters in Kappa Phi!
MEDESKI MARTIN & WOOD "Last Chance to Dance Trance" -- Ugh, no thank you. I only drink microbrews.
AVRIL LAVIGNE "Let Go" -- I belong to that popular new marketing demogrpahic known as "Teens who don't think they belong to a marketing demographic"!
MARY J. BLIGE "No More Drama" -- I am exactly 50% gangsta, 50% gay guy.
DINOSAUR JR. "Whatever's Cool with Me" -- Though I'm not yet ready to say it out loud, I'm seriously considering "going perm".
MICHELLE BRANCH "Spirit Room" -- Damn that Megan's Law! Damn it to hell!
Wednesday, November 13, 2002
THE 'DANCE THRESHOLD'
My friend Victor is one of those guys who will start dancing at the drop of a hat. One minute we'll be discussing symbolism in the works of Gunter Grass, and all of the sudden music will start playing and he's "popping and locking". What's truly weird is that he'll continue the conversation as if there was nothing odd going on. So here I am discussing the finer points of The Tin Drum with a guy doing The Robot. It makes me feel a tad awkward, but I don't hold it against the dude; he just has a very low Dance Threshold. Music's playing? Victor's dancing--simple as that.
I, on the other hand, have an extremely high Dance Threshold. In fact, my dance threshold is just shy of Christopher Reeve's. Firstly, I either have to know everyone in the room very well, or not at all--if it's a room full of people I've only met once or twice, I ain't dancing. I have this theory that you have to hang out with someone five times before you;re officially done judging them. No reason to ruin someone's opinion of me based on a purely executed 'Running Man'. Secondly, I have to appreciate the music that's playing. This is where snobbery comes in, I suppose. But by dancing to some horrible Ja Rule abomination, I feel like I'm somehow somehow confirming it's right to exist, and I can't have that. Basically, unless there's a beautiful woman luring me (and me, personally) to the dance floor with cleavage and/or visible underwear straps, I'm perfectly happy to hang out on the periphery. That way, I can stand in the corner and mock people for expressing themsleves.
My threshold for doing that is rather low.
My friend Victor is one of those guys who will start dancing at the drop of a hat. One minute we'll be discussing symbolism in the works of Gunter Grass, and all of the sudden music will start playing and he's "popping and locking". What's truly weird is that he'll continue the conversation as if there was nothing odd going on. So here I am discussing the finer points of The Tin Drum with a guy doing The Robot. It makes me feel a tad awkward, but I don't hold it against the dude; he just has a very low Dance Threshold. Music's playing? Victor's dancing--simple as that.
I, on the other hand, have an extremely high Dance Threshold. In fact, my dance threshold is just shy of Christopher Reeve's. Firstly, I either have to know everyone in the room very well, or not at all--if it's a room full of people I've only met once or twice, I ain't dancing. I have this theory that you have to hang out with someone five times before you;re officially done judging them. No reason to ruin someone's opinion of me based on a purely executed 'Running Man'. Secondly, I have to appreciate the music that's playing. This is where snobbery comes in, I suppose. But by dancing to some horrible Ja Rule abomination, I feel like I'm somehow somehow confirming it's right to exist, and I can't have that. Basically, unless there's a beautiful woman luring me (and me, personally) to the dance floor with cleavage and/or visible underwear straps, I'm perfectly happy to hang out on the periphery. That way, I can stand in the corner and mock people for expressing themsleves.
My threshold for doing that is rather low.
Tuesday, November 12, 2002
Monday, November 11, 2002
A short review I wrote of the new Steven Segal movie, Half Past Dead, despite having only having watched the trailer.
(It's a long story...)
Ah, the great mysteries of the universe: What happens to us when we die? Is there life on other planets? And, of course, how the hell is Steven Segal still a movie star? It�s been more than twenty years since Segal first brought his greasy hair (now in a sassy bob) and half-assed karate moves to the big screen. Now he�s back with Half Past Dead, first runner up to Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever in the Worst Movie Title Ever pageant.
This time around, Segal is teamed with mouth-breathing rapper Ja Rule as high class criminals arrested and consigned to a newly refurbished Alcatraz. But this ain�t your daddy�s Alcatraz! No, this one�s really cool because�well, it�s got computers and stuff! As expected, there�s also a sadistic prison guard in need of comeuppance�because really, what�s a prison movie without a sadistic guard in need of comeuppance? Things go from laughably bad to laughably worse when a gang of high tech hoods (they also have computers!) breaks into Alcatraz to steal the $200 million in gold buried underground. Because that�s where you�d hide 200 million dollars�under a prison. Um, yeah.
What follows is around ninety minutes of punching, kicking and dialogue that sounds as if it was lifted directly from a playground shoving match. Take this priceless exchange: �You wanna play rough?� grunts the aforementioned prison guard. �Sorry,� responds Segal in his classic I�m-trying-to-be-Clint-Eastwood stage whisper, �I�m not into men�.
Hooo-boy! He just called that guy a homo! Zing! IN YOUR FACE!
So will Half Past Dead be the movie that finally convinces America to consign Steven Segal to the historical shitcan? Probably not�as long as there are half-retarded teenage boys lighting each other�s farts across this great nation of ours, douchebags like Segal will have an audience. But hell, a man can dream.
(It's a long story...)
Ah, the great mysteries of the universe: What happens to us when we die? Is there life on other planets? And, of course, how the hell is Steven Segal still a movie star? It�s been more than twenty years since Segal first brought his greasy hair (now in a sassy bob) and half-assed karate moves to the big screen. Now he�s back with Half Past Dead, first runner up to Ballistic: Ecks vs. Sever in the Worst Movie Title Ever pageant.
This time around, Segal is teamed with mouth-breathing rapper Ja Rule as high class criminals arrested and consigned to a newly refurbished Alcatraz. But this ain�t your daddy�s Alcatraz! No, this one�s really cool because�well, it�s got computers and stuff! As expected, there�s also a sadistic prison guard in need of comeuppance�because really, what�s a prison movie without a sadistic guard in need of comeuppance? Things go from laughably bad to laughably worse when a gang of high tech hoods (they also have computers!) breaks into Alcatraz to steal the $200 million in gold buried underground. Because that�s where you�d hide 200 million dollars�under a prison. Um, yeah.
What follows is around ninety minutes of punching, kicking and dialogue that sounds as if it was lifted directly from a playground shoving match. Take this priceless exchange: �You wanna play rough?� grunts the aforementioned prison guard. �Sorry,� responds Segal in his classic I�m-trying-to-be-Clint-Eastwood stage whisper, �I�m not into men�.
Hooo-boy! He just called that guy a homo! Zing! IN YOUR FACE!
So will Half Past Dead be the movie that finally convinces America to consign Steven Segal to the historical shitcan? Probably not�as long as there are half-retarded teenage boys lighting each other�s farts across this great nation of ours, douchebags like Segal will have an audience. But hell, a man can dream.
Friday, November 08, 2002
OOH LA LA!
Seeing as it's officially Friday night, I might as well show you just how incredibly cool I am.
(Warning: Don't go to this link or youre at work or in a Kinko's-type environment)
CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!
This was sent to me by the beautiful Lindsay. But sadly, no, that is not her in the picture. In fact, if you're a perceptive sort of person, you've probably realized that you can make the little sign say whatever you like, simply by changing the text at the end of the URL. So the perkily-breasted woman in the photo isn't actually in love with me.
(sigh) Hussy.
If only a one of the women who read this blog were to actually send me a topless photo of herself. Boy oh boy, that would be neat! But I would never suggest something so tawdry--after all, I am a gentleman and a scholar.
(Yes, I'm very ashamed of myself.)
Seeing as it's officially Friday night, I might as well show you just how incredibly cool I am.
(Warning: Don't go to this link or youre at work or in a Kinko's-type environment)
CHECK THIS SHIT OUT!
This was sent to me by the beautiful Lindsay. But sadly, no, that is not her in the picture. In fact, if you're a perceptive sort of person, you've probably realized that you can make the little sign say whatever you like, simply by changing the text at the end of the URL. So the perkily-breasted woman in the photo isn't actually in love with me.
(sigh) Hussy.
If only a one of the women who read this blog were to actually send me a topless photo of herself. Boy oh boy, that would be neat! But I would never suggest something so tawdry--after all, I am a gentleman and a scholar.
(Yes, I'm very ashamed of myself.)
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Hey, check it out--it's the Tower of Hubris entry guaranteed to make at least two or three of you hate my guts!
Look, Saddam Hussein is an evil prick and if he were to, say, run into a speeding bullet with his forehead, there�d be dancing in the streets�no argument there. But I�m not convinced that average Iraqi citizens are really our biggest problem in the Middle East, especially when your compare them to our �friends� in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, etc. Homicidal military dictators ruling with an iron first aren�t really so frightening�we've been dealing with those knuckleheads since the dawn of time. It�s the Jihadists we should really be focusing all of our bitchslap attention on. Say what you want about Iraq, but at least they have the good sense to build shopping malls and let women walk the streets without potato sacks over their heads. Sure, Saddam�s government spews all that �America is the Great Satan� propaganda, but I guarantee you: if Bon Jovi played the Baghdad Civic Center, the show would sell out in 20 minutes. A case in point...
But if there's one reason we should invade Iraq, it's only because France is telling us not to. I really think it's high time we stopped pretending that France's opinon matters. On anything. To a lesser degree, that goes for the European continent as a whole. America�s relationship to Europe is kind of like that moment when you get through puberty and realize that, if you wanted to, you could kick your big brother�s ass. And he kind of knows it, too, which makes him totally insecure. So he�s constantly going out of his way to remind you that he�s older, bossing you around, giving you noogies, etc. And sure, you let him get away with it, because on some level you feel kind of embarrassed about the situation. I mean, he's still your brother--why rub his face in his secondary status? But eventually, he pushes you just a little too far and you have to say, �Dude. Cut the shit, or I'm going to have to kick the crap out of you.�
I think that�s where we�re at with Europe.
Yeah, I know--I'll stick to dick jokes and Kajagoogoo lyrics from here on in.
Look, Saddam Hussein is an evil prick and if he were to, say, run into a speeding bullet with his forehead, there�d be dancing in the streets�no argument there. But I�m not convinced that average Iraqi citizens are really our biggest problem in the Middle East, especially when your compare them to our �friends� in Saudi Arabia, Yemen, etc. Homicidal military dictators ruling with an iron first aren�t really so frightening�we've been dealing with those knuckleheads since the dawn of time. It�s the Jihadists we should really be focusing all of our bitchslap attention on. Say what you want about Iraq, but at least they have the good sense to build shopping malls and let women walk the streets without potato sacks over their heads. Sure, Saddam�s government spews all that �America is the Great Satan� propaganda, but I guarantee you: if Bon Jovi played the Baghdad Civic Center, the show would sell out in 20 minutes. A case in point...
But if there's one reason we should invade Iraq, it's only because France is telling us not to. I really think it's high time we stopped pretending that France's opinon matters. On anything. To a lesser degree, that goes for the European continent as a whole. America�s relationship to Europe is kind of like that moment when you get through puberty and realize that, if you wanted to, you could kick your big brother�s ass. And he kind of knows it, too, which makes him totally insecure. So he�s constantly going out of his way to remind you that he�s older, bossing you around, giving you noogies, etc. And sure, you let him get away with it, because on some level you feel kind of embarrassed about the situation. I mean, he's still your brother--why rub his face in his secondary status? But eventually, he pushes you just a little too far and you have to say, �Dude. Cut the shit, or I'm going to have to kick the crap out of you.�
I think that�s where we�re at with Europe.
Yeah, I know--I'll stick to dick jokes and Kajagoogoo lyrics from here on in.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
WORST KARAOKE CHOICES
"Woman is the Nigger of the World" by The Plastic Ono Band
"Theme for Close Encounters of the Third Kind" by John Williams
"Heart Don't Lie" by LaToya Jackson
"Epic" by Faith No More
"The Harlem Shuffle" by The Rolling Stones
"Demon Sanctuary" by Naked City
"Pencil Neck Geek" by Classy Fred Blassie
"2112: Part I. Overture, Part II. The Temples Of Syrinx, Part III. Discovery, Part IV. Presentation, Part V. Oracle: The Dream, Part VI. Soliloquy, Part VII. Grand Finale" by Rush
"Rock of Ages" (Trad.)
"The Same Deep Water as You" by The Cure
"Let the Mighty Eagle Soar"* by Attorney General John Ashcroft
"I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor (Sorry, drunken former sorority girls! Put down the microphone.)
_____________________________________________
* Cruise around the rest of this site for a number of hilariously bad musical mistakes by the likes of Leonard Nimoy, Jim Nabors and Yoko. It also inlcudes that magnificent Linda McCartney "Hey Jude" backround vocal track (see my rantings of 10/29/02), recently voted The Official Theme of Hell.
"Woman is the Nigger of the World" by The Plastic Ono Band
"Theme for Close Encounters of the Third Kind" by John Williams
"Heart Don't Lie" by LaToya Jackson
"Epic" by Faith No More
"The Harlem Shuffle" by The Rolling Stones
"Demon Sanctuary" by Naked City
"Pencil Neck Geek" by Classy Fred Blassie
"2112: Part I. Overture, Part II. The Temples Of Syrinx, Part III. Discovery, Part IV. Presentation, Part V. Oracle: The Dream, Part VI. Soliloquy, Part VII. Grand Finale" by Rush
"Rock of Ages" (Trad.)
"The Same Deep Water as You" by The Cure
"Let the Mighty Eagle Soar"* by Attorney General John Ashcroft
"I Will Survive" by Gloria Gaynor (Sorry, drunken former sorority girls! Put down the microphone.)
_____________________________________________
* Cruise around the rest of this site for a number of hilariously bad musical mistakes by the likes of Leonard Nimoy, Jim Nabors and Yoko. It also inlcudes that magnificent Linda McCartney "Hey Jude" backround vocal track (see my rantings of 10/29/02), recently voted The Official Theme of Hell.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
Gimme an M! Gimme an A! Gimme an L! Gimme another A! Gimme an I! Gimme an S! Gimme an E!
Christ, I have absolutely nothing to say today. The well is fucking dry, people. Anyone want to come over and pull my head out of the oven? My life is a fucking Nick Drake song.
I don't even think I can fake being funny today. Nevertheless, I shall try to eek out one joke. I'm going to open the dictionary to a random page and try to write a joke inspired by the first word I see.
(drum roll, please)
THE WORD: "Estate"
THE JOKE: The worst part about dating a real estate agent? Every time she gave me a blow job, I'd have to pay a "finder's fee"!
(sigh)
I'm going back to bed.
Christ, I have absolutely nothing to say today. The well is fucking dry, people. Anyone want to come over and pull my head out of the oven? My life is a fucking Nick Drake song.
I don't even think I can fake being funny today. Nevertheless, I shall try to eek out one joke. I'm going to open the dictionary to a random page and try to write a joke inspired by the first word I see.
(drum roll, please)
THE WORD: "Estate"
THE JOKE: The worst part about dating a real estate agent? Every time she gave me a blow job, I'd have to pay a "finder's fee"!
(sigh)
I'm going back to bed.
Monday, November 04, 2002
MY NEW FAVORITE WEBSITE
I'm not kidding. Go here, click on the first photo and just keep toggling forward.
(Thanks, John Batchley)
I'm not kidding. Go here, click on the first photo and just keep toggling forward.
(Thanks, John Batchley)
Sunday, November 03, 2002
DEJA ME, DEJA YOU
This past Wednesday, I made a public inquiry about the scientific definition of "deja vu". Well, call it Kismet if you like, but it just so happens that Tower of Hubris is occasionally visited by Megan, who is currently working on a PhD in neuroscience at Boston University. She was kind enough to supply an answer (or, as much of an answer as currently exists).
And with that, I give you Megan:
Though I can't tell you definitively that this is how it works, I can tell you what the neuroscience community thinks about deja vu. Very briefly, there are a lot of parts of the brain that are involved in memory formation, but one main one (the hippocampus), that's involved in both formation of new memories, and retrieval of already formed memories. Anyhow, when deja vu happens, some aspect of what's going on (person, statement, etc) triggers the recall process, so the hippocampus goes into recall or 'this is familiar' mode, whereas the rest of brain is still trying to store the memory. So you get a sense of familiarity, even though it's a totally new event. Unless you're sitting around bemoaning relationships--- then it's just another night in the life of a twentysomething. Hope that all makes sense...
Fuck yeah! Give it up for Megan, schlongfloggers! Someone who knows shit that's actually useful--how novel!
Still, I do have a small bug up my butt on this subject. In America, when we get that eerie feeling of having seen or experienced something before, we say something like "Whoa...deja vu". 'Deja vu' is the term we, as a culture, have agreed to use to describe this particular phenomenon. But in France, 'deja' and 'vu' aren't necessarily a term meaning anything--they're just words. So, when a French dude feels like he's been somewhere before, he's basically just saying "Whoa...already seen". My point is, I think this phenomenon should have it's own name, rather than simply one language's literal definition. I propose "The Oogies". That way, Pete from Hartford would say "Whoa...the Oogies!", and Pierre from Marseille would say "Wheu...les Oogues!"
I like to tackle the important subjects.
Ok, you're not on board with me on that one? Well, I have another idea. If we're going to use 'deja vu' to describe the senstation of having seen something before, I'd like a to introduce a new term into the English language: 'jamais vu', which describes the phenomenon of having seen something that you hope to never ever see again. That way, if you happen to see a homeless guy taking a dump on the N Train, you can simply say "Whoa...jamais vu!"
Walk in on your mom giving your dad a blow job? Jamais vu!
The new Avril Lavigne video? JAMAIS VU!
Oh no, you're quite welcome.
This past Wednesday, I made a public inquiry about the scientific definition of "deja vu". Well, call it Kismet if you like, but it just so happens that Tower of Hubris is occasionally visited by Megan, who is currently working on a PhD in neuroscience at Boston University. She was kind enough to supply an answer (or, as much of an answer as currently exists).
And with that, I give you Megan:
Though I can't tell you definitively that this is how it works, I can tell you what the neuroscience community thinks about deja vu. Very briefly, there are a lot of parts of the brain that are involved in memory formation, but one main one (the hippocampus), that's involved in both formation of new memories, and retrieval of already formed memories. Anyhow, when deja vu happens, some aspect of what's going on (person, statement, etc) triggers the recall process, so the hippocampus goes into recall or 'this is familiar' mode, whereas the rest of brain is still trying to store the memory. So you get a sense of familiarity, even though it's a totally new event. Unless you're sitting around bemoaning relationships--- then it's just another night in the life of a twentysomething. Hope that all makes sense...
Fuck yeah! Give it up for Megan, schlongfloggers! Someone who knows shit that's actually useful--how novel!
Still, I do have a small bug up my butt on this subject. In America, when we get that eerie feeling of having seen or experienced something before, we say something like "Whoa...deja vu". 'Deja vu' is the term we, as a culture, have agreed to use to describe this particular phenomenon. But in France, 'deja' and 'vu' aren't necessarily a term meaning anything--they're just words. So, when a French dude feels like he's been somewhere before, he's basically just saying "Whoa...already seen". My point is, I think this phenomenon should have it's own name, rather than simply one language's literal definition. I propose "The Oogies". That way, Pete from Hartford would say "Whoa...the Oogies!", and Pierre from Marseille would say "Wheu...les Oogues!"
I like to tackle the important subjects.
Ok, you're not on board with me on that one? Well, I have another idea. If we're going to use 'deja vu' to describe the senstation of having seen something before, I'd like a to introduce a new term into the English language: 'jamais vu', which describes the phenomenon of having seen something that you hope to never ever see again. That way, if you happen to see a homeless guy taking a dump on the N Train, you can simply say "Whoa...jamais vu!"
Walk in on your mom giving your dad a blow job? Jamais vu!
The new Avril Lavigne video? JAMAIS VU!
Oh no, you're quite welcome.
Friday, November 01, 2002
So, what are you up to tonight? Any plans?
Please, don't tell me you're going to some damned Halloween party. Because there is absolutely nothing lamer than post-October 31st Halloween parties. Sure, you can get a bunch of dorks in costumes to mill around your apartment for a few hours, but the stench of denial will hang in the air and it won't be pretty. "No, Halloween is not over! We're having a good time! My french maid / caveman / ax murderer costume is still relevant! I'm still relevant!!"
(shudder)
What other holiday tries to pull this shit? Ever been to a July 5th fireworks display? How about a mid-February New Years Eve blowout? Nope. And yet, I suspect that almost everyone reading this knows at least one person who's having some ridiculous "Halloween Spook-o-rama" this weekend. Pathetic, I tell you.
Seriously--that shit is weak. Blow it off.
If you don't have any plans and you live in or around NYC, I urge you once again to come on down to Portable Comedy, the always-wonderful show I host every Friday night at the Gershwin Hotel. No pseudo Halloween bullshit here--the only scary thing about tonight's show is how much blood will be pouring from the audience's eyes, nose and ears!
Um, you know...because they'll be laughing so hard. Yeah, it's going to be that funny. Bring gauze.
Here are the details, if you think you might be interested:
PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 1st, 2002
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 EAST 27th ST. (b. 5th and Madison)
10:00PM
A MERE $5.00!
(It's been packed lately, so make sure you get there early.)
Okay, enough bullshit self-promotion. Go sleep off your sugar hangovers, kids.
Please, don't tell me you're going to some damned Halloween party. Because there is absolutely nothing lamer than post-October 31st Halloween parties. Sure, you can get a bunch of dorks in costumes to mill around your apartment for a few hours, but the stench of denial will hang in the air and it won't be pretty. "No, Halloween is not over! We're having a good time! My french maid / caveman / ax murderer costume is still relevant! I'm still relevant!!"
(shudder)
What other holiday tries to pull this shit? Ever been to a July 5th fireworks display? How about a mid-February New Years Eve blowout? Nope. And yet, I suspect that almost everyone reading this knows at least one person who's having some ridiculous "Halloween Spook-o-rama" this weekend. Pathetic, I tell you.
Seriously--that shit is weak. Blow it off.
If you don't have any plans and you live in or around NYC, I urge you once again to come on down to Portable Comedy, the always-wonderful show I host every Friday night at the Gershwin Hotel. No pseudo Halloween bullshit here--the only scary thing about tonight's show is how much blood will be pouring from the audience's eyes, nose and ears!
Um, you know...because they'll be laughing so hard. Yeah, it's going to be that funny. Bring gauze.
Here are the details, if you think you might be interested:
PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 1st, 2002
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 EAST 27th ST. (b. 5th and Madison)
10:00PM
A MERE $5.00!
(It's been packed lately, so make sure you get there early.)
Okay, enough bullshit self-promotion. Go sleep off your sugar hangovers, kids.
Thursday, October 31, 2002
Wednesday, October 30, 2002
THINGS I WISH I KNEW, BUT DON'T
* If any of the ex-girlfriends who later "came out" stayed out.
* What the fuck a 'comptroller' does (I knew it has something to do with Finance, but beyond that I'm clueless. I suppose I could just look it up, but why take the time when there's so much whining to do?).
* Why Adam West isn't still a star.
* Why smart, beautiful women so often date complete d-bags.
* How often, after seeing me with a smart and beautiful woman (it's happened), some guy decided that I was a complete d-bag.
* The medical explanation for deja vu--and not just the bullshit answers everyone tosses around as fact at dinner parties.
* How many of the people I can't stand know I can't stand them.
* The name of the girl who's always on the subway platform's favorite obscure song (the one she thinks no one else in the world has ever heard, perhaps Denzil's "Sunday Service Hengistbury Head"), so I could nonchalantly hum it in her presence and make her think we're soulmates.
* Why one of my armpits is markedly less hairy than the other.
* Ted Turner's pin number.
* If any of the ex-girlfriends who later "came out" stayed out.
* What the fuck a 'comptroller' does (I knew it has something to do with Finance, but beyond that I'm clueless. I suppose I could just look it up, but why take the time when there's so much whining to do?).
* Why Adam West isn't still a star.
* Why smart, beautiful women so often date complete d-bags.
* How often, after seeing me with a smart and beautiful woman (it's happened), some guy decided that I was a complete d-bag.
* The medical explanation for deja vu--and not just the bullshit answers everyone tosses around as fact at dinner parties.
* How many of the people I can't stand know I can't stand them.
* The name of the girl who's always on the subway platform's favorite obscure song (the one she thinks no one else in the world has ever heard, perhaps Denzil's "Sunday Service Hengistbury Head"), so I could nonchalantly hum it in her presence and make her think we're soulmates.
* Why one of my armpits is markedly less hairy than the other.
* Ted Turner's pin number.
Tuesday, October 29, 2002
LINKY-DINKY-DOO
I love the fact the fact that you, the fine people who visit this page repeatedly, have taken to sending me wonderful and bizarre links. I consider it my responsibility as a citizen to pass this shit on the group as a whole and I'd like to thank everyone who's sent me cool stuff (Except that one douchebag who sent me a link to a rape site--real funny, shitfuck).
Yesterday, I was sent two wonderful lnks that I've been obsessing over ever since.
This was sent to me by the lovely Susan. I believe it pretty much stands alone.
This next one was sent to me by the wondrous (and buff) Jodi and there's a story behind it.
It's a recording of Enrique Iglegias, whose name seems to pop up on this site at least once a month, performing a concert in Romania. As I'm sure most of us know, people like Enrique never actually sing into a live mic--they tell the audience how much they love them in between songs, but once the music starts the mic goes dead. You can't get away with plain ol' lip-synching these days, as the lack of bulging neck muscles is a dead giveaway (just think of any early '80s music video). So when you see pop stars performing nowadays, they're actually singing, but only into a dummy microphone to the sound of their own prerecorded voices. The legend here is that one of Enrique's sound men recorded what was actually coming out of that skeevy mole-ridden fop's mouth. The recording eventually made it's way onto the Howard Stern Show--they used to play it all the time, along with an equally hilarious recording of Linda McCartney's background "vocals" from a Paul McCartney concert. Everntually, Enrique actually appeared on Stern and performed live, in an effort to prove that the tape was a hoax. You can believe what you want, but I personally have doubt that it's actually Enrique's voice. Performing in a radio station studio is an entirely different bird than performing for thousands of screaming Romanians who can't hear what you're actually singing anyway.
Either way, it's pretty fucking funny.
I love the fact the fact that you, the fine people who visit this page repeatedly, have taken to sending me wonderful and bizarre links. I consider it my responsibility as a citizen to pass this shit on the group as a whole and I'd like to thank everyone who's sent me cool stuff (Except that one douchebag who sent me a link to a rape site--real funny, shitfuck).
Yesterday, I was sent two wonderful lnks that I've been obsessing over ever since.
This was sent to me by the lovely Susan. I believe it pretty much stands alone.
This next one was sent to me by the wondrous (and buff) Jodi and there's a story behind it.
It's a recording of Enrique Iglegias, whose name seems to pop up on this site at least once a month, performing a concert in Romania. As I'm sure most of us know, people like Enrique never actually sing into a live mic--they tell the audience how much they love them in between songs, but once the music starts the mic goes dead. You can't get away with plain ol' lip-synching these days, as the lack of bulging neck muscles is a dead giveaway (just think of any early '80s music video). So when you see pop stars performing nowadays, they're actually singing, but only into a dummy microphone to the sound of their own prerecorded voices. The legend here is that one of Enrique's sound men recorded what was actually coming out of that skeevy mole-ridden fop's mouth. The recording eventually made it's way onto the Howard Stern Show--they used to play it all the time, along with an equally hilarious recording of Linda McCartney's background "vocals" from a Paul McCartney concert. Everntually, Enrique actually appeared on Stern and performed live, in an effort to prove that the tape was a hoax. You can believe what you want, but I personally have doubt that it's actually Enrique's voice. Performing in a radio station studio is an entirely different bird than performing for thousands of screaming Romanians who can't hear what you're actually singing anyway.
Either way, it's pretty fucking funny.
Monday, October 28, 2002
I AM A GLEEFUL MORON!
Look, I'm a reasonably educated fellow. Among my favorite writers are Raymond Carver, Flannery O'Connor, and Salman Rushdie. I know my Back from my Bartok, my Klee from my Klimt. I have studied Kierkegaard, Feuerbach and Satre and can explain why they're different apples off of the same philosophical tree. I am familiar with Baudrillard's Simulacra et Simulation and I know the actual definition of the word "Postmodernism".
Why am I telling you this? To impress upon you just how fascinating a human being I am? Well, yeah. But there's another reason. I'm stating my credentials a pretentious pseudo-intellectual douchebag as a preface to my typing the following sentence:
Over the weekend, I saw Jackass: The Movie and it was the most fun I've had at the movies in years, perhaps ever.
Someday I will meet a brilliant, beautiful woman who thinks watching a guy fire bottle rockets out of his anus is unspeakably hilarious.
(Sigh)
Someday.
Look, I'm a reasonably educated fellow. Among my favorite writers are Raymond Carver, Flannery O'Connor, and Salman Rushdie. I know my Back from my Bartok, my Klee from my Klimt. I have studied Kierkegaard, Feuerbach and Satre and can explain why they're different apples off of the same philosophical tree. I am familiar with Baudrillard's Simulacra et Simulation and I know the actual definition of the word "Postmodernism".
Why am I telling you this? To impress upon you just how fascinating a human being I am? Well, yeah. But there's another reason. I'm stating my credentials a pretentious pseudo-intellectual douchebag as a preface to my typing the following sentence:
Over the weekend, I saw Jackass: The Movie and it was the most fun I've had at the movies in years, perhaps ever.
Someday I will meet a brilliant, beautiful woman who thinks watching a guy fire bottle rockets out of his anus is unspeakably hilarious.
(Sigh)
Someday.
Sunday, October 27, 2002
VIVA LAS CONNECTICUT!
Friday night I did a stand up comedy show at Mohegan Sun. For those of you not in the Tri-State Area, Mohegan Sun is a monstrously large casino on a Mohegan Reservation in Connecticut. Who's a playa? Oh, that's right: me.
I have to say, as cheesy as the whole experience was, I loved every minute of it. For a few hours I was treated like a professional entertainer, someone to be addressed as Mr. Finnegan, someone who deserved to be escorted to the stage at showtime. I performed in a gorgeous showroom that probably sat 500 (I was just the opening act). The stage was probably 40 feet wide and I performed in front of a full big band set-up, which was for some "Rat Pack Revue" that plays there every other night of the week. Downstairs in the green room, there were sandwiches, pastries and crudit�s . Crudit�s! It's amazing what a plate of celery sticks and dip can do for your ego. For one night, I felt like a respected member of the entertainment community, as opposed to the normal snake oil peddler vibe
In fact, the only thing that wasn't classy and professional about the gig was the group of muletted shitbags that comprised the audience. Look, I know times are different and people don't necessarily put on a suit to go to the casino, but is it too much to ask for you to take take off the sweatpants? Hey lady, love the lace-up denim pirate shirt.
After the show, I was hanging out in the casino, just checking out the scene. I have this vague sense that I have it in me to become a hardcore gambling addict, so I generally avoid any card game where the stakes rise above fifty cents per hand. But I'd had a pretty good evening, so I decided to be a big dork and toss ten bucks into a slot machine. Well somehow, without me really knowing it, the machine hit twice in a row and I won a quick $165--hardly big money, but that's just about two days worth of temping for me, so I'm pretty damn ecstatic. As the coins were plunking down into the bin, two very hot UConn students wandered over and just start talking to me. It's as if they were using Spider-sense. And I thought to myself, "Holy shit, it really is that simple--money equals chicks." Now I know this equation is a bit insulting and it certainly doesn't apply to any woman you'd actually want to spend some serious time with, but it's a plain fact that cash (and I'm sure $165 seems like a lot of money to a couple of college girls) is a goshdarn aphrodesiac and that if you have some your chances of getting a woman's attention are significantly higher. Please, don't deny it. It's true.
So I chat with these two girls and I chat for a while--I casually mention that I was in the comedy show (READ: I'm a very important person and you should consider having sex with me), they casually mention how incredibly poor they are (READ: We don't care about your stupid fucking comedy show--give us money).
So here's the scene: I'm feeling very good about myself after a great show, I have a few hundred (including the money I got for the show) bucks of disposable income my pocket, a beautiful hotel room, and the attention of two sexy coeds who don;t seem to have anywhere special to be. Sounds like the classic set up for a threeway sex escapade, does it not? Well, I don't want to brag, but...did I mention I won $165 from a slot machine?
(sigh)
Finnegan, you're pathetic. Go rent some fucking nards.
Friday night I did a stand up comedy show at Mohegan Sun. For those of you not in the Tri-State Area, Mohegan Sun is a monstrously large casino on a Mohegan Reservation in Connecticut. Who's a playa? Oh, that's right: me.
I have to say, as cheesy as the whole experience was, I loved every minute of it. For a few hours I was treated like a professional entertainer, someone to be addressed as Mr. Finnegan, someone who deserved to be escorted to the stage at showtime. I performed in a gorgeous showroom that probably sat 500 (I was just the opening act). The stage was probably 40 feet wide and I performed in front of a full big band set-up, which was for some "Rat Pack Revue" that plays there every other night of the week. Downstairs in the green room, there were sandwiches, pastries and crudit�s . Crudit�s! It's amazing what a plate of celery sticks and dip can do for your ego. For one night, I felt like a respected member of the entertainment community, as opposed to the normal snake oil peddler vibe
In fact, the only thing that wasn't classy and professional about the gig was the group of muletted shitbags that comprised the audience. Look, I know times are different and people don't necessarily put on a suit to go to the casino, but is it too much to ask for you to take take off the sweatpants? Hey lady, love the lace-up denim pirate shirt.
After the show, I was hanging out in the casino, just checking out the scene. I have this vague sense that I have it in me to become a hardcore gambling addict, so I generally avoid any card game where the stakes rise above fifty cents per hand. But I'd had a pretty good evening, so I decided to be a big dork and toss ten bucks into a slot machine. Well somehow, without me really knowing it, the machine hit twice in a row and I won a quick $165--hardly big money, but that's just about two days worth of temping for me, so I'm pretty damn ecstatic. As the coins were plunking down into the bin, two very hot UConn students wandered over and just start talking to me. It's as if they were using Spider-sense. And I thought to myself, "Holy shit, it really is that simple--money equals chicks." Now I know this equation is a bit insulting and it certainly doesn't apply to any woman you'd actually want to spend some serious time with, but it's a plain fact that cash (and I'm sure $165 seems like a lot of money to a couple of college girls) is a goshdarn aphrodesiac and that if you have some your chances of getting a woman's attention are significantly higher. Please, don't deny it. It's true.
So I chat with these two girls and I chat for a while--I casually mention that I was in the comedy show (READ: I'm a very important person and you should consider having sex with me), they casually mention how incredibly poor they are (READ: We don't care about your stupid fucking comedy show--give us money).
So here's the scene: I'm feeling very good about myself after a great show, I have a few hundred (including the money I got for the show) bucks of disposable income my pocket, a beautiful hotel room, and the attention of two sexy coeds who don;t seem to have anywhere special to be. Sounds like the classic set up for a threeway sex escapade, does it not? Well, I don't want to brag, but...did I mention I won $165 from a slot machine?
(sigh)
Finnegan, you're pathetic. Go rent some fucking nards.
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