FLYIN' AWAY ON A WING AND A PRAYER


At noon today, I will be setting off to sunny Ft. Lauderdale for the rest of the week, where I'll be making dick jokes for dollars. I'll be performing at some place "Uncle Funny's", which is a typically comedy-clubby kind of name for a comedy club, don't you think? It's just so damned...literal. I actually wrote something about the odd way in which comedy clubs are named back on August 16th, 2002, so check that out if you're bored.

Yeah, I know--I just linked to my own goddamn site. How lazy is that?

Anyway, I'll be providing reports from the road, assuming I can find myself an internet connection. In the meantime, enjoy this magnificent paean to our indomintable national spirit. I defy any true American to watch it and not tear up with nationalistic pride. And, as was mentioned to me by my friend Paul Sullivan, you get the distinct impression that the creators of this "piece" (most likely morning radio deejays) have absolutely no idea that the Village People are gay.

I'll talk to you from beautiful F-L-A, jagoffs. If it makes you feel any better, it's supposed to thunderstorm every single day I'm there. Figures.

GOD BLESS RUPERT PUPKIN


Okay, I don't usually use this space as a "comedy journal", but I had a gig last night that merits mention. I was lucky enough to perform at the Loews/Comedy Central "Movies in Motion" Tour kickoff in Union Square last night. I say "lucky" because, in addition to getting paid a nice little sum, I was given a Loews Movie Pass for an entire year. Therefore, for the next calendar year, I can go into any Loews theater and see any movie, even new releases, for free. And I can bring a guest. Want to be my friend now? Thought so.

However, before you get too jealous, I should mention that I went a long way toward earning that goddamn card. This was no ordinary comedy show, you see. If you happened to stroll by Union Square last night, you might have noticed that there was a huge tent set up. And then in front of that, facing the sidewalk, a small stage with about nine chairs in front of it. Bingo! Yes, I got to perform for a small group of Loews Theaters promotions dept. employees and a smattering of mostly hostile passers-by. I think I was onstage for about 3 seconds before a bike messenger rode by and gave me the finger. And about a minute later, three teenage girls walked up behind the 'crowd' and began yelling "HEEEE-EYYYYYY! HEEEEE-EYYYYY!" When everyone turned around to see what the yelling was about, one yelled "FUCK YOU!" They then exploded into laughter and high-fived each other. Zing! Well done, ladies. Oscar Wilde would be proud.

It pretty much continued on like this for 15 minutes or so, with random people (teens, mostly) walking by and suggesting that I perform various sexual acts, both on them and on myself. But since they were just the people strolling by, I didn't really take it too personally. For the most part, the people who'd actually gathered around the stage were chuckling and enjoying themselves. Sure, it may be the Klonopin and Red Bull talking, but I actually think it was startng to go rather well. And then, just when I'd started to develop a bit of genuine momentum, the mic shorted out. Fantastic! What followed was ten full minutes of me trying to "make light" of the situation to the gradually dissipating crowd while the tech guy struggled to figure out the problem--warning: random New Yorkers don't seem to find Japanese 'Noh' Theater references very funny. Everyone involved on the Loews/Comedy Central end was extremely cool, but I don't think I made many friends when I suggested, quite loudly, that there should have been a sign next to the stage that read "TONIGHT: PUPPET SHOW AND SPINAL TAP". They eventually got the sound system back ontrack, I did another awkward minute or two, and then brought up the headliner.

To be honest, I can't say I was surprised or even upset that people (mostly teens) would make a point to shout shit out at me. After all, I was standing on a stage in the middle of a public park--how often do you get the opportunity to be an absolute dick to someone without any fear of consequences? Besides, people hate stand up comedians--it's as simple as that. Oh, they might like specific people who just happen to do stand up comedy, but comedians in general? Ack! And I can't say I blame them. Of all the bad art being created in the world (and I realize that a lot of people don't even consider stand-up an art), nothing is quite as unbearable and ridicule-worthy as shitty comedy.

Back when I was in college, I used to walk by the Boston Comedy Club, see the guy out front yelling "Live comedy!" and think to myself, "Why in the world would anyone ever want to be a part of that? I'd rather repeatedly hit myself in the balls with a whiffle bat than sit through a night of stand up comedy". And yet, years later, I sit through it upwards of five nights a week, marvelling at just how stunningly awkward it can be when someone tries to be funny and fails miserably. Sure, I know lots of comics who are, at the very least, intermittently brilliant. And I would go as far to say that all of my comedians friends are at least very good at what they do. But I'm speaking from rthe perspective of someone who wants comedians to do well. To the comedy layman, it's not the great stuff you said that sticks in the brain--it's the shit that went horribly awry. Why? Because that's the stuff that reinforces what they already thought about stand up comedians in the first place.

When you say the words "rock musician" to people, they think Bruce Springsteen. Jimi Hendrix. John Lennon. When you say "painter"? Pablo Picasso. Vincent Van Gogh. Gustav Klimt. But when a person hears the words "stand-up comedian", they think of that one guy they saw that one time, when they happened to stumble into an open mic in the back room of a chinese restaurant. That guy who was sweating the whole time he was onstage. That guy who laughed nervously at his own bad jokes. That guy who was so miserably untalented, he's become a private joke between you and your friends.

Okay, I see I've gotten off track a little bit. in fact, I don't even know what I'm typing anymore. In short, last night's gig was a very bizarre way to spend 25 minutes of my life. But a very small sacrifice, when you consider that I'll be kicking it "free movie" style for one full year, muthafuckas!

LET'S WASTE THE NIGHT TOGETHER

It's been a long time, but please enjoy a little more bizarre animation from Japan. I kind of get the impression that this one is a fake, but I honestly can't understand why anyone would go to the considerable effort.

Now, revel in the simplistic beauty that is Atari Adventure.

And while you're farting around online, check out my new favorite band!

Now, go molest yourself!

WHAT MY FAVORITE ALBUM SAYS ABOUT ME, Part VI

WU TANG CLAN "Enter the Wu Tang (36 Chambers)" -- I'm far more idiosyncratic than the people I grew up with in upper middle class suburban Massachusetts.

MEGADETH "Peace Sells...But Who's Buying?" -- Girlfriends are for fags.

FISCHERSPOONER "#1" -- Mom, it's me. Listen, can you run up to the attic and see if you can find my old parachute pants? ......Because I read somewhere they're cool again. ......I don't know, they just are, apparently.

MISS SAIGON "Original Cast Recording" -- I am horrible in bed.

GRAND FUNK RAILROAD "We're an American Band" -- I just mailed in my application for VH1 Classic's "Rock and Roll Fantasy Camp".

SEAN PAUL "Dutty Rock" -- I see nothing odd about paying $265 for a pair of jeans.

JOHN MAYER "Room for Sqaures" -- I respect you. And your gender. That is why I want to make sure that I have your consent before attempting to fingerbang you.

JETHRO TULL "Thick as a Brick" -- I'm your source for topnotch "Dr. Who" fan fiction.

fIREHOSE "Ragin', Full on" -- I used to rule the airwaves on WHPR, Hampshire College Radio!

LISA MARIE PRESLEY "To Whom it May Concern" -- I am an employee of Capitol Records.

LIARS "They Threw Us in a Trench and Put a Monument On Top" -- As you can see from looking at my CD collection, I'm a 'music expert'. Now, if only I derived any joy from actually listening to music...

GOOD CHARLOTTE "The Young and the Hopeless" -- Ashton Kutcher rules!

DMITRY SHOSTAKOVICH "Symphonies Nos. 5 & 9" -- Although I lambaste popular culture at every opportunity, I've been known to beat off to "Buffy".

KELLY CLARKSON "Thankful" -- I give up.

A NEW DAY DAWNING


Ladies and gentlemen,

This morning I received a handwritten letter from Maya Angelou, pleading Todd Levin and me to end the hostilties that have cast such an ominous shadow over the blogging community over the last four long days. The letter reads, in part:

"Rise up, my sons! Like a beacon bringing light to the eyes of a child! Like a wondrous tree planted in the soil of Respect, the peat moss of Dignity, the fertilizer of Equality! Like a royal tiger chasing down that elusive wild boar of Decency across that golden plain we call Love! Rise up like a wondrous Go-Bot, reconfiguring itself from the Trans Am of Hate and Oppression into a noble and benevolent automaton of Pride! Like the smile of Old Father Moon, casting it's proud spirit of veneraton onto the sacred treehouse of yesterday's past unexceptionalness! Like a glistening ATM machine..."

It goes on like that for four pages. Who knew there where that many synonyms for "majestic"? Anyway, I'm not sure exactly what Maya Angelou was talking about, but I know one thing is clear: The Levin - Finnegan beef must end. This is a time for healing and, to that end, I am inviting Mr. Todd Levin to drop a little comedic science at tonight's installment of Portable Comedy, a few days before he heads out of the country for two months (despite what you may have heard, it's not because he's afraid of me). If you're in NYC tonight and are looking to witness history, make sure you come on out and witness this crucial moment in the annals of online comedy writing peace negotiations.

Also appearing will be:

WENDY SPERO
PAUL SULLIVAN
ALLISON CASTILLO
JOEY GAY
and LARRY GETLIN

And here's the pertinent info:

PORTABLE COMEDY
Friday, May 9th
The Gershwin Hotel
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
$7.00

Be there! And don't forget to wear your kevlar (just in case Levin decides to be a punk).

SCANDAL!

Last night, the offices of Post & Publish Magazine burned to the ground. All materials slated to appear in it's upcoming issue were destroyed, including the world's only known copy of "Levin - Finnegan Beef Chronology". I know it seems odd that a magazine devoted to web-based technology would only keep one hardcopy of so vital a piece of journalism--it's breathtaking in it's ironicalness.

The police suspect arson, but have yet to find any hard evidence. One curious note: the last name on the Post & Publish after hours sign-in sheet was a Mr. Brodd Brevin.

Luckily for you, faithful readers, I have a small treat. As I mentioned on Tuesday, Levin used to go by the name Hot Toddy and that his early writings were primarily musical theatre-based. What I neglected to mention was that Todd was also an avid devotee of Bob Fosse and that "Tremble" was the name of an all-male dance trio Levin fronted from 1993 to 1998. For those of you who are sketpical, I offer you this photographic evidence, uncovered by my crack research staff of Bob and Kambri.

Oof, Todd. Oof.

NEWS FLASH!

Due to an ongoing police investigation of Tremble, Inc. and it's association with known medicinal marijuana kingpin Livingston "Lucky Pierre" McDuff, publication of the "Levin - Finnegan Beef Chronology" has been postponed until tomorrow.

WOW. WOWIE WOW WOW

For the first time, I understand why people get rid of their "comments" boxes. 75 and counting--egads. Obviously, my calling Levin out as the giant-headed, suede elbow patch loving, Noah Baumbach movie reject he truly is has touched a nerve. I must admit, I'm impressed by the fervor of his readership--you'd think they were Bulgarians at a Michael Jackson concert. But I suppose that makes sense, pander as he does to mainstream taste (rumor has it Levin's collaborating on a blog entry with Ashanti--it's pretty much a straight rip of an old Rick James entry from the late '70s, from what I hear). Todd may have the numbers, but I have the cred.

You see, Todd Levin is what I refer to as a "studio blogger". He types the type of a hardcore blogger, but it's just a marketing ploy. I bet his readers have no idea, for instance, that his nom de blog used to be Hot Toddy, and that his early writings were little more than glorified fan letters to Steven Sondheim. Yep, look it up. It was five years ago that Levin "transformed" himself into the unfortunately coiffed, living-his-entire-life-within-imaginary-quotation-marks, Marshall-McLuhan-for-the-special-needs-set fuckface we all know today. Well, his act might work on all the kids hanging out in the food court, but the true bloggers know better. Until Levin starts living some of the scenarios he writes about, I won't be showing him any love.

You see, while Todd Levin was partying in the Hamptons with Donald Trump and Martha Stewart, I was keeping it real, doing six weeks in minimum security lockdown for "software piracy". Thing is, I'm from the streets. Yes, those streets are technically in suburban Massachusetts, but they are streets nonetheless (Ever come around Squirrel Hill Road after dark? Wampanoag Drive? Didn't think so.)

For those of you who think I attacked Todd Levin without provocation, you could not be more wrong. This has been going on a long, long time and it's bigger than any one blogger. Tomorrow, I will post the chronological history of the "Levin-Finnegan Beef" set to appear in next month's issue of Post & Publish Magazine. It's a potentially explosive piece of journalism that will shed light on just how things got to this point between Levin and me. The article is not without its inaccuracies (no matter what that writer says, I never stole Levin's diamond-encrusted "HTM-ILL" neck pendant), but I think it gets the general gist of things. It's about time the truth came out, even if it casts me in a less than flattering light, at times. I never said I was perfect--a man does what he has to in order to survive.

Soon, the world will know the truth about you, ".todd". You're Elizabeth Taylor, I'm Richard Burton, and I'm about to go seriously Who's-Afraid-of-Virginia-Woolf on your ass. Let the chips fall where they may.

IT'S ON

I got up early this morning to write a genuinely hilarious blog entry before heading out for the day, but I became enthralled by an MTV news expose about the 50 Cent / Ja Rule "beef". Pretty heavy stuff, apparently. I'm not a huge fan of hip hop (what I do like tends to be the wackier stuff, a la Kool Keith), but there is something captivating about its tradition of lyrical feuding. It adds a level of drama and one-upmanship that has been missing from rock music since the infamous Foreigner / REO Speedwagon war of 1982.

And that is why I am officially starting a blog beef with this mothertrucker. Tremble.com, eh? The only things trembling were your mama's knees, as I was taking her from behind!

Awww shit! No I didn't!!

SNAP!

Why isn't there a male equivalent for the word "diva"?

Oh wait, there is--it's "asshole".

TAKING ON THE BIG TOPICS


I think the main reason I love dogs is that they have absolutely no filter mechanism. If a dog experiences any sort of pleasure, it immediately represents itself in his tail wagging. You never have to wonder what kind of mood your dog is in--he is physically incapable of bullshitting you. So, of all the animals on the face of the earth, it seems obvious that dogs have Nature's least effective "poker face".

Of course, this makes me wonder why the fuck the deal is with all of those dogs playing poker paintings. I mean, think about it--dogs would totally suck at poker. You'd certainly never have to wonder if an opposing player was bluffing. The minute he got his cards, all you'd have to do is listen for the telltale 'thap-thap-thap' sound. How can I get in on one of these games? I'd clean up.

Now, you want to talk about good poker players? Fish, dude. Who the hell can tell what they're thinking? On the other hand, being that a fish only has a memory span of 3 to 5 seconds, you could probably cheat rather blatantly. "Hey, what the hell," the fish might say, "You just looked at my cards! That's bullshit, man! I'm not going to sit here and play cards with a cheat-- ...........Wait. Who the fuck am I, again?"

(NOTE: Despite what you may think from reading this post, I am not currently smoking pot.)

POSSIBLE TITLES FOR MY AUTOBIOGRAPHY
(due from St. Martin's Press, 2021)


* HE, FINNEGAN

* WHO NEEDS TO DIE AND WHY: A Compendium

* THE KID STAYS IN THE HOME VIDEO

* ALWAYS CHECK TO SEE IF SHE HAS AN ADAM'S APPLE, and Other Things Me Grandpappy Taught Me

* BASTARD OUT OF UPPER MIDDLE CLASS MASSACHUSETTS

* MAY YOU ROT SLOWLY IN HELL: Letters to MasterCard, 1995 - 2009

* THAT TAKES BALLS (Note: This is what people say, in an attempt to "be nice", to a stand up comedian who has just totally eaten shit onstage. So if you know any stand-up comics, never say "That takes balls." Better to simply say, "Dude, that sucked.")

* FAITHFULLY: One Man's Secret and Shameful Love of Journey

* THE BOY WHO COULDN'T STOP WANKING

* BREAKING THE SEAL: A Professional's Guide to Social Pissing

* I KNOW WHY THE CAGED BIRD DRINKS

* FINNEDOUCHE!

* UM, DID YOU? An Open Letter to Any Woman Who's Been Kind Enough to Have Sex With Me

* GIRL, INTERRUPTED

WELL I SAW...THE LIGHT...IN YOUR THIIIIIIIGGGGHHHS*


I plan on wearing shorts today--adjust your schedules accordingly. You may want to bring sunglasses, just in case we happen to cross paths.

As the weather gets warmer and young men with mayonnaise-tinted complexions (like mine) begin to show a little leg, I would like all you sexxed-up women to keep something in mind:

Once you go pasty...you quit drinking real hasty.

Please control yourselves, ladies.



* In case it wasn't obvious, this is meant to be sung to the tune of Todd Rundgren's "I Saw the Light", a relatively UN-annoying soung that gets stuck in my head quite a bit.

BUSTED!


As I'm sure most of you know, terrorists tend to speak in code. I was recently reading an article about what a difficult time American cryptographers are having trying to decipher Al Qaeda's intricate communications. Well, when it comes to Homeland Security, no one is more vigilant than yours truly. And that's why I feel it's necessary for me to bring what I perceive to be suspicous activity to the attention of the vast Tower of Hubris readership.

Here's the deal: There is a Syrian gentleman named Ali who owns the Astoria Garden Deli & Grocery, a convenience store across the street from my apartment. Now, Ali seems like a pleasant enough fellow--he's quck with a friendly smile and always gives exact change. On the surface, Ali is a fine and upstanding American. The problem, however, is his habit of posting various handwritten signs around the store for everyone to see--I think he may be using them as a crude form of terrorist code. What makes me so sure? One very simple thing: Ali's completely arbitrary and unnecessary use of quotation marks. For instance, the following sign was taped to the register last week:

IF YOU DON'T HAVE ANY "I.D."
YOU CAN'T BUY ANY "BEER"

How would you explain that? Is he saying I don't actually need to have proper identification? Or perhaps what Ali's selling is not actually beer. Makes you think, doesn't it?

Well, I say better safe than sorry--I called the FBI. And lemme tell you, when they forcibly removed Ali from his home, his family was pitching an absolute fit! Gee, guilty much?

The important thing is I feel safer. Because that's what's at stake here, people--my own personal sense of safety. What can I say? I like to do my part.

PLUGGITY PLUG PLUG

So it appears that I'll be hosting the genuinely fantastic "Eating It" show at Luna Lounge tonight. This is a comedy show that regularly plays host to bigwigs like Janeane Garafalo, Colin Quinn, Dave Chappelle, Sarah Silverman, lots of SNL cast members, blah blah blah. I have no idea who's on the bill tonight, but if you're in the city (that city being New York), you should come on down. It's down on the Lower East Side--don't worry, you'll be issued ironic t-shirts and soul patches at the door (for women, substitute "grandma glasses" for soul patches). Check the link for details, directions, etc.

Oh, and and my friend Todd directed me to this wonderful piece of art. It's never too early to start your holiday shopping, folks.

Writing Friday's entry made me ponder...

THE WORLD'S MOST ANNOYING SONGS TO GET STUCK IN YOUR HEAD


"Shake You Down" by Gregory Abbott

"Incense and Peppermint" by The Strawberry Alarm Clock

"Karma Chameleon" by Culture Club

"Escape (The Pina Colada Song)" by Rupert Holmes

"Lights Out" by Peter Wolf

"With Arms Wide Open" by Creed

"Queen of Hearts" by Juice Newton

"Desert Rose" by Sting

"Do What You Do" by Jermaine Jackson

"Without Us" (Theme from Family Ties)

"This Is How We Do It" by Montell Jordan

"Cheeseburger in Paradise" by Jimmy Buffett

"I'd Do Anything For Love (But I won't Do That)" by Meatloaf

"What's Going On" by 4 Non Blondes

and, of course, "Feels So Good" by Chuck Mangione (Even if you don't think you know this song, trust me--you do.)

SUPERMAN'S LESSER KNOWN SUPER POWERS


* Can program TiVo with mind

* Armpits that emit the incapacitatingly soothing scent of fresh pancakes

* The superhuman ability to get wasted on three wine coolers

* Invisiballs

* Ultra Silent Treatment

* The ability to get Chuck Mangione's "Feels So Good" stuck in the heads of arch-enemies

* Super rage-inducing "ironic" mullet

* Can untangle telephone cord by repeatedly flying around it at the speed of light

* Supersexy Brazillian bikini wax

* Can see through hype

* Heat Urine

YEEESH!

I do lots of embarrassing stuff--trip over things, say dumb shit, etc. But I can take solace in that fact that I'll never do anything as embarrassing as Madonna's "rapping" in her new single, "American Life". In a few short musical measures, Madonna has set the White-People-Aren't-Dorks movement back fifteen years. It reminds me of someone's dad trying to act cool--especially in the video, where she falls back on a few Electric Boogaloo-era hand gestures.

Charlotte Church could have pulled that shit off more convincingly.

EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP!

Please excuse this test of the Tower of Hubris broadcast system. I've been having some bloggery problems and the only way to make all my fix-its take affect was to publish something. Unfortunately, I'm pooped. If I felt truly inspired, I might have written something about how I suspect that Lisa Marie Presley may in fact be a dude. But no, it's time for me to go beddie-bye. I have a commercial audition in the AM, where I play a guy who tries to "shrink" his phone bill by putting it into the clothes dryer. Hilarious! How do these genius ad writers come up with this stuff??! GET IT??! He puts it in the DRYER!!! Hoo-doggy!

Anyway, until I have time to write something worthwhile, I offer this small piece of advice: if there ever comes a time when marijuana is legalized, buy some stock in Cheetos. You'll clean up, yo.



P.S. ...in the DRYER, I tell you!!!

PREAMBLE

As I mentioned a couple of days ago, I'm in the process of looking for a new roommate. I've moved around quite a bit since I moved to NYC, but this is the first time I've ever been in the position of having someone move into my apartment. Up until now, it's always been the other way around. I spent a long time this past week trying to narrow down what kind of person I'm looking for, and I came to a very simple conclusion: he/she must be a better person than me. That's it. That's my only requirement. Just be a better human being than I am, and you could be the new renter 1/2 of a very spacious apartment in Astoria, Queens.

Why such low standards? Maybe it's because I've lived with so many shitheads over the years. In the 13.5 years I've been living away from home (two years in high school*, four at NYU, seven and a half since), I've lived with 18 different people. As I begin anew with Roommate #19, I thought it might be interesting to look back at the various dummies, dweebs and drug addicts I've shared homes with over the years. With that in mind, I present:



THE COHABITATORS, Part I

CLARK DORMITORY (High School)*

BEN -- Ben was from upstate New York and something of a Rural-ist. Upon moving his stuff into our shared room, he immediately hung a huge American flag on the wall. He also enjoyed chewing tobacco, which I found positively delightful. Ben would deposit his brown saliva into a homemade spittoon fashioned out of a 2-liter soda bottle, which he emptied every other week or so. I went out with a few high school friends a couple of years ago, and Ben showed up unexpectedly. He now has three gold teeth. We all drove around in Ben's car all night, while he attempted to buy some Blow (for himself, not for me).



JUDSON RESIDENCE HALL (NYU)

JOSH -- Josh was your archetypal NYU film student. Any attempt at having a conversation with Josh eventually led to him telling you about his screenplay, and how it was going to change the way Americans thought about love, racism, social justice and, of course, robots.

HUNG HAW -- Yes, that was his name. Pronounced �hung how�. His full name: Hung Haw Long. No, I�m not kidding. Hung, as he liked to be called, shared the room with Josh and I. He was a very studious fellow. I can�t really say anything bad about him, except that he used to play Eric Clapton�s �You Look Wonderful Tonight� thrice daily. A horrid, horrid song.



7th STREET RESIDENCE HALL, NYU

DAN -- I will always be thankful to Dan for introducing me to the music of Tom Waits. The only weird thing I can remember about him is that he talked in his sleep, often about sausages. Insert Freud joke here.

ADAM -- Adam and Evan were Dan and my suitemates. Adam was a great guy. Unfortunately, he was also a hardcore environmentalist, which meant a) he smalled very bad, and b) he was constantly trying to enforce a �Yellow, Stay Mellow� rule, with regard to flushing the toilet.

EVAN -- What a dick. Evan was one of those I'm-desperately-afraid-of-social-rejection-so-I'll-just-sit-in-the-living-room-all-day-watching- TV-and-ridiculing-anyone-who-actually-has-a-life types; the kind of guy who could (and would) explain to you why each and every individual episode of "Who's the Boss" sucked. His nightly dinner, prepared between the hours of midnight and 2am, included an entire garlic clove and half an onion.



222 THOMPSON ST.

VERONICA -- My time living with Veronica was the first (and only) time I've ever tried romantic cohabitation. When I moved in January 1st, 1994, Veronica and I were as devoted to each other as any couple could possible be -- in fact, we came rather close to flying to Vegas and getting married one night. By April 15th, Veronica was boning some Wall Street jagoff and I was penning revenge poetry that would have made Morrissey roll his eyes.

TALISH & AMY -- Talish and Amy were the other couple sharing the tiny 2BR with Veronica and me. They were good friends of mine, but as Veronica and I had our falling out, they seemed increasingly annoyed by my habit of punching the wall while audibly sobbing. Elitists.



126 ST. MARK�S PLACE

MIKE -- Mike was a very pleasant guy who played in a really shitty rock band. I went to see three shitty gigs during the first month I lived in his apartment, and then spent the next 16 months making up excuses in order to never see them again. It was kind of awkward - like when you make out with a co-worker at a Christmas party and then never speak of it again.

WILLY -- Willy was one of the nicest people I've ever met and my very first "drinking buddy". We'd wander around the East Village from bar to bar, drinking shitty beer and playing pool. What I didn�t know was that Willy had just gotten out of rehab a few months earlier and I had unwittingly helped him fall off the wagon. He ended up hitting rock bottom, stealing money from me, and slinking back into rehab. Truly, a cautionary tale.

CHEYENNE � What a colossal mistake. Never, EVER choose a roommate based on hotness. Coming off the Willy debacle, Mike and I decided we wanted a female roommate and we just happened to settle on this bitchy dingbat who made her living by dancing on MTV�s �The Grind�. Cheyenne was, without a doubt, the dumbest person I have ever met, or will ever meet. I feel perfectly comfortable putting that in print, as I�m confident that she�s far too stupid to know how to Google herself. Here�s all you need to know about Cheyenne: When River Phoenix died, Cheyenne ordered a back issue of Spin with him on the cover, mounted it in a glass frame and placed it on the living room mantle. From then forward, whenever Cheyenne would enter or leave the apartment, she�d blow �The Riv� a kiss.

COMING TOMORROW: Carrie the coke addict and Charles, the 38 year old aspiring hip hop deejay!

* Yes, I went to a performing arts boarding school for two years. Go ahead an mock me!

GRRRRRRRRRRR...

I just finished writing a ridiculously long blog entry, a comprehensive overview of every weirdo I've ever shared an apartment with since moving to NYC. Unfortunately, when I cut and pasted it from Word, it developed all of these formatting problems. I'm so frustrated right now, I could punch Nelson Mandela in the dick. Must not kill. Must. Not. Kill.

I'm going to go to bed before my head explodes.

OPINION POLL

Question: Has Tower of Hubris jumped the shark?

a) Yes. What was once a fresh comedic perspective on sexual mores and popular culture has devolved into a profanity-laden whinefest. Get your shit together, fuckbag. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go insert a cucumber into my anus.

b) No. I'm relatively new to this site and hate it when people start in with that "Oh, this used to be cool" crap. Besides, I happen to be a fan of both profanity and whining. Whatever you do, don't go back to doing those music lists you've already beaten into the ground.

c) Hard to say. I'm only here because I did a Google search for "Jennifer+Capriati+fingerbang+photos".

d) Um, did you just use the term "jump the shark"? What is this, 1998? You fucking fossil.

e) Never mind your stupid blog--I'm bleeding over here! Someone get a doctor, goddamn it! Oh god, there's so much blood... It's getting...dark... So...dark...

f) Who farted?

Your participation is appreciated.

RANDOM THOUGHTS ON A PLEASANT AFTERNOON


* Ah, NBA Playoff time. There's nothing better than sitting around your apartment on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon, watching other people exercise. I think I'll order a pizza.

* I'm on Day 4 of a month-long boner, culminating in the release of The Matrix Reloaded on May 15th. It's really not healthy to look forward to a movie this much.

* I've been dating someone for almost three months now. Yes, it's true. Problem is, she's always saying all this fucked up shit, like "Christian, I find you vaguely physically attractive," and "Christian, you're not a complete asshole". Yeah, I know--it's like, helll-oooooo! I'm not going to listen to that kind of crazy talk. I refuse to let one woman's opinion affect the way I feel about myself.

* I'm going to start using the word "boyfriend" in conversation with my guy friends. For example, if someone asks me, "Hey, you going to the Yankees game today?", I'll respond with "You know it, boyfriend!"

* My roommate is moving in with her boyfriend on June 1, so I'm in the process of looking for someone to move in. I have no steadfast ideas about what kind of person I'm looking for, but I'm leaning towards picking a woman. Why, you ask? Because I've found that living with a woman makes me a much better man. Because no reasonable guy wants a woman, even a platonic friend or roommate, to discover just what a disgusting pig he is. And trust me, he is. Therefore, if I have a female roommate, I'll be aware of things I might otherwise ignore. I won't leave half-eaten food lying around the kitchen. I'll wash a dish now and then. And if I just happen to stumble home drunk one night and find myself missing the toilet completely and peeing on the floor, chances are I'll wipe it up. But with a guy roommate? Ha! All bets are off, especally when it comes to toilet-area upkeep. Hell, you could knit a sweater with all that errant pubic hair. This is why I prefer female roommates.

* Psychedelic Furs' "The Ghost in You" may be the most perfect pop song ever written. This is not a joke. There's not one note out of place. Nearly impeccable.

* If you don't already hate Bill O'Reilly, read the transcript of this interview. It's breathtaking in it's douchebaggery.

* How long do you think human beings were having sex before the first blow job was performed? I'm going to guess 42 minutes and that "Ooga" was one popular cavewoman.

GET THE PIETY STARTED

The following is another hilarity-packed plug for Portable Comedy, the show I host every Friday night at The Gershwin Hotel. If you're in town, come on down--it's going to be a great one tonight.

Between Passover and Easter, there can be no doubt that this is the most important weekend on the Judeo-Christian calendar. As host of Portable Comedy at The Gershwin Hotel, I'm sensitive to this sort of thing, so you can count on me not to exploit your sacred beliefs in order to promote a mere comedy show. That would be just plain wrong. Someone less ethical might try to appeal to Jewish comedy fans by saying something like:

"Portable Comedy--don't pass over it!"

Or, "Why is this comedy show like no other comedy show?"

Or even, "Come on down and find the Laffikomen!"

Pitiful, is it not? Thankfully, we here at Portable Comedy are above that sort of thing. You Christians can also count on me not milking Easter Weekend, along the lines of:

"Why settle for a Good Friday when you can have a GREAT Friday?"

Or, "Resurrect your funny bone and come on down!"

Or, "You'll consider yourself a disciple...of comedy!"

Nor will I use biblical quotations as a springboard for cheap laughs, a la:

"Jeff Foxworthy...why have you forsaken me?"

And, "Into thy hands, I commend my Vin Deisel impression"

Nope, nothing like that. What you WILL see at Portable Comedy tonight are some of NYC's best comedians at a price so low, you'll shout "Hallelujah!" Joining me will be:

JULIUS SHARPE (Writer for "The Late Late Show with Craig Kilborn" and former host of Portable Comedy! By the way, I realize I said he was on the show last week, but I was temporarily confused--never mix Tequiza and Klonopin, kids!)

ROB PARAVONIAN (He's appeared on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" and "Tough Crowd with Colin Quinn". Check him out at www.paravonian.com!)

RENA ZAGER (She's appeared on NBC's "Late Friday" and is a contributing writer for www.girlcomic.net!)

JONNY FIDO (His movie and television appearances are too numerous to mention, as you can see at www.jonnyfido.com. He appeared most recently on Comedy Central's "Chappelle's Show"!)

DANIEL NEWBOWER (This guy represented the entire city of Boston a couple of years back in the Comedy Central Laugh Riots Contest finals. Plus, he went to my Junior High and performed in the same incredibly lame sketch Comedy and musical theatre troupe! The Mad Hatters? Heard of 'em? They were a seminal influence in the world-renowned Acton, Massachusetts sketch comedy and musical theatre scene.)

PLUS, A SPECIAL GUEST!

Here's the skinny:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, APRIL 18th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
$7.00

So quit dipping yer eggs and come on down! We'll be saving a seat for YOU, Elijah!

GO TO SLEEP, FINNEGAN


5am. Nothing to say. Blank slate, dudes. Will try and write something this afternoon.

In the meantime, waste some time here.

PEOPLE ALL OVER THE WORLD: JOIN HANDS! START A LOVE TRAIN!

Just how beautiful was it outside yesterday? So beautiful that, for once, I don't have a bad thing to say about anything or anybody. It was that nice! And today is supposed to be even nicer! Nothing can ruin the wonderful day that is sure to follow. Honking taxi cabs? Music to my ears! Sidewalks crowded with tourists? No problem--welcome to The Big Apple, my foreign friends! Lots of sweaty fat dudes wearing tank tops? You go, boyfriend! That's right--I'm all sunshine and dasies! Life is bliss!

However, I just checked the five day forecast and it's supposed to rain Thursday and Friday. Therefore, it's entirely possible that I may have some rather bitchy things to say later in the week. Here are a few possible topics:

* Bill O'Reilly (again)
* KFC
* Having rommates in NYC
* Cokeheads
* The Yeah Yeah Yeahs
* Taxes
* The Chinese Zodiac
* Sports "cartoonist" Bill Gallo
* tATu
* Bill O'Reilly (even more)
* The New England Roleplaying Society
* Lambada and other lost dance "crazes"
* Rampant high-fiving
* That whole "war" thing people have been talking about
* Mrs. Motherfucking Garrett

But for now, I'm all about the love, baby! Now get out there and hug someone uninvitedly!

JOEL SHITMAKER PRESENTS...

I wonder if the makers of Phone Booth, directed by Hollywood schlockmeister Joel Schumacher, ever considered this one indisputable fact: phone booths haven't existed in NYC for upwards of fifteen years.

No, not even one. You might as well write a thriller centered around a mimeograph machine. Or a dot matrix printer. Or hell, a goddamn lute!

Phone Booth is what douchebag Hollywood executives like to refer to as your classic "High Concept" film. After much consderation, I've decided that this means it's the kind of movie where the concept only seems plausible if you're high. "Wait wait wait...check it out, dude...(inhale) ...What if you did a movie...about a guy...who answered a phone...(smaller inhale) ...and the guy who was on the other end...was totally gonna, like...kill him... (big exhale) ...That would fucking rule."

That's all I have to say about Phone Booth, but I will offer this one last mathmatical trueism:

Alfred Hitchcock movies = Good
Movies that present themselves as being "Hitchcockian" = Very, very bad

UM...MAY I SPEAK TO....CHRISTINE FLANNERGAN?


It must be tough being a telemarketer. Black or white, male or female, Democrat or Republican----hatred of telemarketes is one thing every American can agree on. Christ, even racists (the KKK) and pedophiles (NAMBLA) find comraderie somewhere. But who the hell is going to stand up for telemarketers?

Me, that's who.

I don't think people realize what a vital role telemarketers play in our society. Just think about how many times each and every day you want to treat someone like crap, but can't. Frustrating, is it not? After all, people are constantly "getting up in your grill"--your boss is yells at you because the supply closet is out of Post-It notes, your parents keep trying to talk to you about your "problem" with "alcohol", and your girlfriend? She's just busting your balls for the sheer fuck of it. You want to scream in their faces, right? But you don't. Sure, there might be a fleeting moment of pleasure in losing your shit on someone, but it's not like you can afford to get fired / disinherited / dumped. So, time after time, you swallow your pride and say things like, "Yes, sir! I'll get right on that, sir!" and "Gee, Dad, thanks so much for sending me that 12 Step pamphlet in the mail!" and "I'm sorry, sweetheart--I don't know what I was thinking. I'm a terrible, terrible boyfriend. As usual, you're right, I'm wrong!" You play the good little soldier. But anger doesn't disappear just because you choose not to express it. No sirree Bob, it takes up residence in the pit of your stomach, just waiting for a viable and consequence-free target to come along. Enter the telemarketer.

Seriously, why else should we find them so utterly blight-worthy? No matter how righteously indignant you might claim to feel about this seemingly criminal "invasion of privacy", the simple truth is that a telemarketer robs you of absolutely nothing, save ten meager seconds of your life (ten seconds you'd have otherwise spent eating Cheetos and watching "Trading Spaces"). So why do we treat telemarketers like they just kicked Ghandi in the balls? Because it feels fucking great, that's why! Even the simple act of hanging up on someone while he's in the middle of a sentence--it's invigorating! In your face, asshole! I will not go quietly into that dark night! I've been shit on by Humanity and now you're going to pay for it, Mr. MCI Friends-and-Family!

Simply put, telemarketers are the obnoxious clowns in the dunking booth of Life.

It's gotten to the point where I'll yell at telemarketers for shit they have no control over. "No, I'm not interested in hearing about Capital One's new 'No Hassle' credit card, jack-off! Which reminds me, I'm not responsible for buying fucking office supplies, so tell my boss to get off my case! And since we're on the subject, maybe I wouldn't drink so much if my father had showed me some paternal affection when I was a child! Did he ever think of that Did he? DID HE?! Oh, and one more thing: the condom just broke, okay? BROKE!!! It's not like I was trying to get her pregnant, motherfucker!!!" I have to say, it makes me feel a lot better.

So the next time a telemarketer interrupts your day to try and sell you magazines, upgrade your long distance plan, or ask your opinions regarding the upcoming state comptroller race, thank him.*



* And then immediately yell "FUCK OFF" and hang up.

QUE?

Would someone tell why I'm supposed to give two jolly shits about Nicky and Paris Hilton? How the fuck are they considered celebrities? Downtown Julie Brown laughs at these non-entities! Christ, someone please send these twits to the Baghdad front line.

That is all. You may now return to your lives.

A SHORT LIST OF WORDS THAT SOUND OBSCENE BUT ARE NOT

Probate
Uvula
Secular
Masticate
Punt
Bunt
Pustule
Cumin
Cuckold
Alabastor
Prostrate
Aural
Tort
Buttress
Bequeath
Analogous
Codicil
Distended
Fulcrum
Lucre
Titular

(Yes, underneath all the intellectual posturing, I'm a 9 year old)

WE ARE ALL MADE OF SARS


You know, the more I read about all this new disease hubbub, the more I come to the conclusion that SARS is a punishment from God. That's right, SARS sufferers: God is punishing you for your wayward lifestyle choices. You people, with your wanton...breathing. Look, I'm not faulting you for wanting to breathe--hell, there were a couple of times when I was a young man, hanging around with my pals, and...well, let's just say I was waiting to exhale (what can I say? We were young, we were drunk). The important thing is, I denied my unholy urges and as a result, I remain SARS-free to this day. If anyone out there would like to renounce their heathen breathing ways and return to the Lord, I can put you in touch with some wonderful counsellors at Project Ventilate.

I just want to let you know that I'm here for you--remember my slogan: love the sinner, hate the sin! But make no mistake, kids: no matter what the liberal media tries to tell you, God hates breathers and SARS is His way of telling you so.

YOU WIN THIS ROUND, GENERAL TSO!

When I first moved to Astoria, I noticed that there was a Chinese take-out place called "Golden Dragon" loacated about fifty yards down the road. Now I love me some crappy Chinese takeout so, a few days after getting settled, I walk over to enjoy the first of what I expect to be many delicious Golden Dragon meals. This is my story.

Golden Dragon is your typical takeout place. Long counter, pictures of the various dishes up above, a few formica tables scattered around the 'dining area'. An 84lb elderly Chinese woman is standing behind the counter, smiling pleasantly at me. Behind her, a chubby dude with a wispy twelve-hair moustache is concocting something in a wok. Like I said: your typical Chinese takeout place, which suits me just fine. As I'm surveying the expansive Golden Dragon menu (Hmmm, sesame chicken or shrimp lo-mein? Should I go for won ton soup, or stick with the free soda? Decisions, decisions, decisions...), the elderly Chinese woman begins stomping furiously at something behind the counter, by her feet. A moment or two later, a mangy stray kitten (Astoria is full of them) ambles out, climbs onto a bag or duk sauce packets and relaxes. Long after the car has dragged itself out from underneath the counter, the woman is still kicking at something. You know, like a cockroach. Or a mouse. Or a rat. Or a cockroach on the back of a mouse who was being pulled on rollerskates by a rat. Something not nice.

Eventually, the elderly Chinese woman ceases her stomping and realizes that I'm standing there. Acknowledging the look of obvious horror on my face, she immediately starts shouting an explanation. "NO NO NO!" she bellows, "CAT! IT WAS CAT ONLY!!!"

Three responses immediately came to mind:

1) "No. Not 'cat only'. How do I know this? Because a full ten seconds after kitty made himself scarce, you were still stomping on...something."

2) "Okay, let's pretend it was 'cat only'. Why the holy fuck do you have a stray kitten wandering around the food prep area of a restaurant?! That's supposed to make me feel at ease? That cat looks like something that was pulled out of Priunce William Sound after the Exxon Valdez oil spill. And it's lying down on a bag of condiments--condiments that are meant for people to eat! At least put a flea collar on that motherfucker!"

3) "Okay, let's pretend it was 'cat only' and that it's perfectly natural and sanitary to have a stray kitten hanging out in a restaurant kitchen. That still doesn't answer one question: why the hell were you trying to stomp on it?!!"

I thought about trying to explain this to the elderly Chinese woman, but she just kept shouting at me. "CAT ONLY! CAT ONLY!! YOU ORDER NOW!". I turned and walked out, quite sure I'd never never enter Golden Dragon again.

Why do I bring this up? Because today, after 22 months of faithful avoidance, I ate lunch at Golden Dragon. I am so ashamed. Why would I do something this stupid, you ask? I really have no idea. Perhaps it was the rain that made me not want to walk the extra five blocks to King Garden. But, on some level, I think it had something to do with culinary daredevilism. Just try and make me deathly ill, Godlen Dragon! I am impervious to your flagrant health code violations!

Or maybe I just hate myself. I think I'm going to go make myself throw up.

E-NNOYING

Why do people get so pissy if you don't immediately thank them for their birthday "E-cards"? I mean, it takes longer to thank someone for an E-card than it does to send one. As far as gifts go, those things barely count. An E-card is your way of saying "Not only am I not bothering to send you an actual card, I don't find you interesting enough to have a telephone conversation with--happy birthday!"

I mean, thanks and all. But lay off the guilt trips, okay?

In other news, I have nothing interesting to say today. Until I do, take a look around here.

WHERE THE FUCK IS THE HEATMISER WHEN YOU NEED HIM?


In a memorandum dated March 31, 2003 and posted on this site, regarding the unexpected snowfall we "enjoyed" in NYC last week, I told God to go fuck himself. Well, judging by the predictions of up to 8" of fresh snow by day's end today, it seems that God either never received my memo, or that he did receive it and is simply a dick of unimaginable magnitude.

Seriously, God--would you mind getting up off our collective face? Because I can't apeak for everyone, but I know I'm starting to get a little pissed. You want a piece of this, almighty being? Bring it, bitch!

One of my favorite Prince songs (I'm a pretty huge Prince fan, in case I've never mentioned it) is "Sometimes it Snows in April" from the album, Parade. Despite it's laughably "dramatic" placement in the blissfully unwatchable Under the Cherry Moon, it's a fantastic song. If you've heard it before, you know it's quite subtle, performed with a palpable sense of melancholy. But tonight, faced with the prospect of actual snow in April, I have to take issue with The Artsit Formerly Known as The Artist. You see, I spoke to quite a few people last night about the upcoming storm, and I wouldn't describe anyone's feelings on the subject as "melancholy". More like, "What? Snow? Tomorrow?!! Are you fucking...are you fucking kidding me?!!! WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK??!!! IT'S MOTHERFUCKING APRIL!!! GOD DAMN IT!!!!" Therefore, a song enitled "Sometimes it Snows in April" shouldn't be a delicate song of quiet resignation--it should be a balls-out death metal onslaught.

I'm watching the Weather Channel right now. Christ, does this meteorologist dude have a boner for snow. He keeps saying shit like "If you're in the New York City area, the next 18 hours or so should be pretty exciting!" Exciting? EXCITING?

(Find your happy place, Finnegan...don't kill...don't kill...don't kill...)

Anyway, on a more positive note...SARS!

FREE TIME = WASTE-ABLE TIME


Go here. I apologize in advance for the bug-eyes and Carpal Tunnel Syndrome that is sure to follow.

And on the 'passive enjoyment' side of things, check this out.

Hope you're having a pleasant Saturday.

HAVE YOU HEARD THE 'GOOD NEWS'?

You know, people approach me all the time and say, �Christian, you're so charming and self-assured. Just being in your presence makes me realize what a pathetic loser I am. How did you come to be so dazzlingly charismatic? And how can I be more ChristianFinnegan-like in MY daily life?�

Well, it's quite simple, friends. My unyielding sense of purpose comes from my close personal relationship with Alcohol.

And here's the great part: you can have one, too!

If you want to have a closer and more personal relationship with Alcohol, simply ask It to guide you. Ask for wisdom. Look for people who can help you understand Its Word. Most people have a difficult time understanding life's big questions on their own. Questions like "Who am I?", "Why are we here?", and "What if I took a shit right here on this chaise lounge--would anyone notice?".

These are very complicated issues. That's why some people, or �Alcoholics,� have the spiritual gift of teaching. Seek out those people. Learn from them. When a problematic situation arises, ask yourself "What Would Nick Nolte Do?" And if the answer doesn't involve punching, fucking or vomiting on something...well, you're not listening hard enough.

I implore you all: to open your hearts to the eternal bliss that comes from having a personal relationship with Alcohol. You owe it to your friends and loved ones.

AN URGENT MESSAGE FOR ALL BAD COMEDIANS, AD WRITERS AND RUN-OF-THE-MILL DOUCHEBAGS:

Midgets aren't funny.

You may have thought they were at one point, but it's over. They're not funny. No. No, they're not.

BA-BA-BA! Stop it.

TOWER OF HUBRIS: REBORN!

At this point, you�re probably wondering what the fuck you�re looking at. What the hell is this? This isn�t the Tower of Hubris we�ve come to know and tolerate. Where�s that reassuringly bland Blogger template? Yo, fuckbag--exactly what kind of horseshit are you trying to pull?

Well, just as the simple caterpillar blossoms into the glorious butterfly, so has my web presence gone from bare-bones web log to�well, a slightly-more-than-bare-bones website.

So what do you think of the new digs? Pretty sweet, eh? Eventually, this site will have a lot more content�photos, video clips, grandma�s recipes, etc. For now, it�ll just be a place where I can list upcoming appearances and crap like that. It�s all about Google-abilty, folks.

It should be noted that this site has been made possible by Ms. Kambri Crews, who not only provided the inspiration to actually get my shit together and create a web site, she actually did all the actual work, to boot! So any thing you like about the site can be attributed to her and her alone. Say it with me, folks: Thanks, Kambri!

As far as Tower of Hubris goes, things will be pretty much the same, other than the change of template. I hope you continue to check in from time to time.

(By the way, if for whatever reason this site doesn�t look radically different than usual, click here.)

MY SPECIAL DAY

Well, as I mentioned earlier this week, today is Decade 4, Day 1 in the life of Fletcher Christian Finnegan. For those of you too high and/or drunk to decipher that last sentence: today's my 30th birthday.

Nothing to report so far -- as of 3:52am, my 30's feel rather similar to my 20's. No sudden urge to open a rough IRA or wear khakis in a non-office situation. No Volvo. No instantaneously receding hairline. My credit rating? Still in shambles. I think I'm in the clear. Whew!

Wait-wait-all the sudden, I feel an unmistakable urge to visit Ikea.

Uh oh.

Now, I know what you more mature TOH readers are thinking: "What, just because I'm in my 30's, I wear khakis?" And let me clear about this, just so there's no confusion:

Yes. You wear khakis.

Oh, they may not be literal, but trust me - they're there. It is my belief (or fear, really) that when someone turns 30, he/she dons a pair of spiritual khakis, never to remove them. It's nothing major, just a slightly different way of experiencing the world--sure, khakis are plenty comfortable, but it's not like you're going to "roughhouse" in them. My 30's won't be overly stuffy and formal, but all the same, I suspect I'll begin making adjustments in my behavior to ensure that things don't get too messy. You'll see me at indie rock shows and business meetings, but I won't look entirely appropriate at either. I'll be the uptight guy trying to look casual. I'll be the schlub trying to look professional. Khakis.

I know this concept will probably anger a few of you, and for that I apologize. It almost makes me not want to mention that, upon turning 40, you'll all be donning spiritual fannypacks. And when you're 50? Spiritual ear and back hair (for women, spiritual chin hair).

Sorry, folks -- I don't make the rules.

Oh, and by the way--

On the chance there are still a few of you I haven't completely alienated at this point, I want to mention that Tower of Hubris is about go through something of a radical re-birth. It will probably happen either later today or tomorrow. Check back and you'll see what I mean!

(Yes, this is my pathetic little attempt to get some "buzz" going.)

MEMORANDUM


TO: God, supreme ruler of the universe

FROM: Christian Finnegan, homo sapien

DATE: 30 March 2003

RE: The fact that it's currently snowing
_______________________________________________________






Fuck you.





cc: Allah
Buddha
Gaea
Shiva
Great Spirit
Golden Calf
Divine Intelligence

ANOTHER ROUND, PLEASE


I had a few drinks last night. Oh, by the way: for the purposes of this blog entry, the word "few" will represent "15-20". Suffice to say, I got a wee bit tipsy. And after bearing the brunt of last night's all-out liquor assault, my body is staging a major uprising--blurred vision, aching muscles, etc. Only now, 12 hours later, are the details of last night's conversations coming back to me.

I get rather opinionated when I drink. Unfortunately, the more argumentative I get, the less likely the possibility is that I'll be sober enough to form cogent arguments. To quote The Daily Show's Stephen Colbert, "There's a word for that...but, ironically, it escapes me."

Anyway, last night I was really on my game. I think anyone who was there would tell you that I definitely laid the debate smackdown. Here are just a few of the things I cleared up for people last night, while shitfaced:

* Why God is a human construct, designed (and perpetually re-designed) to reinforce ethical standards of conduct specific to every culture and era
* Why Catholicism is evil
* Why, even while being evil, Catholicism is much cooler than Potestantism
* Why hardline Atheists are juvenile
* Why Cuba Gooding Jr. is a tragic figure
* Why, when a woman jokingly asks if she's hot, you should always say yes (even if she's an asshole)
* Why dodgeball should be banned
* Why dodgeball shouldn't be banned
* Why John Ritter's work on Three's Company should be recognized as a modern day extension of "Commedia dell'Arte"
* Why America is ignorant of the rest of the world
* Why America's ignorance of the rest of the world is, in part, a product of simple geography and that we shouldn't necessarily be slammed for that
* Why Jimmy Page was just as influential as Jimi Hendrix
* Why Jimi Hendrix's being left-handed was a monumental factor in the evolution of rock music
* Why nice asses are more important than big tits
* Why George W. Bush is wrong
* Why the protestors are wrong
* Why Saddam is wrong
* Why everyone else at the bar last night was wrong
* Why I am right

I tell you, it was quite an evening.

HELLO, ADULTHOOD--GO FUCK YOURSELF!

On this coming Tuesday, I will turn 30 years old. That means I only have four days left as a 20-something. After that, my poverty and love of alcohol will stop seeming whimsical and poetic. Nope--to be in your 30's and still be living like I do? The word for that is "pathetic", kids.

I'm actually looking forward to my 30's. Whenever I'd imagine being an adult when I was a young tot, I'd always imagine being 32. Yep, 25 was when I'd be at my "coolest" and 32 was when I'd become whoever the hell I was going to be for the rest of my life. I guess that means I have another two years to be a complete washout, which is a nice little cushion.

It's weird, though to think that I'll never again by in my 20's. I mean, I've been in my 20's for, like, ten years! There are so many things I'll never do again. I'll never again have that feeling of exhilaration and possibility that you had upon graduateing college. I'll never again know how it feels to play basketball for more than 45 minutes and wake up the next day feeling spry and uninjured. I'll never again know how it feels to walk into a temp agenc--

Um, strike that last one.

Fuck.

INTERNOT

I kind of mentioned this last week, but I want to give a brief eulogy for the internet. Remember when the Web actually meant something? When our lives were going to be completely different because of it? All the sites that actually offered something semi-useful or exciting have gone the way of the dodo. Pseudo.com? Dead--now, if I want to see uneducated hipsters bitching about politics, I have to turn on public access television. Kozmo.com? Kaput--these days, I actually have to leave my house in order to rent my favorite "Ernest" movies. How pre-1995 is that? Amazon.com? A shell of its former self.

When you get right doiwn to it, there's only one industry that is still going strong on the internet. Yes, that's right: porn. It's gotten to the point where you can buy fucking opera tickets online, and the next day you'll get a spam Email that reads "CLICK HERE FOR HOT PAVORATTI GANGBANG PHOTOS!"

That's why it always makes me laugh when people still talk about getting the buying the fastest computer on the market. Because when you brag about getting an incredibly fast computer, you're essentially saying "I am an extremely impatient masturbator. I am a man on the go--I don't have time wait around for downloads and buffering! I needed that blowjob mpeg yesterday!!"

We should just get rid of all the standard computer terminology--"megabytes", "RAM", etc. From now on, computers should be judged one basis and one basis only: Tits-Per-Minute. That way, you can just walk into Circuit City and ask...

CUSTOMER: Excuse me, sir. How fast is this computer?

SALESMAN: Oh, this unit is top of the line--1500 Tits-Per-Minute!

CUSTOMER: Wow, 1500 TPMs? That's amazing. And how much memory does it have?

SALESMAN: An entire Giga-snatch.



Five years from now, everyone will be throwing "Tits-Per-Minute" and "Giga-snatch" around. But you can say that you read them here first. Lucky you.

GOOD MORNING!


Something to ponder: By 11am this morning, someone somewhere will already have talked shit about you!

Suck on that, optimists.

(Addendums: If you work in an office, at least two people will have bitched about you. And if you're a stand up comic, the number of people who'll be starting off thier day by 'hating' on you goes up to five, but the cut-off time gets pushed back to 1pm--comedians tend to sleep later, you see.)

As I'm sure you're all aware, The Oscars aired this past Sunday. It's way too late at night (early, really) for me to want to dissect the evening--other than Michale Moore's genuinely ballsy but typically egocentric acceptance speech, it was the normal parade of trite horseshit "sincerity" and tired Bruce Villanche one-liners. The ceremony ran for 3.5 hours but, if you can believe it, there were actually a bunch of major awards that were given out but didn't make the final broadcast. I thought it might be nice to give these winners their due*, so without any further hoopla...


A FEW LESSER KNOWN ACADEMY AWARDS


ACHIEVEMENT IN MEGAPLEX CANDY SELECTION
Winner: Loews Porter Square 16, Cambridge, MA

BEST GRIP
Winner: Rob Jarvis, The Dangerous Yet Misunderstood Creature

NOT-SO-ORIGINAL SCORE
Winner: John Williams, Raiders of the Extra Terrestrial Star Wars

ACHIEVEMENT IN SMELL DESIGN
Winner: Arthur Lampley and Marie St. Gardin, Kennel Club

BEST MENTALLY RETARDED PERFORMANCE BY A NON-RETARDED ACTOR
Winner: Sir David Macallum, The Journey of Gary

BEST NON-RETARDED PERFORMANCE BY A MENTALLY RETARDED ACTOR
Winner: Wendell Pritchard, King Lear

ACHIEVEMENT IN �PRESCRIPTION� DRUG SUPPLY
Winner: Dr. Stanley Kaskewitz, personal physician to Nick Nolte

BEST LUDICROUS INCLUSION OF A �NO NUDITY� CLAUSE
Winner: Venus Hardknockers, Sorority Gangbang Sluts, Vol. VII

MOST GRATUITOUS DISPLAY OF OWN ASS
Winner: George Clooney, Solaris

BEST LANDLORD / TENANT VOYEUR SURVEILLANCE VIDEO
Winner: Jorge Reyes, Shower, Apt. 4G

ACHIEVMENT IN BUTTON-PUSHING DOCUMENTARY
Winner: Tristan Farnham, Subjugation: The Untold History of Black, Homosexual, Pro-Choice, Vietnam-Protesting Holocaust Survivors

BEST OFF-SET SEX SCENE
Winner: Colin Farrell & Anonymous Female Production Assistant, prop trailer

BEST ORIGINAL SCREENPLAY BASED ON THE LIFE OF BOB SEGER
Winner: William Goldman, Night Moves in Katmandu


* Yes, this is pretty much the same thing I did for The Grammys, back on 2/24/03.

TOWER OF HUBRIS: ONE YEAR AND COUNTING

One year ago today, March 23rd, I started this blog. What started as a silly forum for dick jokes and drunken rambling has, over time, evolved into...a very sophisticated forum for dick jokes and drunken rambling. Here is a selcted week-by-week overview of some of the topics covered in Tower of Hubris, Year I:

* Poopie
* Ivan Drago
* My desire to not be punched in the face
* Joe Ezterhas's 'Morning Pages'
* "Existentialicious", the new Jean Paul Satre musical
* The poetry of Pryce Martinez
* Kenny Loggins' appearance at Pudgie's BBQ and Civic Centre in Columbus, GA
* Actor Steven Dorff vs. Tim Conway's "Dorf"
* The unfortunate skirt-over-pants fashion trend
* What your favorite album says about you
* Rejected High Times story ideas
* The Mike Norton saga
* Why The World Cup can blow me
* Worst songs to have sex to
* Captain Tries-Too-Hard and Platonic Sleepoever Girl
* Dio and the unfortunate dearth of 'Wizard Rock'
* The "Nestle's $100,000 Bar" jingle
* Funderdinement
* "Sorority Life" haiku
* CSYVSBLE!!! (Considering Stalking You Via Subtle 'Buddy List' Espionage!!!)
* Why American women like to fuck Europeans
* Escalator etiquette
* Bajillions, Snorklers and Chris O'Donnell
* Jennifer Capriati's unfortunate face
* The Peripheral Superstar Aptitude Test
* Fashion Week
* Over and under-referenced 80's pop songs
* Recent additions to the nine rings of hell
* "Boo-yaa"
* The new Smiths song, "Sniper, Sniper"
* Words of wisdom from David Lee Roth
* The fact that one of my armpits is markedly less hairy than the other one
* Les Oogues
* The 'Dance Threshold'
* Kikko-mania
* The subtle alchemy of Mix Taping
* Mentally retarded people wearing leather pants
* Secret Secret Santa
* Acid wash togas and "Kiss the Messiah" BBQ aprons
* "Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer"--the very sound of Down Syndrome
* Making out to Black Sabbath's "War Pigs"
* Anti-Christianfinneganism
* Production assistants gone wild
* Chet Van Orr, 80's movie asshole-for-hire
* The case against Sting
* Sbarro's
* My ongoing commitment to acne
* The $100 Blow-Your-Landlord challenge
* Overwrought R&B Performance, Male
* The Seattle Asian Dudes
* People who adopt movie catchphrases as their own
* Nostalgia for The Future

Nope, not a whole lot of emotional growth. But I can say I'm genuinely proud of at least 19% of what's been posted on this site. I'd like to sincerely thank you all for taking time out of your precious work procrastination schedule to check in here from time to time--I hope you will continue to do so.

Thanks, fuckers!

GETTING MY WARTIME PRIORITIES STRAIGHT

Thank god this war started, as I've been in desperate need of a new justification for not going to the gym. After a year and a half, my whole "9/11 Trauma" excuse was starting to feel a bit silly. But now, I can once again sit in my apartment on a beautiful Saturday afternoon and watch television without guilt--so long as I flip over to CNN at least twice an hour. I mean, how can I think of doing anything so vain and pointless as spending 20 minutes on a treadmill when our nation is at war? Nope, far better to do something truly noble...like eat seven entire bags of Cheese Doodles and pound a two-liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

YES, ANOTHER CHEAP PROMOTION FOR MY GODDAMN COMEDY SHOW!


Friends,

Those of you attended last week's installment of Portable Comedy at the Gerswhin Hotel know that it was a fantastic show. The comics were all great, the audience was appreciative and fun was had by all. But I want to be very clear about this, ladies and gentleman: last week's show in no way constituted the "Shock and Awe" portion of the Portable Comedy run.

Many of you may not recall that, when Portable Comedy returned from its recent hiatus a couple of weeks ago, I forcasted a level of hilarity that would "shock and awe" comedy fans all over the New York metropolitan area. Of course, this was always meant to be a step-by-step process. Two weeks ago marked the "Mild Surprise and General Amusement" phase of Portable Comedy--quite an understatement, considering that the capacity crowd was treated to a surprise guest appearance by Comedy Central megastar Dave Chappelle. And last week's show, fantastic as it was, was still only the "Well, I'll Be!" phase of our run. But tonight, March 21st?

Shock and awe, my friends. Shock and awe.

So tear yourself away from the "fair and balanced" reporting of the Fox News Jingo Patrol and laugh your Star Spangled fanny off, with:

JONATHAN CORBETT (Comedy Central's "Premium Blend" and Montreal Comedy Festival alum and, simply put, one of the best comics in NYC)

OPHIRA EISENBERG (She's appeared on "The Guardian", "Queer as Folk" and had her own comedy special on Canadian TV's "Comedy Now!")

JORDAN CARLOS (A regular at world-famous Caroline's comedy club, where you have to pay lots and lots of dollars to see him. Not tonight, though.)

PEGGY O'BRIEN (Co-creator of "The Rules of Engagement", the short film that became a web sensation. See it at www.peggyandsteve.com!)

TOM McCAFFREY (This guy has been tearing up the NYC comedy scene lately. He's good good good.)

Plus, the glorious, fun filled and freewheeling music and comedy of BECKY & NOELLE!

You don't remember the where and when, you say? Attendez-vous:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, MARCH 21st
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
$5.00, I tell you!

Come on out and enjoy tonight's show, boys and girls. You won't be sorry.


Christian Finnegan,
Chairman, Joint Chiefs of Funny

PURE SILLINESS, FROM ME TO YOU

Hey, you! Stop checking CNN.com to see just how much horse poop we're wading into! I'm not feeling too funny/enlightened today, so I'll simply steer you over to these various timewaters:



For you super cool teenage girls, here's a fun site...that just happens to be funded by the National Cattleman's Beef Association.

Here's my friend Chelsea's very entertaining Amazon wishlist.


I think I've posted this site before, but Hoogerbrugge is always fascinating and bizarre.

And speaking of bizarre, check out Superbad--just go to the site and start clicking on shit. It's kind of mesmerizing.

Oh, and how could I possibly forget: Ladies and Gentlemen, the worst poem of all time.

(sigh)


So it looks like we'll be at war as of tomorrow evening. The threat of terrorism will only get worse over the next few weeks. Gas prices are at an all-time high for the U.S. Our economy is in the shitter with absolutely no sign of getting better.

It's getting to the point where I'm nostalgiac for the future. But not "The Future" as we know it now--I'm talking about the "Future" we all thought lay ahead of us five years ago. Remember 1998? When we all thought the economy was going to keep on growing until the end of time? When, if you didn't already have one, you were right on the verge of landing a $75G per year job writing "online content" for some ultra-hip dot com that was going to change the way we all shopped / thought / ate / fucked / existed? When the worst thing you feared finding out about our President was that he liked having his balls played with while being blown? Those were the days.

I want my old future back. This future can suck my cock.

IRISH EYES ARE SMILING

Apparently, the woman behind the counter at Rite Aid is Irish today. She was wearing a button that told me so. Incidentally, I was Black for the entire month of February.

It has become obvious to me that it is 100% impossible for anyone under the age of 65 not involved in politics or the clergy to discuss St. Patrick's Day for more than 45 seconds without mentioning drinking. Seriously, try it on someone.

Oh, and one quick thing: hearing people brag about getting blasted on St. Patrick's Day is pathetic, but even more pathetic is the guy who declares "Getting wasted on St. Patrick's Day is for amateurs! This is my one night off, man!"

Right, of course. Because you drink so much. You're extremely cool.

LLLLLLLLET'S GET READY TO BUMBLLLLLE!



So it appears that we will be going to war tomorrow, if the U.N. doesn't agree to pose a non-negotiable Bitchslap Ultimatum (yes, that is the legal term, if I'm not mistaken) to Saddam by "end of business". Tomorrow being March 17th, of course. Something tells me this isn't the first time G.W. will have done something incredibly stupid on St. Patrick's Day. Of course, no one's life was at stake when Dubya got wasted on green beer and blow and decided to take a dump in daddy's Vice Presidential slippers back on St. Patrick's Day 1981.

I for one feel pretty convinced that going to "war" with Iraq (on Iraq is probably more like it), will prove to be a huge blunder. No matter how many times G. W. and his crips try to convince me that Saddam Hussein is a genocidal maniac on the verge of dragging the world into Armageddon, I just don't feel personally threatened. I'm not saying the guy's not a douche (and a geuinely murderous one at that), it's just that I have a hard time taking Saddam completely seriously. Maybe it's because he looks so much like my Super. I mean, this guy's supposed to building weapons of mass destruction? Give me a break--it took him guy three weeks just to fix the damn shower head! How's he supposed to be wreaking global havoc when he spent the entire afternoon sitting on a milk crate outside of the bodega across the street, drinking Georgi vodka straight from the plastic bottle? What am I supposed to believe he was doing out there, plotting doomsday scenarios?

Please.

L MOTHERFUCKING V

Okay, so here are the highlights, lowlights and a few general observations from my trip to Las Vegas:

* The comedy shows themselves were a real struggle but, ultimately, a success. As to be espected, the audiences consisted of: old men, old women, lots of people wearing clothes with American flags on them (hats, t-shirts, vests, jean shorts), people staying at the Riviera for the World Bingo Equipment Trade Fair (no, I'm not joking), more old men, and still more old women. The problem is, there were also a good number of Spring Breakers at each show and as you might imagine, a 78 year old from Boca in town to play the nickel slots and a 20 year old undergrad in town to drink as many free beers as he can get his hands on have slightly different senses of humor. An encapsulating moment: I made an "off-the-cuff" remark about nearly tea-bagging a front row audience member--the group of drunken Penn State business majors went nutty (not so much laughing, as high-fiving and whoooooo-ing in approval), while the ancient biddy with the pearl eyeglass chain looks over to her dozing husband and very audibly 'whispers' "What is he talking about?"

That said, I actually did pretty well.

* Across the hall from the comedy club was the "Crazy Girls" topless revue. I was able to poke my head in (no pun intended) and watch part of the show one night and I can safely say that the "crazy" girls were mildy disturbed at best. I will never understadn the appeal of the Las Vegas topless revue. If you want to see a show, go see a show. If you want to see tits, go see tits. But why the fuck would you want to drop $50 a ticket to watch six saline-infused twits doing a kickline to Madonna's "Express Yourself"? F that, yo.

* I played a lot of Blackjack. A lot. Blackjack is an interesting game in that you spend a good deal of time sitting at a table "socializing" with people you'd probably want nothing to do with in real life--chain smoking former Allman Brothers groupies, morbidly obese dudes wearing denim pirate shirts, etc. Worst of all, though, is the "funny" gambler. This is the guy with stale jokes for every possible Blackjack situation. Such as:

"Hey there, buddy, sit on down before the seat gets too cold!"

"Hey [dealer's name], take it easy on me!"

"Okay, [dealer's name], you've been taking our money long enough--time for us to take some of yours!"

"Give me a six...hey, I thought I told you to give me a six!"

"Ooo, eleven! Looks like I'm about to double my fun!"

"You don't like me too much, do you, [dealer's name]? I mean, look at this--another sixteen! You're killing me, here!"

And Gimbot, our dealer, is staring out into space, desperately trying to stop himself from cramming a rack of poker ships down Mr. Funny Gambler's throat. Think about, he's just seen this asshole lay down more money than his family back in Bangladesh sees in an entire year, and now he's looking for sympathy? What a douche.

* Going into my last day, I was only down $25. Considering that I'd played hours upon hours of Blackjack, ordered perhaps a dozen free drinks, and consistently tipped the waitresses and dealers, I was in pretty great goddamn shape. But then I woke up on Thursday and quickly blew $30. Then, between Comedy Show #1 and Comedy Show #2, I lost another $30. But this was no matter. Because, you see, I was going to be pulling an all-nighter, which would give me plenty of time to win back all my money--in fact, I'd even make some money! Well...it didn't quite go down that way. When I finally slumped back to my hotel room to pack and check out, it was 5:15am and I was down $180.

* Now, I know that $180 isn't a whole lot of money in the grand scheme of things, but what really stung was my consequent trip to the ATM, where I had one of those holy-shit-this-can't-be-right-surely-the-bank-must-have-fucked-up moments. This happens to me far too often, where the simple act of checking my account balance becomes an utterly soul-crushing experience. I then proceed to call the bank and, with righteous indignance in my voice, verbally assault some poor customer service representative for losing hundreds (nay, thousands) of my hard-earned dollars. But then, after having my various expenditures read off to me in painstaking detail, I come back to the same sad conclusion: the bank is always right. Well, maybe not "right", but correct.

Alright, I guess that's all for now. Vegas was fun, but I'm glad as fuck to be home.

WASTING MORE MONEY!

Hey there, winners. I have 50 seconds left on the 10 dollars I put into this bullshit machine, so I'll just say this:

SUCK IT!

Back to you, Jim.

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SIN CITY SOJOURN

Later this morning, I leave for a five day trip to sunny Las Vegas, where I will be doing stand-up comedy and trying my best not to lose the $312.57 I have to my name. Here are some other things I will try to avoid doing whilst in The Town Wayne Newton Built:

* At no point in my trip will I utter the words "Vegas, baby!" Now, I love the movie Swingers as much as the next 25-35 year old male. But I do so hate it when people take movie catchphrases and start tossing them around, as if they're their own personal sayings. This basically happens with any movie that's even remotely quotable, a la Pulp Fiction ("I'm gonna go medieval on your ass"). Is there anything more hateful then hearing someone bellow "Oh, behave!" in a shitty cockney accent and then breaking into aren't-I-hilarious laughter? It chills the blood.

* I will make a deliberate attempt to not get married.

* I will not develop Gambler's Ego. I have absolutely no business coming anywhere near a $25 Minimum blackjack table. Period. I simply have to accept that my place is at the shitty $2 tables, along with the octogenarian, fannypack-clad women and down and out mulletheads. Sad, but true.

* I will not wink knowingly to myself every time I see something kitschy. I'm sure there will be some stuff I'll definitely want to comment on, but trying to act "above" Las Vegas is a loser's battle. It's Las Vegas. It's cheesy. Get past it.

* I will not hang out on the casino floor simply to take advantage of the free drinks...I will not hang out on the casino floor simply to take advantage of the free drinks...I will not hang out on the casino floor simply to take advantage of the free drinks... (Repeat until it starts to sound believable.)

Anyway, I'm thinking there should be a computer somewhere on the premesis of The Riviera Hotel & Casino, so I'll try and file a report tomorrow.

FIVE STARS!

Last night I had the distinct pleasure of watching a bit of the new "Star Search", hosted by Arsenio Hall. First of all, what the fuck is up with Arsenio's hair these days? It looks like he's wearing a shower cap covered with chihuahua turds. Think about it: every morning, Arsenio looks at himself in the mirror and says "Yeah...perfect!" It's quite obvious the man lost some sort of wager. And if I'm not mistaken, that wager was made in 1991 and went something like "I'll bet I'm that, in ten years, I'm the biggest thing in late night television history. And, if I'm wrong, I'll walk around in public with tiny wringlets of poop dangling from my scalp!"

Aw, fuck. I have a lot more to say about "Star Search", but I just looked up and realized I'm late for my Brazilian bikini wax appointment. I'll have to keep on with this tomorrow morning. Oh well.

I will, just say this: there was a moment on last night's "Star Search" when Naomi Judd exclaimed "I just love tap dancing--especially when it's done by Whites!"

No, I'm not kidding. More later.

PORTABLE COMEDY IS REBORN!

The following is the promotional Email I just sent out to (what's left of) my mailing list. If you're in NYC tonight and feel like having a great time on the cheap, you should definitely read on. And if you want to get on the mailing list, drop a quick note to PortableComedy@aol.com. Thanks, sexy mofos.


Hello, dear friends.

Admit it--these past three weeks have been rather gloomy. Brutal Winter weather, the world on the brink of Armageddon, and (most importantly) the seeming end of Portable Comedy at The Gerswhin Hotel.

Well, kind people, I can't do anything about the neverending snowfall or this wacky I-raq situation, but I do have some damn fine news: PORTABLE COMEDY IS BACK, AS OF TONIGHT! That's right--Friday, March 7th!

Before I get to the ridiculously great lineup we have in store for you, I need to mention one thing. You may have noticed that the 'sender' address of this Email has changed since last I wrote to you. That's because, in the three weeks since Portable Comedy temporaily bid the world adieu, my mailing list..well, simply put, it shit the bed. I have reconstructed it as best I can, but I am still missing at least a couple hundred Email addresses. Therefore, if you know ANYONE who might be interested in receiving one (and just one) weekly promotional Email regarding Portable Comedy, please encourage him/her to drop me a line at PortableComedy@aol.com. Conversely, if you have asked to be taken off this list and for some reason have now found yourself back on it, simply drop me an Email with the words "PLEASE REMOVE" in the subject heading. My sincere apologies for the hassle.

With that out of the way, let's get to the important stuff. Please join me tonight at 10:00pm and enjoy the comedic stylings of:

NEAL BRENNAN (Neal's the head writer and executive producer of "Chappelle's Show" on Comedy Central. Impressive, no?)

EUGENE MIRMAN (He's appeared on "Late Night with Conan O'Brien" and Comedy Central's "Premium Blend", winners!)

DAN CRONIN (He's ALSO appeared on both "Late Night with Conan O'Brien" and Comedy Central's "Premium Blend"--yep, this show's that good.)

BECKY DONAHUE (Giving the show a good burst of estrogen, Becky's the editor-in-chief of Girlcomic.net and yet another "Premium Blend" alum.)

JOHNNY SPANISH (You may recognize Johnny from his many appearances on HBO's "Oz"--as far as I know, he never had to get naked.)

ROGER HAILES (You can see this MTV staff writer steering the ship at Boston Comedy Club every monday night.)

RUSTY WARD (In addition to his many duties bringing comedy to the various United States of this America, Rusty's also a regular columnist for Shecky Magazine.)

And, of course, here are the details:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, MARCH 7th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street (b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
STILL, $5.00!

I hope to see some of you at tomorrow night's show, the first installment of Portable Comedy, Mach II. You'll have a great goddamn time--I promise!


Sincerely,

Christian Finnegan,
Vice President, Winger fan club

BUSY BEE

I'm running around in a rather manic state today, so I don't have time to construct a proper blog entry. Still, I think you'll enjoy this. And this.

And you should definitely check out this interview with my good friend Miss Tammy Faye Starlite, one of the most talented people I've ever met.

Oh, and one more thing: My stand up comedy show, Portable Comedy returns tomorrow night after a three week hiatus! Stay tuned later today or first thing tomorrow morning for details!

THE FONZIE SCHEME

It's no secret that I'm fast becoming a very popular and beloved figure around NYC. Therefore, I would like to institute a new policy with regards to my personal appearances. From here on in, whenever I enter a room I would like to hear ten seconds of screams and applause, a la Fonzie. Once the applause dies down, I will say something hilarious and pithy.

It will play out like this:

INT. COMEDY CLUB LOBBY - NIGHT

A large group of comedians and industry folk chat affably, laughing, shaking hands, etc. FINNEGAN enters.

FINNEGAN: Heeyyyyyy... (Ten seconds of deafening screams and applause from studio audience) That's right, folks--your crown prince of hilarity is here!

FINNEGAN strusts through the lobby and into the showroom as everyone stares, dumbfounded

CLUB OWNER: Who the fuck was that?

Crowd shrugs, goes back to chatting.

______________________________


Or, this:

INT. MALACHY'S IRISH PUB - DAY

The BARTENDER and WAITRESS are casually removing stools from the bar

BARTENDER: Did you marry the ketchup bottles yet?

WAITRESS: I'll get to it. I just want to wipe down the tables first.

BARTENDER: Well, don't forget.

FINNEGAN barges through the front door.

FINNEGAN: Heeyyyyyyy! (Ten solid seconds of roaring applause.) Sorry ladies, whiskey's my bitch tonight!

Laughter

BARTENDER: Um, we're not open yet.

WAITRESS: Fer Chrissake, it's only 10:15am.

FINNEGAN: Well, you know what they say: The early bird avoids getting the shakes!

BARTENDER: You're going to have to leave, sir.

WAITRESS: You should really consider taking a shower sometime soon.

______________________________


Or finally, this:


INT. RED PONY XXX VIDEO STORE

CLERK #2 carries a mop and bucket up to the counter, where CLERK #1 is standing.

CLERK #1: Did you finish mopping the peep show area?

CLERK #2: Yeah. It took almost an hour, but i'm finally done. Let's hope that guy never--

FINNEGAN busts through front door, carrying a large bottle of baby oil and a cucumber.

FINNEGAN: HEEYYYYYY! (Roaring applause, interrupted)

CLERK #1: No! NO NO NO! Not again! Get out, sir! Get out of our store!

FINNEGAN: B-b-but I'm in the mood for love!

CLERK #2, screaming in terror, hits FINNEGAN in the face with wet mop. CLERK #1 beats FINNEGAN over the head with large dildo.

CLERK #1: Never again! Never! Never! NEVER!!


And...scene.

AMERICA'S LEAST SUCCESSFUL PROFESSIONAL SPORTS FRANCHISES



The San Diego Poo

The Dover 3-Hole Punchers

The Charlotte Fingerbang

The Harford Trust Fund Douchebag Art History Majors

The Denver Brie

The New Jersey Racists

The Honolulu Domestic Partnerships

The Birmingham Radicchio Salad with Goat Cheese and Basalmic Vinagrettes

The Oklahoma Terminally Ill Homeless Children

The Akron Pi

The Minnesota Homosexual Panic

The Salt Lake City Latter Day Cum Sluts

The Seattle Asian Dudes

I wasn't going to write anything today, as I just got home for a rather suck-ass weekend of comedy in glorious Albany, NY. But Blogger seems to be going haywire, so I guess I'll just write some shit to see if it's working.

Okay, so here we go--some random pieces of dialogue from unrelated and nonexistent stories. If there's one people particularly like, maybe I'll actually write a short story around it.

"Who the hell ate all the Bacon Bits?!"

"If I've told you once, I've told you a thousdand times--Wookies have male and female genitalia."

"Um...anyone got a tourniquet handy?"

"Drop and give me twenty, Hume Cronyn!"

"Red 29! Red 29! Hut! Hut! Snuggle! Snuggle! Cuddle! Nuzzle! HIKE!"

"Calzone salesman, my ass--you're having an affair!"

"Man, if I had a dollar for every time I dropped my pants in this mall..."

"Lay off it, monsignor--if I wanted to blow my nose, I'd have done it already, capiche?

I AM A TRENDSETTER

Okay, allow me to be the first to say:

Fuck Bello.