INTERVIEWWW

So I'm doing a show this weekend at the College of Staten Island Center for the Performing Arts. Please, hold your applause. Perhaps fittingly, it's part of the "Nobodies of Comedy" tour. It's one of those fancy "theater" shows, which are always the most gratifying--no attention-starved accountants shouting things out from the audience, no bachelor parties, no one settling up with the waitress in the middle of your set. Theater shows are the rare times when a stand up comic gets to feel like an "artist", rather than a Birthday Party Facillitator.

Earlier today, I did a telephone interview with a very pleasant young woman from The Staten Island Advance, who's writing a little article about the show. Now don't get the wrong idea, here--no one's seeking me out, personally. It's not as if reporters and opinionmakers are chomping at the bit for the sure-to-be-hilarious "Christian Finnegan" angle on current events. But every so often, a comic gets booked for a show that involves promoting the show via some sort of telephone interview--I've done maybe four or five in my life. So what have I learned from doing this a few times? That I suck royally at giving interviews.

Going into this sort of thing, you can count on the person interviewing you having absolutely no idea who you are, save what can be learned from your paragraph-long bio. That is, of course, assuming she/she has had time to read it. So that sets up this sort of awkward feeling of being simultaneously important ("Wow, I've being interviewed by a newspaper!") and utterly insignificant ("Um, no--I've never done Letterman. Nope, never done The Tonight Show, either. Conan? That would be a no.")

I always cringe when I see a comedian working obvious "jokes" into an interview, a la Robin Williams (someone kill him, please). But after reading a couple of my "interviews" in print (anyone see me in the June issue of Massive Douchebag Weekly?), I've learned that you have to be a little bit funny. After all, you're supposed to be a comedian, fer chrissake, and the whole point of doing the interview is to get butts into seats. I always find myself more concerned with flaunting my not-really-so-impressive vocabulary ("Indeed, this weekend's show at Professor Kooky's will represent a radical departure from the soporific paradigm of blah blah blah blah blah..."). I guess, as in all things, moderation is the key.

Pathetic as it sounds, I think I need to develop a few pat answers to the questions every single reporter (and by "reporter", I mean high school intern) asks, such as "How did you get into comedy?", "Where do you see yourself in ten years", and the most dreaded of all questions, "How would you describe your brand of comedy?"

Well, here are a few standard answers I've been considering to those very questions:

Q: HOW DID YOU GET INTO COMEDY?

* Comedy is just a way of breaking into the lucrative catering industry.

* I entered a contest in college and was voted "Mr. No Dignity 1997".

* Well, I think you'd be surprised by how much a childhood's worth of "bad touching" by an uncle can help you see the funny side of life.


Q: WHERE DO YOU SEE YOURSELF IN TEN YEARS?

* Snorting coke off of Colin Farrell's dick.

* Setting fire to government buildings and basically "fucking up the system", yo. By the way, did I mention that I also write poetry?

* On your couch.


Q: HOW WOULD YOU DESCRIBE YOUR BRAND OF COMEDY?

* Well, you've heard of Michael Winslow, right?

* My comedy is the product of an infinite number of monkeys jerking off onto an infinite number of typewriters.

* I would describe my act as: Jerry Seinfeld meets Groucho Marx meets Designing Women meets Pokemon meets Leeza Gibbons meets Charlamagne meets Pete Seeger meets Excel spreadsheets meets Baby Jessica meets retarded biker gangs meets Julius and Ethel Rosenberg meets the Puerto Rican Day Parade meets SIDS meets a donut. But with more of an "edge".

Superstardom, here I come.

F#G{PEJ%)@_HJIHAUY$*)&)%_!!!

No time for hilarity today. But in the meantime:

Some funny (in a semi-sad kind of way) cartoons.

A very simple, yet mesmerizing, optical illusion thingy.

A few worthwhile rules for living.

Now, I posted this many, many months ago, but it really does merit another look. Truly genius.

And finally, speaking of Jesus, something you should keep in mind.

IT'S ALL ABOUT THE BEER


There's a new Heineken ad that started airing a week or so ago, and it's been really pissing me off. In it, there's a commerical-within-a-commerical thing going on, where they show a "typical" beer commerical being shot on the rooftop of a city apartment building, with scantily clad chicks bouncing up and down and Andrew W.K.-esque music blasting in the background. There's a director dude yelling for the women to "show some skin", etc. Then, the camera pulls back to a rooftop across the street, where a white dude and a black dude (the kind you might believe would hang out with white hipsters), scoff at what they're seeing and return to their own party, a smattering of racially amorphous hipper-than-thou models, who are sipping Heinkeken and casually grooving to some paint-by-numbers "New Soul" jam. This is what life is really all about, man.

Then, the part that pisses me off the most: across the screen flash the words, "The Reality Check". Oh, fuck you.

If you want to see the commercial for yourself, you can go here, scroll down a bit and click on the picture.

So let's take the first part first: the scantily clad chick, loud music thing. I'm always disgusted (and grudgingly impressed) by how the advertisiting industry, like MTV, is willing to cannibalize itself. This silly beer advertisement has the sheer nards to posit itself "above" using jiggling tits and hard rock to sell its product. But who created those fucking stereotypes in the first place? Beer advertisements. So, they're essentially saying, "Hey, you know that image of 'coolness' we've spent the last twenty years trying to cram down your throat? Well, if you bought into it, you're a douchebag."

When I was googling the ad, I actually came upon this review which made me even more angry. Either this jackhole is a paid employee of Heineken, or we as a nation have absolutely no critical thinking skills. This chick is actually praising the commercial for going against tits-n-rock grain, without ever acknowledging that they're indirectly responsible for the grain in the fucking first place. It's akin to when MTV rags on Vanilla Ice and Gerardo, without ever mentioning the fact that these "losers'" careers were manufactured entirely by MTV. I think I ranted about this trend a few months ago, so I'll just leave it be.

But one more thing: The three blond chicks mugging to the camera during the commerical-within-a-commerical part are those triplets who are currently dating (and by "dating", I mean "appearing in photo shoots with") Hugh Hefner. So it was obviously important to Heinken that there be some hot and semi(and I stress semi)-famous tail in the commerical, otherwise they would have just hired any skank off the street. Well, if you have Playboy centerfolds bouncing around in your commerical, even for the purposes of "ironic critique", you officially forfeit the moral high ground. You can't have that shit both ways.

But it's the whole "Reality Check" nonsense that gets under my skin. Apparently, hanging out with a bunch of Lenny Kravitz lookalikes and Asian-ish fashion models in baby-tees qualifies as "reality". If they wanted to portray a real roof party, they would have shown 25 dudes and 3 women, two of whom would be married. The one single chick would be 80-120 pounds overweight and have a nose covered in sunblock, but that wouldn't stop three or four guys from trying to hook up with her, anyway. There might be one Black guy in attendance (a work friend, probably), but he'd spend the entire time looking at his watch and trying to avoid doing that stupid "soul brother" handshake/chest-bump thing with various White guys in need of cultural validation.

Oh, and there'd definitely be some puke somewhere. That's reality.

GET TO KNOW ME

You know, I've been maintaining Tower of Hubris for coming up on a year and a half now, and it occurred to me that I mention very little about my family life. That's why I thought I'd take this opportunity to introduce you all to my dad.

If you see him on the street, feel free to go right on up and say hi!

A POP QUIZ

Premium Blend is:

A) A wonderful television show that airs on Comedy Central and features the best new voices in comedy.

B) A pretty big damn deal, if you're the kind of person who pays attention to the World O' Funny.

C) The objective sign of "progress" that allows an annual batch of comedians to unashamedly ask their parents for yet another loan.

D) The TV show my immigrant landlady once happened to see me on, leading her to mistakenly believe that I'm a big star who hangs out with Regis Philbin and Mr. T.

The answer is, of course, all of the above. Why do I bring this up, you ask? Well, this year's live "Premium Blend" tapings are set to take place next week, here in NYC. In celebration of this joyous event, and in order to help them prepare, I'll be welcoming no less than FOUR of this year's bumper crop to the PORTABLE COMEDY stage tonight, August 1st! So please come on out and support some excellent wonderful comics as they get ready for one of the biggest nights of their professional careers. Appearing on both the Gershwin stage and "The Blend" will be:

JESSI KLEIN
RUSTY WARD
TOM McCAFFREY
and JAMES PATTERSON

But wait, that's not all! Filling out this sure-to-be-wicked-awesome show will be:

BECKY DONAHUE (a "Premium Blend" alumnae)
ANTHONY DeVITO
and SUSANNAH PERELMAN

This is gonna be a good one, folks--don't miss it! Here are the specifics:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, AUGUST 1st
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison Ave)
10:00pm
$7.00

Attendez-vous!


Christian Finnegan,
puppetmaster

DUH...

And now, the answer to the question that has gripped the TOH readership for almost 26 hours: Did I or did I not shave my head?

Well folks, the answer is a definitive..."sort of". I chickened out of going the whole shaving-cream-and-razor route. There are a couple of reasons for this: 1) I've done it before and I'm inevitably left with little nicks and cuts all over my head, which is none too attractive, and 2) my skull is very Linus-esque, with all sorts of strange lumps and contours--again, not too attractive. But yeah, it's pretty much all gone--it looks like I shaved it clean a couple of weeks ago and it's started to grow back in.

So now, if humanly possible, I look even more like a meathead than I usually do. I tell you, it's difficult being so unspeakably brilliant* whilst simultaneously looking so ungodly stupid**. Of course, it's this fear of people thinking I'm a moron that leads me to insert words like "whilst" into everyday conversation. I also tend to reference "smart people" shit in public (e.g., "The situation in Liberia reminds me slightly of Milton's Paradise Lost, in that blah blah blah blah blah..."), even though I spend most of my free time drinking warm beer and playing MLB Slugfest 2003.

So, if you happen to see some fuzzy-headed clod lumbering down the street self-consciously quoting Baudelaire, it just might be me.


* Yes, that's sarcasm
** Yes, that's the complete and utter truth

JANE'S UPDATE

Some of you may recall that, on July 13th, I devoted a number of paragraphs to my desperate fear that Strays, the new Jane's Addiction album, would suck donkey dick. If you have any interest in this sort of thing, you can scroll down and check out the entry titled "Summertime Rolls". Well, I have given the new album a number of listens and I can now declare that Strays is not terrible. There are even a few songs I would call "really great". But is it the life-altering aural experience I was hoping for (despite knowing it couldn't possibly be)? No. It's just a pretty good rock record. Dave Navarro is one of my two or three favorite guitar players in the world, Stephen Perkins' drumming is predictably stellar and, for a guy in his early 40s, Perry Farrell still sounds gloriously shrill. But Eric Avery is definitely missed. The new bass player dude is perfectly functional, but he sounds like your cookie-cutter studio bass player--capable as all hell, but lacking any distinct flair. There is one song, "Superhero", that is embarassingly bad and I'm worried it will get released as a single. But all in all, it's pretty okay--I'd give it a B-.

The main problem with the album, as I see it, is that it's lacking the element that made Jane's so special to begin with: drama. There are moments during a couple of the songs ("To Match the Sun", "The Price I Pay" and the title track, specifically) that flirt with the breadth and grandeur of "Three Days" and "Ted, Just Admit It", but they all stop well short of being genuinely transcendant. In a nutshell, nothing sounds particularly dangerous about Strays. I realize that we live in a different musical landscape now, and that we, as a culture, have been "shocked" into a state of sarcastic apathy. So expecting an album to feel genuinely "dangerous" is probably way too much to ask. Nevertheless, that's what I was hoping for.

In other news, I'm seriously considering shaving my head this afternoon.

Oh, and it appears that I have plans for Thursday night.

IT'S SO HARD TO SAY GOODBYE TO YESTERDAY

Okay, I'll admit it: I'm kind of disraught today. As I'm sure you've heard by now, Liza Minelli and David Gest are separating. Even typing those words get me choked up. I mean, if these two lovebirds can't make it, what chance do any of us have? Who could have known this marriage wasn't going to last--after all, you don't have Michael Jackson serve as your best man unless you know you've found your soulmate.

Shit, I can't even think about this anymore. I'm going to go down some valium and watch Liza and David's Larry King interview (I burned it ontoi a DVD). You know, to remind me of the days when the world made sense.

Tip your 40oz in fond remembrance, dawgs.

PEOPLE ARE TALKING!

The great press for Portable Comedy at the Gershwin Hotel keeps rolling in! Check it out:

"Portable Comedy is so funny, it makes my jaw drop. Of course, my jaw is always kinda dropped, being that I'm a huge mouthbreather. But still, Portable Comedy rules."
--Ben Affleck

"We now acknowledge that the President's assertion in his State of the Union address that Saddam Hussein was attempting to negotiate a spot for himself on the Portable Comedy line-up was in fact erroneous. It was my responsibility to verify this information based on our intelligence and advise the President accordingly. I hold myself completely accountable for this lapse in communication."
--CIA Director George Tenet

"When America, the great whore mother of all that is unholy, rains waves of infidel comedy upon the Gershwin Hotel, the rivers will rise with the blood and maggots will chew through the hearts of all nonbelievers."
--Pat O'Brien, "Access Hollywood"

"Help! My apartment is on fire! I can't get out! Please, someone call the fire department! Help! For the love of christ, please help me!"
--my upstairs neighbor

"Hey, can you do me a favor and make an announcement at the beginning of your show? Tell the audience they're not allowed to use the bathroom to go Number Two. Last week, somebody left it all stinky and I had to clean it up. I can't be having that."
--Daryll, the Gershwin Hotel custodian

But don't just believe the hype--come see for yourself! Join me tonight, with my guests:

DAN CRONIN (He's appeared on "Late Night with Conan O'Brien" and Comedy Central's "Premium Blend", people)

KRISTIN SCHAAL (She was featured on Comedy Central's "Project Searchlight")

JESSE JOYCE (National touring comic and head writer for JokeVision TV)

DAN ALLEN (As seen at Carolines and The Comic Strip)

ROBERT COHEN (Former host of the beloved "Shecky Eichmann Show")

STEVE IBACH (Regular at the Upright Citizens Brigade theatre)

DANNY LIEBERT (Author of the nationally syndicated column, "No Love, No Nothin'" and contributer to "Mirth of a Nation: Best American Humor" anthology)

And, the specifics:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, JULY 25th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 EAST 27th STREET
(b. 5th and Madison Ave.)
10:00pm
$7.00

Be there or be square.


Christian Finnegan,
loved in Belgium

BATCH O' LINKS

The following links were provided to me by Mr. John Batchley. Thank/blame him.

My favorite pastime.

My 2nd favorite pastime.

My idol.

My idol's idol.

And finally, for you marijuana smokers out there.

PORTRAIT OF THE ARTIST STARING AT HIS COMPUTER SCREEN

Look, I don't know what to tell you people. I'm dry as a damned bone today. Nothing even remotely funny to say. Seriously, even if I go over today's news, nothing piques my once-scintillating wit. For now, I can only suggest what funny jokes might sound like, a la:

Uday and Qusay Hussein are dead? Insert funny "Uday will be trimming his George Michael beard in Hell" joke.

Knicks trade Latrell Spreewell? Insert funny "crippling blow to NYC area cornrow industry" joke.

White House official apologizes for African uranium flap? Insert funny "Bush probably can't locate Africans in Africa, much less uranium" joke.

Army Pfc. Jessica Lynch finally returns home? Insert funny "local men will now consider making drunken passes at her at the local TGI Fridays an act of patriotism" joke.

Mortars shatter Liberian ceasefire? Insert funny "Um....well...there's really absolutely nothing funny about the situation in Liberia" joke.

The J. Lo & Ben Affleck interview helps NBC's "Dateline" win weekly ratings battle? Insert funny "networks now scrambling to cater to lucrative big-ass/mouthbreather demographic" joke.

Bad Boys II topping the box office? Insert funny "America is a disgusting cesspool of vigorous mediocrity and should sink to the bottom of the sea" joke.

See? I got nothing.

MARGINALIA

Christ, I am very glad to be home. Last night, I went to bed before midnight for the first time in perhaps five years. After a solid nine hours of sleep, I went out to audition for a Budweiser commercial. As is often the case, they were looking for a "Jack Black type". The commericals I get called in for tend to break down into two categories: "Jack Black type" and "Drew Carey type". The Jack Black auditions usually call for someone pudgy and off-the-wall, while the Drew Carey spots call for someone pudgy and awkward. I've never booked either kind.

Speaking of Drew Carey, he was up in Montreal and factored into one of the more surreal moments of the entire festival. I was eating dinner at Moishe's Steakhouse (filet mignon, mofos!) with a bunch of people I barely knew, when Mr. Carey walked in with the most ridiculous looking "porn babe" you've ever seen--she made Pamela Anderson look earthy and understated. Anyway, the two of them walked into the middle of the dining room, and Drew scanned the room to see who was on hand--this particular steakhouse is something of a festival hangout, you see. Once he was confident everyone had noticed his arrival, he began vigorously making out with (and basically dry humping) his surgically enhanced girlfriend. A couple of the people at my table rolled their eyes and told me he "always does that". Very bizarre.

I guess it makes sense, though. By and large, stand up comics are not the sexiest crew. I imagine Drew Carey probably didn't spend his teenage years knee deep in poontang. So now that he's famous, I guess he's determined to make up for lost time--and perhaps more importanly, to let the world know he's making up for it. God's speed, Drew.

P.S. Thanks to "H" for not posting anything evil on my site yesterday. I will never again forget to sign out of Blogger whilst using a hotel computer. Gracias.

word of advice from one blogger to another remember to log off when you use the hotel computer. hehe

FEELING FESTIVE

So Montreal has been tres, tres bien (see what I just did there with that "tres bien" thing? You know, because they speak French here? I am a genius.). I had my first "New Faces" show on Thursday evening and it went rather well, if I do say so myself. Not the set of my life by any means, and no one's lining up to pay me millions of dollars to develop a new sitcom called "Life With Finnegan", but it certainly didn't go poorly. Tonight, I have my final show and I'm pretty jazzed for it. Afterwards, I will drink a great deal and make semi-awkward chitchat until 4:30am, at which point I will head to the airport for my 6:45am flight home. Let`s hope the person sitting next to me doesn't have too delicate a sense of smell.

Everyone here keeps kvetching about the festival--how it`s gone downhill in the past few years, how it's not as cool as it used to be, etc. That is so very typical of my life. I always seem to get involved with things at the precise moment when people begin trying to throw dirt on them. It makes me feel as if I'm eternally locked into the first post-Belushi cast of SNL. Just call me Denny Dillon. On the other hand, though, I'm reasonably confident that those glory days everyone here seems to be waxing nostalgiac over never truly existed. It just seemed great at the time, because it was all so new to them. For instance, I'm having a fantastic time here at the festival--there's certainly a lot of awkward down time and cringe-inducing schmoozing going on, but all in all it's a great deal of fun. But if I were to start making the trek up here every year, I'm sure the novelty of the situation would wear off rather quickly and I'd start telling anyone who'd listen how much better the scene was sooooo much cooler back in 2003. That's what I'm telling myself at least.

Anyway, I guess that's all I have to say for the time being. The best line I heard last night was probably delivered by Otis Lee Crenshaw (aka Rich Hall), who said:

"There's only one surefire way to figure out who's rich and who's poor: If your name is on the front of the building where you work, you're rich. If you're name is on your desk, you're middle class. If your name is on your shirt, you're fucking poor."

Be back in NYC tomorrow, winners.

L'UPDATE

So far, Montreal rules. I've got one show under my belt so far and it went swimmingly. The truly important ones, however, are tonight and Saturday. I am reasonably confident about how things are going to go--at least, I'm as confident as my internal "dude, you're fucked" voice will allow me to be. It's been fun hobknobbing with the heavy hitters. I keep expecting someone to stand up in the middle of brunch (yes, I "brunched" this morning) and call me out for the fraud I am. J'ACCUSE!!!

I've seen a lot of stand up already and I'll probably see hours more by the time the weekend is over. But the joke that made me laugh the hardest so far is one this guy told me at a bar last night. I now pass it on to you:

A pirate walks into a bar. He has a steering weel attached to his crotch. The bartender asks "Why do you have a steering wheel attached to your crotch?" And the pirate says, "Aaarrrggh! It's drivin' me nuts!"

I laughed at that for an uncomfortably long time. I am a buffoon.

NON, JE NE REGRETTE RIEN


Alright peoples, here's the skinny: In about five hours, I'll be heading off to beautiful Montreal, where I'll be performing in the genuinely prestigious "Just For Laughs" comedy festival.

I'm really, really excited. Not just for the festival, mind you--I'm excited by the possibility of getting stopped by Customs. You see, I plan on packing my suitcase with a bunch of random weird shit. That way, when the Customs Officer unpacks my bag, wackiness (and possible detainment) will ensue. Items I plan on packing:

Chinese finger cuffs
Entire Rick Astley CD catalogue
12 bottles of Flinestones vitamins
Ant Farm
Afro wig
Children's xylophone
Glossy photo of Ed Asner
Atari 2600
Peach cobbler wrapped in foil
Dead bird wrapped in foil
Mascara
Pierre Trudeau bobblehead doll
"According to Jim" Underoos
Cucumber, baby oil

This is going to be the best trip ever!

I'm not 100% sure what my online capabilities will be up in the Great White North, but I will do my best to check in. Toodles!

AN EPIC RELEASE, INDEED...

Ladies, I don't want to hear you complaining that there are no eligible men left in the world.

I'm thinking he's probably really into cuddling.

SUMMERTIME ROLLS

Warning: Unfunny, music-related rambling to follow

There are probably lots of bands I listen to more often, but there's no band closer to my heart than Jane's Addiction. I've argued in many a drunken music-related debate that the so-called "alternative music" explosion of the 1990's began not with Nirvana's Nevermind, as is the conventional wisdom, but with Jane's Addiction's Nothing's Shocking in 1988. It may not have sold millions of albums, but I really do think you can point to that album as the birth of non-macho (or anti-macho, even) hard rock. It didn't fit neatly into any one genre--the guitars were way too aggressive to be considered "college rock" (a la R.E.M.), and the lyrics were way too creepy (read: bisexual) for most metalheads. And yet, the album secured beachheads on each front--"Mountain Song" was probably the first video MTV ever put into rotation on both "120 Minutes" and "Headbanger's Ball".

From there, bands like Soundgarden and Alice in Chains started to sell a few records and get a little mainstream attention. I remember that "Headbanger's Ball" began airing something called the "Frenetic Fringe", where they'd air 15 minutes of videos deemed too challenging for the average Winger and/or Bullet Boys fan. As a result, major labels began signing bands they wouldn't have looked twice at four years earlier, which brings us to Nirvana, Pearl Jam, etcetera and so forth. Indie purists don't like to admit it, but it's quite likely that the alternative rock explosion would never have occurred if Nevermind, like Nothing's Shocking, wasn't released (and pushed) by a major label. Anyway, I've never felt like Jane's Addiction has received its due--most rock fans remember them solely for "Been Caught Stealing", which is kind of sad. But make no mistake: Nothing's Shocking is absolutely one of the five most important albums of the last 20 years and should be owned by anyone who considers him/herself a fan of rock music. Strident enough for you?

On a personal level, I consider "Nothing's Shocking" to be the album that ushered me into maturity, in terms of my listening habits. For most of my early teenage years, I was into some really embarassing metal shit (yes, I owned not one, but two Dokken albums). I mean, I watched MTV and listened to the radio constantly, so I was abreast of pretty much everything that was popular at the time, but cheese metal was definitely what I actually went out and spent my money on. The thing was, heavy metal was never a comfortable fit for me, philosophically. All of the songs were about getting into fights (I tended to bawl uncontrollably when faced with the prospect of physical violence), getting wasted (I didn't drink until I was just shy of my 21st birthday) and getting laid (Um, you get the idea). Plus, I passionately hated all the people around me--and while disdain for parents, teachers, and unfaithful girlfriends factors heavily in hard rock lyrics, genuine misanthropy isn't really in lockstep with the glam metal ethos.

Now, I'm not saying the hippy/serial-killer/junkie/homo lifestyle seemingly espoused on Nothing's Shocking felt any more like the "real" me, but at the very least, it was undeniably different. There was just something beautifully unsettling about the way it made me feel about myself and the people around me--I felt like I was "in" on some sort of subcultural uprising. From that jumping off point, I started to get into stuff like The Smiths and The Cure, bands I'd always rejected due primarily to the fact that none of their very cute female fans would ever talk to me in high school. From there, I got really into David Bowie, Elvis Costello, The Beatles and pretty much everything else I love in this world. So I thank christ for Jane's Addiction--otherwise, I might still have Poison's "Open Up and Say...Ahhh! in heavy rotation.

Jane's Addiction was also the first non-arena rock show I ever attended, and I still consider it one of the greatest nights of my life. Previous to that, I'd go to places like the Worcester Centrum and the Providence Civic Center to see all my favorite bands: Whitesnake (yep), Def Leppard (twice!), and David Lee Roth (I stand by this one to this day). When Jane's Addiction came to town in the Spring of 1990, a few months before Ritual de lo Habitual was released, they were boycotting the city of Boston due to it's typically puritanical requirement that all music venues have seats. Therefore, they were playing in an empty hockey rink in the middle of the suburbs, which seemed indescribably cool to me. I was in my very first "mosh pit" that night, and even typing those words fills me with a strange mix of embarrassment, pride, bitterness and nostalgia. I know it seems odd now, when you see footage of jocks beating the shit out of eachother at a Linkin Park concert, but there was a time when moshing (or "slamdancing", or whatever dated terminology you want to use) felt fresh and spontaneous and, in a weird way, beautiful. I'd never in my life felt so in love with a band, or with the people around me--we were all part of something, motherfucker! Afterwards, walking toward the exit with my friend, I felt as happy as I ever have in my life. It was at this moment that I bumped into a girl who at one had lived down the street from me. She called over to me, "Hey Christian, I didn't know you were a Jane's Addict!"

Yes. She said "Jane's Addict". In one short sentence, she pretty much ruined the entire experience for me. These people were no longer my comrades in a crusade against musical and cultural hegemony--they were a group of pathetic, trendhopping "Jane's Addicts". It took me a long time to get over that one.

So why all this talk of Jane's Addiction, you ask? Well, the band is releasing it's first album of new material (I don't count that Kettle Whistle bullshit) a week from Tuesday, and I'm terribly frightened it's going to suck. Please don't let it suck. Pretty please? Anything any of you could to to ensure this album not sucking would be greatly appreciated. Thanks in advance for your help on this.

SO ADDICTIVE

Ladies and gents, your wait is over.

After taking last week off for Independence Day, Portable Comedy is back tonight with yet another smattering NYC's best comedians.

So what makes this week's show different? For tonight and tonight only, each comic will be performing under the influence of hardcore narcotics. That's right folks--real comedians, real drug problems.

Here's the lineup, thrillseekers:

Special Guest Host: LIAM McENEANEY (Liam has appeared on Comedy Central
s "Premium Blend" and is combating a seven year smack habit.)

BOB POWERS (This creator of the web sensation "www.girlsarepretty.com" once snorted lines of cocaine off of James Caan's buttocks)

JESSE JOYCE (This nationally recognized touring comic just recently returned from a sold-out door of the Thailand's opium dens)

SUSAN PREKEL (Next week, she heads off to the prestigious "Just For Laughs" festival in Montreal. Assuming, of course, she awakens from her Crank-induced coma.)

MOODY McCARTHY (He appeared on "Star Search" this past Spring, and a few short months later, he appeared in front of a judge after being busted with 2 grams of "China Blue" up his keister.)

RACHEL FEINSTEIN (She's great with characters and voices--too bad none of those voices seem to be able to convince her to kick Crystal Meth.)

NOAM and MARY (They're the first husband & wife team in the history of Portable Comedy. Come out and help them celebrate their fourth full week on Methadone!)

And me, CHRISTIAN FINNEGAN (I'll just be doing a regular ol' spot tonight. And, um...I do lots of drugs, or something.)

And the details, you ask?

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, JULY 11th
The Gershwin Hotel
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison)
10:00pm
$7.00

Come on out and revel in our drug-addled hilarity!


Christian Finnegan,
your friend on the inside

HOLY LACKLUSTER SELF-PROMOTION!

At long last, I've finally updated my calendar. Check it out, if you're feeling so inclined.

LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, THE CLASSIEST TOWER OF HUBRIS ENTRY OF ALL TIME

New Slang Terms for Testicles:

Party Favors

Superfriends

The Ol' Harrison Fords

Los Danglitos

Sperm Caddies

KC and Jojo

The Starter Kit

Fantabulous Mr. Magic and his Wondertastic Life Partner, Jeff

The Baldwin Brothers

Les Nuttes

PURE SHITE!


We're in Boston now. Whilst riding the mass transit system (the "T", as they call it here), a wierd middle eastern dude with scabs all over his arms started ogling my girlfriend. It felt just like we were back in NYC. Wonderful.

That's all I have to say for now. How pathetic is that? We're actually at my uncle's house and we have a full day ahead of us, culminating in my gig at the Charles Hotel in Cambridge (that's a very swanky place, for all you philistines out there). But I did want to take a brief moment out of my day to say hello to you, the TOH viewing public. I thank you for your unwavering readership...well, maybe slightly wavering.

Okay, I'll admit it--I have absolutely nothing of value to say this afternoon. So sue me. As penance, I will now list a few of the various nicknames I have been given over the years:

Christian Fuckegan
Christian Faggegan
Finnefuck
Finnedude
Finnedouche
Finnebago
Christian Flamergan
The Finn
Finnthrax
Asshole

See you tomorrow, winners!

QUOTH MORRISSEY, "HAS THE WORLD CHANGED, OR HAVE I CHANGED?"

So, the Chinatown bus thing went off relatively without a hitch and I am now nestled in the suburban (or should I say sub-suburban) splendor of Acton, MA, where I spent the majority of my childhood. So far we (I have the lovely Ms. Kambri in tow) have done little more than eat, drink, and stare deep into the void of our own existential insignificance--Acton is good for that sort of thing. A while ago we took my dad's car out and we did a cheesy little "this is your life" mini-tour. We passed by my childhood home, my former Junior High school, the local hotspot known as the Acton Bowladrome, and the very stretch of pavement where my childhood friend Xavier Farragut once took a crap in the middle of the street.

I've made hating my hometown into something of a hobby over the years. Driving around, I wanted Kambri to see for herself that I was raised in the absolute cultural armpit of society. But much to my complete horror, I now have to admit that it's kind of a cute place--nice houses, well-manicured lawns, relatively friendly folk. In short, it's the perfect place to raise a family, if that kind of thing is your bag. So does this mean that the town has undergone some sort of massive transformation? Or have I suddenly become...old? Am I becoming the kind of horrid mediocrity-loving fuckwad who would find a cultural diaper pail like Acton, Massachusetts "quaint"? Sweet Jesus, don't let it be true! I will not go quietly into that fannypack-clad night!!

Wait a second, here--this is crazy talk. Of course this town sucks! It's all a ruse, man! Yeah! How dare Acton, Massachusetts disguise its truly vile nature with a upper middle class veneer of happiness and bonhomie! This place is a miserable hellhole and I'm going to prove it by spending the next three hours sipping a glass of iced tea by the pool!

That'll show 'em.

FANTASTIC VOYAGE

I'm about to get on a bus that goes from New York's Chinatown to Boston's Chinatown for a measely $10. This may be the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life. I will file my report this evening.

FIREWORKS REDUX

Today is the 4th of July. No seriously, don't check you calendar--it's true! So I spent a few minutes earlier today writing about my utter disinterest in firework displays, but then I thought to myself "Wait, haven't I written about this before?" I checked my archives and, lo and behold, there it was. This is actually the 4th or 5th time I've thought "Have I written this before?", but this is the first time my suspicions were confirmed. When you do this blog thing (nearly) every day, you lose track of all the nonsense you're casting into the void.

So now, a dilemma: do I just trash what I was working on and write something else? Well, no. It's already nearly 7pm, and I'd like to post something--I've been taking far too many days off lately and I need to cut that shit out if I want to hold on to my precious 179 hits a day (jealous much?). I could just post what I've been writing, but it's pretty much exactly what i wrote last year, with a few typos and tense changes thrown in--I've been drinking Maker's Mark and Mountain Dew all afternoon, you see. So, after a bit of internal debate, I've decided to simply re-post the same anti-fireworks rant I posted last year. Hell, I'm thinking 95% os you never read it the first time around, and the other 5% didn't exactly commit it to memory. I know it's kind of lame, and I apologize--just think of this as a TOH "clip show", like they used to do on "Happy Days", "Facts of Life", etc.

Anyway, enjoy:
____________________

Can we all just admit that fireworks suck? Every 4th of July, it amazes me how many of my cynical (read: sensible) friends pretend to be impressed by some cheesedick fireworks display. Honestly, when's the last time you found yourself saying "I've never seen that before"? Let's see: there are the ones that explode into a circle, the ones that that look like a pin cushion, and the ones that cascade down like a spider plant. In the words of former New Jersey Net Derrick Coleman, whoop de damn do. Still, everyone stands around with their necks craned skyward, occasionally ooooooo-ing like halfwits. Eventually, the reverent moaning dies out (save a moron or two) and the bitter smell of disappointment begins to waft through the crowd--people start looking at their watches and trying to remember where they parked. Then comes the most annoying part, the four minute period where everyone debates as to whether the show is or isn't over. "Is that the end? Yeah, I think that big one was the last--no, wait. Ok, now it's over...I think...coming up...this looks like it. No. Wait. Was that it? I think that's...nope, still going." Afterwards, everyone claims to have been awed by the fireworks, but that last year's were a little better.

Here's the ugly truth, people: last year's fireworks sucked. And next year's? Totally going to suck.

Please, don't be upset--you'll thank me later.

I HOLD THIS TRUTH TO BE SELF-EVIDENT

Tomorrow is July 4th, and it's got me wondering: did the signers of the Declaration of Independence think John Hancock was a dick? Because I know if I was asked to sign some incredibly important historical document and some jackass decided to take up half the page with a humongous hey-check-me-out signature, I'd be pretty peeved.

And as is so often the case, Hancock has been rewarded for his doucheplay. After all, we've heard of him, have we not? Hell, the 2nd tallest building in the city of Boston is named after the guy. And can you honestly name any other thing he accomplished other than taking up precious DOI square inch-age? What about the other signers? Where's Francis Hopkinson's name recognition? When are they going to break ground on Carter Braxton's skyscraper? And for the love of god, what about Elbridge Freakin' Berry?!!!

(Yes, I did have to do a Google search for those names. But that just proves my point, motherfuckers!)

Anyway, the facts are in and I'm rendering my verdict: John Hancock? Huuuuuuge dick.

MOVE IT ON OVER


A former co-worker of mine asked me to help him move this weekend. That, in itself, was not such an annoying request. It was the Tom Sawyer-ly way in which he phrased it:

HIM: Yeah, man. You should swing by on Saturday. I'm having this barbecue-slash-moving-party thing. It's gonna be sweet. Good food, crack open some beers, throw some boxes in a van--you should totally come.

ME: Um...who's going to be there?

HIM: So far, just me, you and probably Darren. But I have calls out to some other people.

And then, a bit later in the conversation...

ME: Where are you moving?

HIM: I'm moving in with Darren.

ME: Um, doesn't Darren live in a fifth floor walk-up?

HIM: Well...yeah. ....but the flights are really small!

It was at this point that I had to break the news to my friend that he and I don't have a "Five Floor Friendship". I mean, five floors implies a certain degree of closeness, does it not? I explained to him that he should think of me as more of a "Stand With the Van" kind of friend. After all, there are only a few times in my life that I've agreed to help haul someone's shit up more than two floors, and in each circumstance, the person being assisted had breasts and a vagina.

A woman can always get a couple of guy friends to help her move--the draftees usually consist of a lingering ex-boyfriend and some hopelessly lovestruck "platonic" friend from her poetry class, both of whom think that they're going to worm their way into the girl's heart (and pants) by lugging 46 boxes of Gabriel Garcia Marquez books and Ani DiFranco CDs up seven flights of stairs. They are misguided.

Guys, on the other hand, are up shit's creek when it comes to getting their shitty furniture from one apartment to another--unless, of course, they can bribe their friends with obscene amounts of pizza, beer and/or weed. Usually, though, it's just a guy sitting the front seat of a van, awkwardly squeezed in between two overweight Ukrainian dudes.

Or is that just me?

Another reason it sucks to help people move is that they're never fucking done packing when you get there--they always end up just throwing all their shit into milk crates and garbage bags while you get stuck trying to get the goddamn armoir through the front door.

I think the reason it takes people so long to pack is that they never factor in for "nostalgia time". Because when you're packing stuff into boxes, you end up going through everything single thing you own--every letter, every yearbook, every blurry snapshot of your bitchin' trip to Mardi Gras. So you're trying to get work done, but you find yourself saying things like "Oh, I'm gonna pack those books...just as soon as I read my 3rd grade book report on Superfudge." Or, "I'll get to disconnecting the stereo...right after I listen to my junior high chorus singing 'Careless Whisper' one more time."

Hey, now that I think about it, where the hell is that cassette...

TO AIR IS HUMAN


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THE WORLD'S CRAPPIEST HIP HOP ARTISTS

Fruit Smoothee

MC Excel Spreadsheet

Maufbreeva

Felch Lover

DJ Tasteful Floral Arrangement

Ost EO Perosis

MC Sudden Infant Death Syndrome

Grape Smuggla

DJ Backwash

Cordon Bloooooo

Rob Da Perfektly Adekwit Emcee

Hall Monitah

MC Gavin Macleod

HOMEMADE ENGRISH

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

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

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

THIS EXACTLY: THE PEOPLE ARE MORONS!

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

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

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

THIS JUST IN: PEOPLE ARE MORONS!

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

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

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

A FEW RANDOM THOUGHTS


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

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

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

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

IT'S OFFICIAL: I RULE


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

WATCHING MY Ps AND Qs

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

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

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, JUNE 20th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th street
(b. 5th and Madison ave)
10:00pm
$7.00

YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN, FUCKERS

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

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

So what exactly am I so busy doing?

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

SIGN THAT I'M A LOSER #412

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

I am extremely cool.

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

HALLELUJAH!

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

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

TEMPTING FATE

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

* Walking under a ladder

* Breaking a mirror

* Breakdancing in front of a mirror

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

* Reading poetry in the State of New Jersey

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

* Walking under a Cheryl Ladd poster

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

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

* Drinking Tequila while eating bologna

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here are the details, folks:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, JUNE 13th
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th Street
(b. 5th and Madison Ave)
10:00pm
$7.00

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

DRIBBLE DRIBBLE, DROOL DROOL


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

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

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

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

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

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

BREATHE, BREATHE IN THE AIR

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

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

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

TEASER

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

ADDENDUM

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

I HOPE I CAN STILL FIT INTO MY SUIT

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

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

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

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

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

WHAT A WONDERFUL CULTURE WE LIVE IN

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

This is kid is royally fucked.

HISTORIKAL KOMBAT

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

PYTOR ILYICH TCHAIKOVSKY
Special Move: The Nutcracker
Self-explanatory.

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

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

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

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

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

GEORGE WASHINGTON CARVER
Special Move: The Butter Substitute
Carver batters opponent with...um...low cholesteral...? Okay, this one sucks.

HOW EMBARRASSING...


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

(I'm the Asian dude.)

A MESSAGE TO CARMEN ELECTRA

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

OUR BODIES, OUR SELVES

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

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

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

Birds, I tell you. Birds.

THE TOP FIVE SHITTIEST PARTY GUESTS IN AMERICA

5. ERIC TORBELSON (Billings, MT) -- Man, is this guy a dick. Ten minutes after arriving, he enlists himself as uninvited deejay. I guess he thinks this will make up for the fact that he, once again, failed to bring any beer. He loudly complains about how shitty the host's CD collection is, and then proceeds to make "hilarious" playlist choices, in order to show everyone how gloriously "meta" he is. Oh look, Eric's putting on "Baby Got Back" again. Nice choice, douchebag.

4. SARA HILDEBRANDT (Chapel Hill, NC) -- Relentless cockblocker. Look Sara, I know you're upset that your best friend is getting hit on and you're not (again), but there's absolutely no reason to pull a hissy fit. Not every fucking thing is about you, okay? Now would you please come out of the bathroom? People need to piss.

3. RONALD YEE (Hoboken, NJ) -- Stop breakdancing, Ronald. Stop. Just stop.

2. CAITLIN McDOUNOUGH (Chicago, IL) -- Okay, once I can understand. Hell, even twice is not out of the realm of possibility. But how many fucking times can you puke in the middle of someone's apartment? I mean, do you have no self-awareness whatsoever? Do you have any idea how hard it is to get the smell of vomit out of an oriental rug? Do you??!

1. "PETE" (Austin, TX) -- Who the fuck is this guy? Does anyone know him? Why is he here?

SCENE FROM A BAD RELATIONSHIP

I'm walking down East 3rd street, and I see a squabbling punk rock couple ambling down the street toward me. She's a typical Emo kid--baby tee, dyed blond hair, black cat's-eye glasses, etc. It's obvious she's been crying. He's the kind of sad character you see all over the East Village these days. He was probably really into hardcore, back in the '80s. Now he's a wrinkly 37 year old dude wandering around the glorified youth hostel known as Alphabet City in a faded Black Flag t-shirt, telling anyone who will listen that they have no idea what Punk means. He's gesticulating wildly at his young girlfriend, obviously trying to deliver a conversationl coup de grace. As they walk by me, this is what I hear:

HER: Well, then what was that, back at the bar?

HIM: Baby, that was Jack Daniels. That had nothing to do with medication!
(pause)
I don't know how many times you expect a guy to apologize.

(cue: more sobbing from girlfriend)

Awwwwwwww, ain't that sweet? I think those two kids are gonna make it!

WATCH THIS

Yes, this is a commercial. But it's one of the cooler things I've ever seen.

For the aspiring comedian in all of us, I present...

JOKE LIBS

1) I was reading to day that _______ has a reality show coming out. What, are they giving out development deals based on ________ now?! If I want to watch that kind of crap, I'll go down to the _______, like I always do! Seriously though, what the fuck is up with shows about _______? Oh, just because you're _______-ing a _______, we're all supposed to give a shit? I'll tell you what a great idea for a TV show would be would be--take a _______ and put him/her in a _______ and make him/her _______ for his/her _______. That I'd watch.



2) What's up with the little _______ that hang down off of the _______ of your _______? Do they serve some purpose? Other than get in the way? I'd just have them removed, but I'm afraid I'll start _______-ing in the middle of my _______.



3) Last night, my girlfriend _______-ed my _______. Usually, I don't go for that sort of thing, but we were ______, so it was okay. Well, in the middle of the whole thing, she starts _______-ing! I'm like, "What are you trying to do, _______ a ______? If I'd have this is how the night was going to go, I'd have brought my _______! But hell, while you're doing that, we might as well _______ my _______. Pass the _______, would you?



4) Look, I have nothing against _______. But should we all by punished just because some _______ never bothered to ______ his/her _______? I don't remember ever _______ anyone, am I right? It's like, "Whoa, slow down, _______!" I'm not trying to start a _______, here. I just think, whatever's good for the _______ is good for the _______, you know? Start _______-ing your _______, and then we'll talk, okay?



5) Uh oh, someone just _______-ed in here. Don't fuck with me--I know _______ when I _______ it. Looks like we're going to have to start giving random _______ tests. Okay, everyone line up and show me your _______!

POP QUIZ, HOTSHOT

Okay, it's 8:38am. Why haven't I gone to bed yet?

A. I've been up all night burning CDs.

B. Like the band Slaughter, I tend to be 'up all night, sleep all day'.

C. I tried to go to bed five hours ago and was struck with a sudden and rather crippling panic attack, regarding my financial future.

D. I couldn't bear the idea of going to bed having accomplished nothing, given that I spent the entire afternoon playing MLB Slugfest 2003.

E. I like finding new and exciting ways of sabatoging myself.

F. I watched that jaw-droppingly awkward "MTV Icon" special honoring Metallica, spent two hours trying to write a blog entry about it, and then decided to put it off until tomorrow upon realizing that I'd been staring blankly at the screen for over 12 minutes.

G. I was lying in bed and had a sudden urge to listen to Parliament's "Unfunky UFO", perhaps the best song ever written about being abducted by an alien race facing extinction due to lack of funk.

H. If I'm not physically awake during gym hours, I can't need to beat myself up for not going, right?

I. In the past 16 hours, I've consumed an entire 2 liter bottle of Mountain Dew.

J. For some godforsaken reason, I still hold the juvenile notion that staying up all night is "cool", and that making the most of one's daylight hours is for "squares".

K. I have absolutely no idea.

L. All of the above.

JUST A THOUGHT

It's never too early to start your Christmas shopping.

THE MOTHER OF INTERVENTION

Before I get to plugging the comedy show I host every Friday night here in NYC, I'm going to give a quick (and even smarmier) plug for myself. If you pick up a copy of this week's issue of Backstage Magazine, you will see that the cover story is titled something like "Comedy Best Bets 2003". This article has a bunch of nice things to say about some very talented friends of mine, and the writer even saw fit to throw in a couple of paragraphs about me. If you pass by a magazine store, newsstand, or annoyingly career-conscious actor, give the article a looksy.

Now, on to the more traditional plugging:

Friends,

As you may have noticed, there was no promotional Email for last week's Portable Comedy. For this, I sincerely apologize.

Oh, who are we kidding--of course you noticed. It's all you've been thinking about. While the rest of the country was wondering "Reuben or Clay," you've been frantically asking anyone who'd listen, "What in the sweet mother of Christ happened to my Portable Comedy email?! Is everything okay? Please! Please tell me everything is gonna be alright!!" You haven't been sleeping, you've been unable to keep your food down, you frequently collapse into fits of hysterical sobbing. Frankly, you're kind of creeping people out.

Look, I'm just going to come out and say it: you're addicted. No no, don't deny it. You've got a problem, and the sooner you deal with it, the sooner you'll stop torturing yourself and the ones you love. That's right, the ones you love. You think they like seeing you like this? Manic and bleary-eyed, wandering the streets in search of a Portable Comedy fix? For chrissake, pull yourself together! What are you trying to do, kill yourself? Because that's where you're headed, you know...Killyourselfville.

Let's not focus on the negative. Just think of all the things you have to look forward to, once you get clean: The weather's getting more beautiful by the day. Baseball season is in full swing. We're less than six weeks away from the release of "Legally Blond II". And, best of all...

...there's another fantastic installment of Portable Comedy at the Gershwin Hotel!! Tonight, it's the Jonathan Corbett birthday extravaganza! Join me and my guests:

JONATHAN CORBETT (You've seen him on Comedy Central's "Premium Blend", "Chappelle's Show", and named in this week's issue of Backstage Magazine as of the "ten comics to watch in 2003". Now see him drinking free birthday drinks before, during and after the show.)

CYNTHIA LEVIN (She's appeared on BET and performs at clubs and colleges all over--seriously, she DOES)

RUSTY WARD (A former columnist for Shecky Magazine, Rusty performs all over the damned country)

RACHEL FEINSTEIN (Rachel performs all over NYC, performed in the Marshall's Women in Comedy Festival and is a frequent guest host at the B3 Comedy Lounge)

NICK KROLL (Nick is a member of the popular sketch group MACHiO and creator of the genuinely great website, www.barmitzvahdisco.com)

JUSTIN SANDERS (This nationally recognized touring comic recently moved to NYC from Austin and comes highly recommended. Word is, he kicks ass.)

And here is the relvant info:

PORTABLE COMEDY
FRIDAY, MAY 23rd
THE GERSHWIN HOTEL
7 East 27th street
(b. 5th and Madison Ave)
10:00pm
$7.00

Clean up your act and be there!

DISCUSSION STARTERS FOR THE DISCRIMINATING CRAZY PERSON

Due to my career choice, I spend a lot of late night hours on subway platforms, waiting patiently for the MTA chariot to arrive and whisk me off to Queens. I always dread having to wait for the N train at the Herald Square station, as it's usually filled with urine-soaked and potentially violent insane folk. I'm not sure why, but this particular platform seems to be something of a nutjob hotspot--I've taken to referring to Herald Square as "Wacky Mecca". Of course, the upside to this is that I'm often privy to all sorts of fasinatingly insane babbling. The best diatribes tend to have some sort of bizarre racial and/or religious conspiracy angle, and imply a level of "reality" that you (as a non-crazy person) are simply too stupid to accept, a la "EVERYONE KNOWS JEWS LOVE THE DESIGNATED HITTER! GET YER HEAD OUTTA YER ASS!". But even the mentally ill need a little nudge to get them going sometimes. So the next time you're in the vicinity of a crazy street person and have some time to kill, lean over and whisper one of the following sentences:

* Hey, did you hear? The elderly are going to be quarantined.

* Chinese people suck at Ouija, don't you think?

* This just in: J-Lo is an arab.

* Homosexuals love eating at Ranch 1...if you know what I mean.

* Black people? Shin guards? Yeah, right...

* Think about it--if there's one thing a Jew loves, it's unicycling.

* Catholics. Know what I'm saying to you, man? Catholics.

* Women fart. Pass it on.

Now, sit back and watch the imaginary conversational sparks fly!

ARE YOU READY TO FEIGN ROCKING?!!

I seem to be getting booked for all sorts of bizarre gigs lately. I just found out that I'm going to be hosting this event. Get your tickets now, folks.

And in the spirit of the event, here are...

...THE WORLD'S TEN BEST AIR GUITAR SONGS

"Girl Gone Bad" by Van Halen
"Killing in the Name" by Rage Against the Machine
"Back in Black" by AC/DC
"No. 13 Baby" by The Pixies
"Mouth for War" by Pantera
"Song for the Deaf" by Queens of the Stone Age
"Custard Pie" by Led Zeppelin
"Geek USA" by Smashing Pumpkins
"Seven" by Sunny Day Real Estate
"Mississippi Queen" by Mountain



and THE WORLD'S TEN WORST AIR GUITAR SONGS

"Unforgettable" by Nat King Cole
"Day by Day" by Stephen Schwartz (from "Godspell")
"The Neutron Dance" by The Pointer Sisters
"All Out of Love" by Air Supply
"Kiss a Little Longer" (Big Red Chewing Gum theme song)
"Shower the People" by James Taylor
"Hard to Say Goodbye to Yesterday" by Boyz II Men
"Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)" by Looking Glass
"O Susannah" (Trad.)
"Short Dick Man" by 20 Fingers feat. Gillette

IN HOT WATER

It is currently 2:44am on Sunday night, my last in sunny Ft. Lauderdale, and I am about to go out and sit in the jacuzzi. Not because I want to, mind you--truth be told, I'd rather just flip channles for a half hour and go the fuck to bed. But you see, I have access to a...jacuzzi. What kind of person would I be if I didn't make the most of such an opportunity?

Even in NYC, I always kind of love it when it pours on a Sunday afternoon. When the weather is inarguably shitty, there's no pressure to "make the most" of the day. No errands, no walks in the park, and certainly no motherfucking exercise. I can just crank Appetite for Destruction and play Grand Theft Auto all gosh darned day, which is really what I wanted to do anyway.

So ten minutes from now, when I'm vegetating in a luxurious pool of bubbling H2O, don't envy me. Pity me. For I am truly cursed.

ODE TO LAST NIGHT'S DINNER


O chicken fingers
Why must you taunt me
with your batter-y goodness?
Faithful fryolater friend,
why must you force me to devour you again and again

and again?

Some choose to slather you
in a crude honey mustard mix
But not I.
I appreciate you for you
and celebrate the spicy crunch
of your glorious skin.

But I was going to dip you in something, marinara's pretty damn tasty.

When good 'morrow I wake,
and your crispy coating has found
its place around my waist,
I will curse thee.
I will cry out to the heavens,
"What have you done, les doigts du poulet?!
May you roast in the fiery netherworld
of my small intestine
for being so fatty and delicious!"

But no matter how loudly or often
I condemn you
I will always love my sweet, sweet poultry phalanges.

THE FEW, THE NOT-EXACTLY-PROUD

So after last night's shows, I went out with some of the people who work at the club and adjoining restaurant. I had forgotten what an incredibly fucked up world the Service Industry is--it's made of people who want to punch each other and fuck each other, often simultaneously. There was so much misdirected sexual (and just plain ol' regular) tension being lobbed back and forth between the people who work at the comedy club, you could've cut it with steak knife. But, as someone who worked in restaurants and bars for years, I know how that is--you have so much adrenaline pumping after a shift, it's only natural that it's going to manifest itself in the two most natural of human impulses: fucking and fighting. If you work in the kind of "classy" place that closes up at midnight, those emotions are often rather muted, just a quiet frustration bubbling under the skin. But if it's the kind of place where you're working into the wee hours of the morning? Shit goes down. Friendships are made, destroyed, and tentatively repaired all in the span of one eight hour shift. People laugh. People scream. And someone always ends up stealing money from someone.

For those of you who've never done a tour of duty in the service industry, it's a lot like being a part of Easy Company, trying to hold Bastogne (that's a World War II reference--one I know only because I watched Band of Brothers on HBO). You're thown into this ragtag unit (the waitstaff), full of people you'd never have anything to do with in the "civilian" world, and instructed to keep hold of this little piece of land (the restaurant) at all costs. The enemy (customers) come in wave after wave, leading you to either a) crack-up and become a liability to those around you, or b) get into a "zone", where you are a well-oiled customer service commando. Chicken caesar to table five? WHAM! Tater skins to table six? WHAM! Three Heinekins, two vodka crans, six shots of Jaeger and a Rusty Nipple to table 9? WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

Later, once the enemy has retreated back into the night, the platoon mates sit around and regale each other with stories of battle ("Did you see that fat motherfucker who gave me shit about the free refill policy? I'm like, four is all you get, asshole!"), discuss the finer points of combat technique ("Karen, I'm not putting you on weekends until you learn how to carry more than four plates at a time!") and evaluate the new recruits ("I'm not so sure about Pete. He looked a bit lost out there tonight. We can't have someone out on the floor who's going to put the whole shift in danger.") And they drink. Looooooord, do they drink. They drink to remember, they drink to forget. They drink to wipe away just enough fear and regret so that they can pull themselves out of bed by 2pm, shower (maybe), smoke a few cigarettes (definitely) and drag their asses back to the restaurant in time for that night's shift.

For those of you who have never been there, you just don't know, man. You just don't know.

VIVA ELITISM!

I've come to realize that there is a very large "bridge and tunnel" contingent in South Florida. For those of you who aren't from the New York area, "bridge and tunnel" is the term used to describe people from Staten Island, New Jersey, Long Island, etc (i.e., they must use a bridge and/or tunnel to get to NYC). It is an unfailingly derogatory term, usually denoting a lack of sophistication and overall "goomba" sensibility. Think slicked back hair, big gold chain hanging down the front of an overly black ribbed t-shirt, souped up Iroc-Z in the driveway--basically, SNL's "Roxbury" characters come to life.

All of the guidos from Brooklyn and Queens you see on TV and in the movies? Bullshit. None of those dudes live there anymore--they all moved further away from the city as soon as the minorities started "invading". And now it many of them have given up on the Tri-State Area altogether and moved down to the warmer climes of Ft. Lauderdale, West Palm Beach, etc. This works to my advantage, to a degree--whenever I'm onstage and mention I live in NYC, I always get a few hoots of approval. But then there's the other two thirds of the audience, who were born and raised in Davie, FL (the name of the actual town I'm in) and seriously believe that the South will rise again and that Hillary Clinton is the antichrist. It's sets up a very weird audience dynamic, when you have Vinnie and Gina from Passaic, NJ sitting right next to a guy with an "IT'S NOT A RAG, IT'S A FLAG" t-shirt, acid wash denim shorts and a completely non-ironic mullet.

It's like a white trash petting zoo.

I AM A VERY IMPORTANT MAN

So I'm currently sitting in the "Business Center" of the Rennaissance Hotel in balmy Ft. Lauderdale. It's absolutely gorgeous, far surpassing the usual glorified motor lodges I stay in when doing comedy. But I must admit, I was hoping for a slightly more Rennaissancee feel--lute players in the lobby, jousting matches out back, comely maidens, crude designs for "flying machines" hanging from the walls, etc. But this place is pretty damn sweet. Check out these amenities:

* Business center with free highspeed internet service
* Heated outdoor pool
* Free fitness center
* Cable television
* Laundry
* Continental breakfast
* Free shuttle bus
* Free shoeshine service
* Kingsize racecar bed
* Alligator feeding pool in lobby
* Overnight peyote delivery
* Free testicle massage
* Bellybutton de-linting center
* Batphone
* Free "naked lady" tattoo upon checkout
* Gravy machine on every floor
* 24 hour amateur Ultimate Fighting arena
* Hand soap

I think I can bear to spend a few days here.