The Rest of What's Around

Tumbling away from blogspot

2008-04-14T21:04:00.000-04:00

In the event that anyone is still checking this lone outpost for new updates, let it be known, while this site will remain up for archival purposes (it also provides a wicked crash pad on weekends!), all news will be reported on gregwhite.tumblr.com from this day forth.

Why Biblical Magi Should Not Be Allowed Access to Time Machines

2007-11-24T11:48:00.001-05:00

EXT. BETHLEHEM - NIGHT
Three magi, BALTHASAR, GASPAR, and MELCHIOR, make their way through the desert sand. Each carries a satchel.

BALTHASAR
Look, the star grows bright.

MELCHIOR
We are close.

They walk on in silence for a moment. Then:

GASPAR
Tell us, Melchior, what was the future like?

MELCHIOR
Not so different from the present, really.

BALTHASAR
What is to become of the Child?

MELCHIOR
Oh, forget it. People love the guy. And don’t get me started on us. They call us the Three Wise Men. We’re everywhere. There are even religious celebrations based on us. This? This is a big deal.

GASPAR
Then our suspicions are confirmed. The new Lord is born!

In the distance, a tiny barn glows under the Star of Bethlehem.

BALTHASAR
Come.

CUT TO:

INT. A BARN
Amidst the farm animals, JOSEPH and MARY cradle the BABY JESUS. The Magi enter.

GASPAR
Glory to the new born king!

The Magi kneel in worship.

JOSEPH
Welcome, friends. I am Joseph of the house of David. And this is my betrothed, Mary.

MARY
Hello.

Melchior approaches Baby Jesus’s crib and peers in.

MELCHIOR
A beautiful child. He has his mother’s face.

Mary blushes.

GASPAR
Although the child bares no resemblance to Joseph.

MELCHIOR
Oh, right. Joseph didn’t actually sire the child. She had him through, you know, divine means.

Gaspar and Melchior look to her for confirmation.

MARY
Exactly so! But, how ever did you know?

MELCHIOR
Oh, let’s just call it...an assumption.

Mary and Melchior share a laugh. The others look confused.

MELCHIOR (CONT’D)
No, but seriously, I know a guy who has a time machine. I knew that because I read about this in the future. No big deal.

JOSEPH
Neat.

A beat.

BALTHASAR
We come bearing gifts!

GASPAR
Yes, from exotic lands!

JOSEPH
We are but simple people. We are humbled.

Balthasar opens his satchel.

BALTHASAR
For our new lord, I have carried for him gold!

Balthasar places a hunk of gold in Jesus’s crib. Joseph quickly removes it.

JOSEPH
Sorry. Choking hazard.

BALTHASAR
Oh, right. Of--of course. How careless of me.

MARY
It is a lovely gift. Thank you.

Balthasar bows awkwardly. Next up is Gaspar.

GASPAR
Lord, accept my gift...of myrrh!

With a flourish Gaspar presents a thick ball of goo to Joseph.

JOSEPH
Oh. myrrh.

Mary nudges him.

JOSEPH (CONT’D)
I mean, oh, myrrh! Mary, did you see?

He quickly hands it off to her before she can answer. She accepts it unwillingly.

MARY
Oh, yes. Wow. It smells so...strong.

GASPAR
Used for both perfume and embalming.

Mary shoots him a look.

BALTHASAR
Don't say embalming.

GASPAR (CONT’D)
Uh, it’s also good for your lady parts. Embalming.

BALTHASAR
You said embalming again.

GASPAR
Did I? Gosh, it’s hot in here.

Melchior pats him on the back and Gaspar walks off dejected. Melchior clears his throat.

MELCHIOR
For this most blessed occasion I thought unto myself, what shall I bring the child of God, born unto the lovely Mary? Shall I bring shiny rocks? No. Shall I bring sticky residue? No. For this child, I have carried, all the way from the holiday season of the year 2007, a Nintendo Wii!
Melchior presents Joseph and Mary with a shiny new Wii.

MELCHIOR (CONT’D)
Merry Christmas, little one.

MARY
Christ Mass! Joseph, did you hear?

JOSEPH
Yes, it was very clever.

BALTHASAR
Melchior, what is this thing?

MELCHIOR
It is a Wii.

GASPAR
Yeah, a Wii.

BALTHASAR
Shut up, Gaspar.

MELCHIOR
It’s an interactive gaming system. Got tennis, bowling, anything you want. Back in the future, they’re friggin impossible to get a hold of.

BALTHASAR
But we agreed upon frankincense, gold, and myrrh. And you bring this...device?

MELCHIOR
You’re right, B. This device is useless.

GASPAR
Finally, some sense.

MELCHIOR
Which is why I also brought them an HDTV with converter cables!

He pulls a TV out of his satchel, along with various cables and wires. He dumps them in Joseph and Mary's arms.

BALTHASAR
Stop giving them gifts!

GASPAR
You’re ruining Christmas for Jesus!

MARY
Melchior, your generosity goes beyond our wildest dreams.

Joseph wipes a tear from his eye.

JOSEPH
Thank you, Saintly Magi, thank you.

Melchior beams. Suddenly there is a knock at the door and a MELCHIOR CLONE enters wearing a Santa costume.

MELCHIOR CLONE
Ho! Ho! Ho! Did I hear somebody say Saint Nicholas?

Melchior goes white.

GASPAR
Melchior!

JOSEPH
What is the meaning of this witchery?

GASPAR
Yeah, witchery!

MELCHIOR CLONE
Well, you see, when our pal Melchior here decided to break the space and time continuum, he created two of us in essence. One that existed in the future, him, and one that existed in the past, me.

MELCHIOR
Well you’re too late. I already gave him the Wii.

Joseph has opened the Wii and uses it to milk a nearby goat.

JOSEPH
We love it.

MARY
So does Jesus.

MELCHIOR
See?

MELCHIOR CLONE
Oh, that’s great. A Wii, huh? Wow. Well how about a Playstation Four?

MELCHIOR
Nice try. There’s no such thing.

MELCHIOR CLONE
There isn’t? Oh, then this must be a fake.
The clone pulls out a glowing, futuristic game console. Melchior goes pale.

MELCHIOR
But how--?

MELCHIOR CLONE
Every time you would do something in the future, I would learn from it. I would gain the memory of everything you did in the future without having done it.

MELCHIOR
So you saw...that thing in the motel?

MELCHIOR CLONE
Yeah. You might want to see the apothecary about that.

Mary hands Melchior the Myrrh and points to his groin.

MELCHIOR
Thanks.

MELCHIOR CLONE (CONT’D)
So when I learned you had bought the kid a Wii, all I had to do was go a little further into the future, wait for them to create a new Playstation, and then sneak one back here.

MELCHIOR
I never thought I'd say this about a clone, but I'm impressed.

They shake hands.

Suddenly a THIRD MELCHIOR CLONE comes rushing into the barn, clothes tattered, blood on his hands.

THIRD CLONE
Everyone! Hold everything! I’ve just come back from the year Five-thousand AD and it’s been scientifically proven beyond a shadow of a doubt that God doesn’t exist!

GASPAR
But if God doesn’t exist that means none of this is happening!

The Melchior pats Gaspar on the back.

MELCHIOR CLONE
Gaspar, my friend, you’ve got a lot to learn!

Tucked safely in his crib, Baby Jesus BURPS loudly. Everyone LAUGHS...and laughs...and laughs...

THE END

Scabs!

2007-11-24T09:46:00.000-05:00

Because I haven't updated this in a while, and because McSweeneys turned it down. Satire!

The Strike Goes On: Sweeps by Scabs

The strike has Hollywood in a state of suspended creativity (not the creativity!). Fortunately, the strike has opened the doors for a host of new writers, brave men and women who fearlessly cross picket lines in the name of quality programming. Below, synopses of their work.

LOST – “Everybody Dies”

Jack uncovers three seasons worth of island secrets and reveals them to the castaways all at once: the island, it turns out, IS pergatory after all, not to mention that Locke is actually an alien sent to monitor Jack et al., by his supreme intergalactic commander: God. As the credits roll, a bomb explodes, killing only the main characters, leaving behind a bunch of confused, underwritten periphery characters.

DESPERATE HOUSEWIVES – “Fool Me Twice”

The red-headed chick learns that the blonde one has been running an underground slave trading ring. She enlists the old one from Superman to catch her in the act. Using a wide range of spy gizmos, Superman girl tracks down blonde girl in Bolivia. A big gun/karate fight ensues and blonde chick is slain. It is ultimately revealed that she was actually black haired chick’s twin. This is the one with Ben Affleck's wife right?

FULL HOUSE – “The Party”

The gang reassembles after Joey has a near-death experience. Danny makes vulgar jokes about the Olsen twins and everyone talks about how awesome the 80s and its various by-products were. There’s even a flashback in which earlier episodes are featured. The whole thing stinks of forced irony.

ARE YOU SMARTER THAN A GUANTAMO BAY INMATE?

While primarily a live reality/game show, a few writers are needed to craft host Oscar de la Hoya’s banter with the contestants. Additionally, some pre-taped scripted segments are needed to enhance the homosexual tension between Jill, the single mother of two, and Salwa one of the show’s in-house inmates.

TWO AND A HALF MEN – “The Goof, the Bad and the Duvet”

[No noticeable change in writing.]

CSI: MIAMI - “We’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat”

After a shark fisherman is found slain on his boat, the CSI team must round up every shark in the greater Miami area. Things get complicated when they are forced to consider one of their own, Sgt. Sharke, as a suspect. Friendships are tested, and a new romance is forged.

SATURDAY NIGHT LIVE – Host: Dennis Kucinich

Sketches range from a sassy time-traveling coat once belonging to Søren Kierkegaard, to “Don’t Vibrate for Me Garnagzoola” a musical number involving Kucinich, a UFO, and Andy Samburg as an operatic dildo. A viral sensation is born!

30 ROCK – “Mohammed Mia!”

Liz is confronted by the Arab-American community after a war-on-terror sketch goes hilariously awry. Rachel Dratch guest-stars as a malapropism-prone suicide bomber.

UGLY BETTY – “Ugly Barrista”

Finding corporate life stifling, Betty quits her job in order to write the screenplay she’s always wanted to write. After weeks of procrastinating, she begrudgingly signs up as a barista at Starbucks. While there, she begins attending a writers’ workshop taught by a handsome college professor. Her screenplay is ultimately accepted into a minor LA screenwriting competition, however she is unable to attend the awards ceremony due to a frothed-milk burn.

WGA and Studios Split on Net Distribution

2007-10-09T09:56:00.001-04:00

More like HollyWEIRD! LOL!

Lips.Fancy Lad/Frosting

2007-07-16T11:11:00.000-04:00

My Late Show colleague Matt Little has a monthly show around New York called Matt Little's Big Show. During his show he airs commercials like this one. Watch it many times.

Best of the Day

2007-07-12T09:00:00.000-04:00

Best Chris Sartinsky post of the day: Greg White on Yankee Pot Roast

Best New York Times headline of the day: China Prohibits Poisonous Industrial Solvent in Toothpaste

Best Baltic Canned Fish Product: Surstromming

Congratulations, everyone.

The Time Dave Said Hello to Me

2007-06-15T20:04:00.000-04:00

So the other day Dave said hello to me. Prior to that, the closest thing we had achieved to a conversation was this one time when he walked by me and gave me a "Who are you and why are you back here?" kind of look.

Well, with just one month left in my Late Show contract we have finally advanced to the next level of friendship! It was before the show and I was downstairs kicking it with Bill, the head of security, and my pal Terrence, the hired muscle, when Cathy, the line producer, walks out of the control room as she does everyday and said, "Here we go."

Now on a normal day, Cathy's "Here we go" means that it's about one minute until Dave comes running through this backstage hallway where I often find myself and everyone instinctually straightens their shirts, runs a hand through their hair, and remembers to put their lumbar region to good use.

So Cathy says, "Here we go" and shirts are tucked and hairs are arranged and we all wait for the thudding of footsteps to round the corner into the hallway, past us, and out of sight. However on this particular day, rather than bounding down the hallway, fists pumping, lower jaw squared, we hear normal human footsteps round the corner. I hear a familiar voice make casual office talk, "Cold down here today, isn't it?" and look up to see Dave in his shorts and t-shirt. Neat, I think. Then I think, Avert gaze!

So Dave strolls by and says "Hi, Bill" and then he looks at Terrence and says, "Hi, Terrence" and then he looks at me, in between Terrence and Bill and says, "Hello." Then he walks away. Bill grunts and trudges back upstairs, Terrence takes Bill's place, and I keep standing where I've been standing for the past twenty minutes.

Maybe it was the fact that Dave's broken nose was feeling better, or maybe it was the news that they caught the guy who had escaped from prison after being put there for threatening to kidnap Dave's son and Dave's son's nanny for $5 million dollars. Either way, everyone wins.

In an alternate reality, one where me and him have an established repoir (which is weird to both him and I since neither of us have ever spoken to this point), he walks by and says Hey to Bill and then Hey to Terrence and then Hello to me to which I respond, "Hey, sweet how they caught that guy, huh?" to which he would reply "Yeah!" (I know this is how he would respond because one of my friends was with Bill the day they caught the guy and Dave goes to Bill, "Bill, didja hear? They caught him, Bill! They caught him!") and so he says Yeah! and I go, oh by the way, I've written some jokes for you that you've read on air to which he replies, Oh, nice, how many? And I say, Three, but I think I'll get another one on sometime soon, so let's round up to a solid five and he goes, Yeah, but that's still pretty awesome. Then I tell him which ones they were and he goes, Al Roker did what? Man, that guy's always getting himself into trouble. Well, see ya.

However our repoir remains unestablished (although one step closer to establishment for sure), and so I wait until Dave rounds the next corner, and wait again for Bill to trudge back upstairs, and wait until I can wait no longer before punching Terrence in the arm and doing a karate kick. It was really impressive.

Just cranking 'em out...

2007-05-22T22:02:00.000-04:00

Two aphorisms in one night!

Aphorism #2: People who take artistic photographs of homeless people are awful.

Aphorisms

2007-05-22T22:01:00.001-04:00

Gawsh-darnit I'm a smart fella, so why shouldn't I start writing aphorisms just like Brillat-Savarin? Why not indeed.

Aphorism 1: People who talk about how poor they are usually aren't that poor.

Comic-Con

2007-05-20T20:19:00.000-04:00

Had a wonderful idea for a three panel comic strip wherein a thirty-something business guy shares an apartment with an infant. Catch is, the infant's lack of a developed nervous system creates some whacky situation comedy. Oh, by the way, it's called "Dumb Baby."

Observez:

Panel 1: Guy enters apartment carrying briefcase. Dumb Baby sits in front of a humongous stack of tunafish cans.

Guy: Hey--what a day, I'm beat. Did you open those cans of tuna I asked you to open?

Panel 2: Dumb Baby sucks on the can opener and poops his diaper.

Panel 3: Guy goes to slam his bedroom door spitefully.

Guy: Oh, that's right. I forgot you don't have the motor skills necessary to operate a can opener. Dumb baby.

So there's this guy at work...

2007-05-20T19:53:00.000-04:00

I recently came up with a great method of dealing with one's grievances towards a peer: write a sketch satirizing their worst and most noticeable qualities. Hurray satire!

It would take too long to explain all the references in this specific sketch (and there are many) not to mention my other intense dislike of libel suits, so I won't say anything beyond the man who inspired this sketch is one the saddest individuals I've ever had the pleasure to meet. Think David Brent, but with less going for him. But "More Meat" works as a stand-alone piece of weirdness.

"Bucky Toothbert in: More Meat!"

FADE IN:

INT. TOOTHBERT ESTATE - DAY.

MADAME TOOTHBERT and her husband SIR TOOTHBERT sit in their elaborately decorated parlor, half-asleep.

On a side table, a RADIO broadcast plays.

ANNOUNCER
(in German)
...To do so, combine one part butter in a warm pan with one part flour. Stir to make a roux. Add milk and nutmeg...

MADAME TOOTHBERT
(mumbling)
Hit him again, dear...carrot...

Suddenly like a burst of totally awesome fresh air, their son BUCKY TOOTHBERT flies in on a skateboard. His hair is done up in an elaborate pompadour.

BUCKY
Bucky in the house! YES! It's gettin' hot in here, so take off all your clothes!

Bucky rips off his shirt, revealing a doughy, hairy mass of middle aged flesh. He laughs maniacally apropos of nothing.

His mother awakes with a start.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Oh, Bucky, how good to see you. Is it tea time yet?

BUCKY
I don't know what you're talkin' bout, old lady, but Bucky's starved! Whadya we got to eat around here?

Bucky begins knocking over expensive looking furniture in search of food. Sir Toothbert wakes up.

SIR TOOTHBERT
Bucky, those are lamps my dear boy. Food is kept in the pantry.

BUCKY
Oh, cool.

Bucky exits.

SIR TOOTHBERT
(to Madame)
Honestly, he's damned near forty, he should know better.

From off screen, a loud CRASH and a woman's SCREAM.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Oh, dear.

Bucky re-enters the parlor. He now has an older black woman, TITUBA, in a fierce headlock.

BUCKY
Mommy! Look! An n-word!

Bucky laughs again as he threatens to become totally unhinged. Tituba struggles.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Bucky! Bucky! That's Tituba!

BUCKY
A what?

SIR TOOTHBERT
Goddamnit, Bucky! That's the hired help!

BUCKY
Oh. Whatever. Slut.

Bucky throws her onto the floor. Tituba lies panting as Madame crosses over to her.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Oh, Tituba, are you alright?

TITUBA
I--think so. He scared me so!

MADAME TOOTHBERT
I know. I know, dear.

Angered by the attention being heaped on the colored woman in his home, Bucky walks over to an heirloom armoir and begins urinating on it. His faces is awash with glee.

SIR TOOTHBERT
Bucky!

Sir produces a squirt bottle and begins spritzing Bucky. Bucky yelps and zips up.

BUCKY
(baby talk)
Sowwy, Daddy. I wuv woo. (A beat) Woo, woo! Hollah back youngin! Oh, fuck yeah, Jay-Z!

Bucky stops singing suddenly and advances on Tituba. She eyes him fearfully. He offers her his hand.

BUCKY (CONT’D)
Look, I just wanted to say I'm sorry. Do you like my hair?

TITUBA
I--uh--what?

BUCKY
No biggie. Here.

He extends his hand further. Tituba reaches for it. Bucky pulls his hand away and she falls down again. Bucky cracks up.

BUCKY (CONT’D)
Holy fucking shit! Can you believe she fell for that again? Fuckin' bitch!

Bucky laughs so hard he vomits. He grabs a fistful of candy from a nearby dish and shoves it in his mouth.

SIR TOOTHBERT
Jesus...

BUCKY
So, ma, pop, what's she do anyhow?

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Oh, you know, dear. She helps around the house, does chores, takes messages.

BUCKY
Does she like my hair?

TITUBA
I don't understand.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
(confidentially)
Ever since he started losing it, he's become very self-conscious about it. Just say yes.

TITUBA
Uh, yes. Your hair is nice.

Bucky runs a hand through it and acts casual, trying to hide his pleasure.

BUCKY
Whatever. You got any messages for me?

TITUBA
What? Oh, well, actually yes. Your boss rang. She said that you did such a good job cleaning the windows last week, she's promoting you to Key Window Cleaner.

BUCKY
It's like fuckin' Top Gun in here! Right, mommy? Hiiiiighway tooooo the DANGER ZONE!

SIR TOOTHBERT
Look, Tituba, why don't you--

Bucky side tackles his father off his recliner. His father hits his head and is knocked unconscious.

BUCKY
BUCKY WANT SING!

With effort, Bucky defecates in his pants.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Sh, it's okay dear.

Madame crosses over to Bucky and hugs him tightly. Bucky begins kissing his mother's neck and bosom making chomping noises. Tituba looks on, horrified.

BUCKY
Numnumnum, Bucky hungry!

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Tituba, why don't you cook up some steaks, hm?

Tituba exits silently.

BUCKY
Steaks? YES!

Bucky begins violently slapping himself about the neck and face, pulling his hair.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Oh, Bucky, I wish you wouldn't!

BUCKY
Meat! MEat! MEAT!

Tituba re-enters carrying a massive tray of grilled meats. She sets it down.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Now, remember what you learned at etiquette class last week. Fork on the right and--

Bucky knocks his mother aside and begins attacking the steaks. Some he shoves in his mouth, others he just bites before throwing them on the floor.

MADAME TOOTHBERT (CONT’D)
Now, Bucky, save some for your father.

BUCKY
BUCKY NEEDS FIVE POUNDS OF MEAT! No! No! Mommy! No!

He pounds his fists on the steaks and continues eating. Tituba holds back tears.

Moments later, the frenzy ends just as suddenly as it began. The parlor has been turned into a mass grave of half-eaten protein.

Bucky licks his hands clean and stands.

BUCKY (CONT’D)
I'm late for Drama Class. Bucky OUT!

Bucky grabs his skateboard and skates clumsily out of the room. His lunatic shouts echo down the hallways.

Sir Toothbert comes to.

SIR TOOTHBERT
Wha--what happened?

MADAME TOOTHBERT
Oh, dear, don't move. I think he might have broken your neck this time.

TITUBA
I'll call the police.

MADAME TOOTHBERT
No! No police! Bucky's a good boy. He's a good boy. Isn't he dear?

SIR TOOTHBERT
Yes. Yes he is. The best.

FADE TO:

EXT. CITY STREET - CONTINUOUS

Bucky ineffectively skates in and out of traffic. He skates through a red light and a SCHOOL
BUS swerves to avoid him, crashing into a CHILDREN'S HOSPITAL. Flames engulf them both.

For a brief moment, Bucky gives pause, awe struck, achieving something nearing lucidity. A beat. Then:

BUCKY
AWESOME! Bucky rules!

He raises a triumphant fist and we FREEZE FRAME on this heroic image.

FADE TO:

TITLE CARD: 9/11: Never Forget. God Bless the USA.

FADE TO BLACK.

Tomato in a Box

2007-05-20T19:48:00.001-04:00

If college kids and trailer inhabitants can drink wine from a box, why can't an Italian food conglomerate put tomatoes in a box? Well, you're in luck, because Parmalat has.

When I'm not in the mood to drive to any of the specialty stores that carry La Fede (the Italian markets in my area, the fish monger, etc.), I go for Parmalat's Pomi brand chopped tomatoes. They come in a nifty little box and look super European in the package design. Granted, I'm not in love with the chopped texture (I prefer to buy whole canned tomatoes and hand crush them), but I must admit, they make for a fine sauce.

Tomato+olive oil+sliced garlic+minced onion+minced carrot=It's neat!

Bosstown Spring

2007-05-06T20:30:00.000-04:00

Had a lovely weekend up yonder. Highlights:

Saturday
Lunch
A nice walk to Coolidge Anna's: carnitas burrito with Jeff and Josh

Dinner
Table up front at America's greatest Indian restaurant, India Quality: Chicken tikka masala/madras, tandoori chicken, and nan (plus condiments for Turbo) with Grace, (J/K)illian, Jeff, Turbo, and Chris

Sunday
Brunch at the always fantastic Great Bay: Duxbury oysters and eggs benedict over smoked salmon, arugula, pickled red onion, and homemade English muffins

Added to all of the food and company was a new mind-teasing game wherein players attempt to punnily combine the names of famous people with parts of the human anatomy, and you've
got yourself (myself) one lolly of a weekend.

***

And now, Bruce Springsteen and Clarence Clemons in: Weekend at Bosstown, USA.

Bruce: Greg is neat! I like Greg!

Clarence: (saxophone)

Technically this counts as a new post

2007-04-30T22:28:00.000-04:00

Technically.

Mine

And because this one has a similar web address if slightly different point of view.

Cacao in a bottle

2007-04-17T11:44:00.000-04:00

The closest I've come to drinking cocoa from a wine bottle:

At $25 it's not an everyday bottle, but for a nice Sunday dinner, it's pretty spiffy. The bottle I had was 2002, not, as this picture shows, 1999. Speaking of years, today also brought along a 1996 Rondan Rioja Reserva and a 2001 Igneus Priorat which I expect will be pretty, pretty, pretty good.

Rules of Writing

2007-04-17T10:12:00.000-04:00

Found this on another blog. Kurt Vonnegut's eight rules for writing. My they're good. Not all of them apply to screen/TV writing (i.e. number eight), but the one about being a sadist is spot on.

1. Use the time of a total stranger in such a way that he or she will not feel the time was wasted.

2. Give the reader at least one character he or she can root for.

3. Every character should want something, even if it is only a glass of water.

4. Every sentence must do one of two things -- reveal character or advance the action.

5. Start as close to the end as possible.

6. Be a sadist. Now matter how sweet and innocent your leading characters, make awful things happen to them -- in order that the reader may see what they are made of.

7. Write to please just one person. If you open a window and make love to the world, so to speak, your story will get pneumonia.

8. Give your readers as much information as possible as soon as possible. To heck with suspense. Readers should have such complete understanding of what is going on, where and why, that they could finish the story themselves, should cockroaches eat the last few pages.

Faster YouTube Super Democracy Kill! Kill!

2007-04-17T08:54:00.000-04:00

First off, is it me, or does John Edwards bear a striking resemblance to that luckiest man in 70s sitcom history, Jack Tripper?

Just picture him falling over an ottoman or something and you've got it.

This morning as I skimmed Drudge Report for monologue fodder, I came across an small piece about how John Edwards spends $400 to get his hair cut. In the article there was a link to yet another YouTube video that had run its course without my knowledge.

The video shows John Edward and a stylist primping and pruning his hair into a glossy helmet, accompanied by the delicate strains of "I Feel Pretty." If my watching it ten times in a row has anything to do with it, the video is pretty amusing. It's also kind of soothing in an admittedly creepy watching-people-get-their-hair-played-with kind of way.

Attached to this video was another video titled "John Edwards: YouTube is Good for Democracy." As you might have guessed, the clip features John Edwards during a radio interview in which he is asked whether or not he thinks YouTube is good for democracy. Edwards answers, of course it is, it allows for instant and uncensored expression, allowing for both fans and detractors to post their thoughts, regardless of merit or point of view because who are we to decide and blah blah blah. It's a fair answer to a somewhat asinine question, but what's interesting is that neither interviewer nor interviewee seems to really grasp the full meaning of the question.

My feeling is that YouTube and the super-saturated media environment that birthed it, are actually, in a way, bad for democracy. Or at least democracy as far as it relates to presidential elections. Yes, people get to voice concerns and opinions, and video sharing sites do a fantastic job of sorting through all the information out there to the point where nobody misses anything. This is good. And often very funny.

But I'm curious, does all this media saturation make politicians safer? More self-aware? This is not to say that before YouTube political candidates were free-wheeling, but it'd be very interesting to compare how Abe Lincoln campaigned versus any of the 08 candidates. How's that for cool? We'd need weapons grade plutonium to pull this off, but I swear I know a guy.

But let's be clear, it's not YouTube, it's us. Which I'll get to in a second and which brings us back to our earlier point, about YouTube possibly being bad for democracy. Democracy only works if people are well-informed and vaguely educated. Where trouble starts is when you have people being swayed by a clip of, say, John Edwards combing his hair, or more pointedly, Howard Dean's now infamous yell thing. It'd be one thing if we could take random C-SPAN clips or out-of-context sound bytes on the nightly news with a grain of salt, but we can't. Instead we watch it and email it to our friends and post it on our websites and by the time the candidate steps up to the mic, he knows we've seen the clip of him tripping over a mic wire, and worse, he knows we know he knows.

And this is why candidates act safe, play to expectations, spend two minutes combing their hair, because like the nerd who somehow gets a date with the cheerleader for prom, they're too afraid to get their retainer stuck in the girl's mouth and so they end up buying the corsage, not dancing, and dropping her off before returning to their neatly made bed sheets. And because you won't hop into bed with John Edwards' mussy hair, or let Howard Dean chop down a tree with his bare hands, political candidates have prom night blue balls. And that's not good for anything. Now about that weapons grade plutonium...

"CAPTAIN WHITE, THAT TREE IS WHERE TOMORROW, APRIL 10TH 1861, PRESIDENT LINCOLN WILL GIVE AN ARBOR DAY SPEECH! WE DID IT! WE! DID! IT!"

KAKOW!!!

Hopkinton-Ashland-Framingham-Natick-Wellesley-Newton-Brookline-Boston

2007-04-15T12:42:00.000-04:00

Forecast for tomorrow's Boston marathon: mid-40s, high winds with a 100% chance of rain.

One suggestion: wear lots of corduroy. The kind with the big cords.

4/4: We Shall Never Forget

2007-04-13T10:00:00.000-04:00

Once again too lazy-ish to type real analysis, so instead I present a series of excerpts with snide commentary.

From "Off the Air: The Light Goes Out for Don Imus"

"The CBS chief executive, Leslie Moonves met yesterday afternoon with the Rev. Al Sharpton and the Rev. Jesse Jackson leaders in what became a national movement to remove Mr. Imus from the air in the wake of his comments disparaging members of the Rutgers women’s basketball team. On April 4, Mr. Imus referred on the air to the Rutgers athletes as “nappy-headed hos.”

I like how the first time the phrase was uttered it was the end of all things, but the next four thousand times every pundit, journalist and newscaster says it, it's A-ok. That's neat. To borrow a phrase from Ms. Stringer, doesn't the constant repetition of "nappy-headed hoes" rob the initial incident of its own moment?

Or does context play a role in defining the word's potency? If we can mention it, so long as we aren't using it to offend, it's fine? But what about the dreaded n-word? Newscasters would never use it, even in the most intellectual of settings.

In a statement, Mr. Moonves said: “Those who have spoken with us the last few days represent people of good will from all segments of our society — all races, economic groups, men and women alike. In our meetings with concerned groups, there has been much discussion of the effect language like this has on our young people, particularly young women of color trying to make their way in this society.”

That's really dignified of Les. It's an articulate, humanitarian statement at a moment of national crisis and what's really nice is that for once, in this jaded business, this had nothing to do with commerce or anything. Well played, Les.

Both CBS and MSNBC had been under pressure from black leaders and women’s groups, then advertisers began abandoning the Imus program and its networks this week, pulling out the financial underpinnings from the show.

Oh.

“It was a very productive meeting,” she said. “Players, coaches, parents, administrators, the pastor, and Mr. Imus were able to really dialogue. I’m extremely proud of our 10 young basketball players.”

Isaiah Washington even made an appearance at the love-in and, just to show how cured he is, they strapped him down in a chair, gagged him, and had a homosexual gyrate in his face. When they removed the gag, Isaiah smiled and grunted, "You...friend..."

Asked if Mr. Imus apologized, Ms. Stringer declined to answer. “We’ve said as much as we can say tonight.”

But she did add with a wink, "I can tell you this though, he won't be sitting down anytime soon."

In a memo sent to CBS employees announcing Mr. Imus’s dismissal, Mr. Moonves said: “This is about a lot more than Imus. As has been widely pointed out, Imus has been visited by presidents, senators, important authors and journalists from across the political spectrum. He has flourished in a culture that permits a certain level of objectionable expression that hurts and demeans a wide range of people. In taking him off the air, I believe we take an important and necessary step not just in solving a unique problem, but in changing that culture, which extends far beyond the walls of our company.”

Wow, that's really gr--

Both CBS and MSNBC had been under pressure from black leaders and women’s groups, then advertisers began abandoning the Imus program and its networks this week, pulling out the financial underpinnings from the show.

Oh.

Even then, it seems unlikely that he would match his current salary in a fledgling medium with a fraction of the audience of conventional radio, particularly as the two main satellite companies --Sirius and XM — try to cut costs in pursuit of a merger. Moreover, with Congress and the Federal Communications Commission reviewing that proposed deal, they may be reluctant to take on a tainted figure like Mr. Imus, who would stir controversy among the regulators who must approve the merger.

Segue!

Speaking of bravery, how about those PBS stations that are planning to go ahead and show "Operation Homecoming" UNCENSORED? That's right, they're all, F the FCC, yo! Wartime T&A, Iraqi Freedom style! God forbid all those impressionable PBS viewers should hear a soldier with shrapnel in his leg utter something uncouth.

The decision to air it uncensored at 10PM is because it falls just outside of the FCC's carefully considered "safe zone" of 6AM to 10PM. The logic here is that during these times, it is less likely that a younger audience will be watching. Correct me if I'm wrong, but doesn't airing a show on PBS pretty much cancel out any chance of a young audience in the first place?

From today's NY Times article:

"A handful of stations [including NYC, Albany, DC, and Boston] have chosen not to bleep out eight words and not to obscure a few crude images, none of which the stations would normally put on the air."

Eight words? Crude images? Are these stations trying to let the terrorists win?

"The move comes at a time when many public television stations have chosen to be overly cautious to avoid tangling with the FCC on indecency issues, given ther hefty fines that have been imposted when viewers complain."

Just curious: who's complaining? I mean, I know people DO complain, but who exactly are they? Christian fundamentalists? Fly-over state shut-ins? Toddlers? Who are these people that are so set in their whacko code that they can extract any and everything from context without even blinking?

As a result of these offended callers, most stations are requesting the edited version from PBS. Says the eloquent VP of Washington DC's station WETA* (and Vietnam vet) Joseph Bruns: "We're not doing it to be provocative of the FCC; we're doing it because we believe in the merits of the film as it's been done... I think it's important that people do feel the raw emotions of people who were sent to war."

Important, so long as the image is tidy enough as to not upset Breakfast for Dinner Night at the Johnson home. Waffles instead of filet mignon? Mom's silly!

I bring these two stories up for a reason, but I'm not entirely sure what that reason is. Maybe it has something to do with the fact that they say different but similar things about the nature of media censorship and the role context plays in both. Who gets to decide what will fly? Are the opinions of the lunatic mid-West shut-ins as valid as the African-American community? I'm curious as to what it means from a cultural stand point when "eight words" from a war documentary have the same power to offend (and indict) as does a racial epithet?

No doubt there are bigger issues at play, and need to be dealt with, but, as the always enlightening Lionel said the other night, I hope to God we don't lose our edge.

*For a second there, I thought Peter Jackson had started a side venture in DC. My heart done leaped.

Notes from the Decaying Underbelly

2007-04-12T13:38:00.000-04:00

The Times' Arts section today provided both a sour note as well as a surprisingly welcome bright spot on this very rainy April day (how rainy? so rainy I'm typing this instead of playing golf). I've all but stopped reading the A section because the minute I see anything involving "car" or "bomb" or any combination of the two accompanied by a photo of a crying Arab man, my eyes glaze over and I pass out. The last time this happened I fell face first into a bowl of my Flaxplus and nearly drowned. How's that for desensitization?

In the tradition of Turbo, first we'll mention the negative. There was the annoyingly told you so-ish "This Time, the Shock Jock's Sidekick Couldn't Shield the Boss." It's actually a decent article, illustrating a producer's role on an occasionally controversial radio show and the fine line involved in a host's proximity to his material. The reason I list this as a negative is that I am so beyond sick of hearing about Imus and the latest melody in this on-going argument. We get it. Please, let's stop. I don't even have the energy to argue either side. I. Just. Want. It. To. Stop. Just draw and quarter Imus and whoever else and then we can finally celebrate the end of all racism or at least wait until someone else says something that someone else can sink their fangs into. I just want to say that my thoughts and prayers are with those brave women, and that I really hope this issue is the main platform during the next election.

Moving right along, our favorite gal pal, Virginia Heffernan made a major move towards paying off the debt she owes me for all the time and energy I've wasted hating her writing. She wrote a great (if blandly titled) article today on the new network shitcom Notes from the Underbelly that actually made me chuckle a bit. The article begins:

“Notes From the Underbelly” is a revolting sitcom about pregnancy. Watch and you’ll lose your appetite for life.

Virginia! Look at you! Perhaps it's my admiration of the word "revolting" and appreciation for how well the first sentence rolls into the next with all the foreboding and knowledge of a much warier, much more seasoned television reviewer.

Normally I'm used to seeing her review "American Idol" or YouTube videos with this odd, unsettling mixture of smarmy condescension and ironic appreciation. It's frustrating and, yes, revolting. Part of the problem is that it wastes valuable space in the shrinking arts section, because for every 500 word review of "Laguna Beach" that is one less valuable article we'll actually get to read. Besides, do the editors (or Ginny) really think the readers of the Arts section even know what most of these shows are? And why do we need reviews of it in the first place? It's like reviewing what happened in your office last week.

But most of all, her articles always seemed to lack a real point of view and a pair of balls. It's easy to write a cutesy pap smear about a video parody on YouTube, or on a harmless reality show that is gosh-darn-silly-but-it's-cute-and-I-can't-help-watching-it-because-it's-on-after-Grey's-
and-who-cares-if-it-signals-the-end-of-society-as-we-know-itidontcare, but what about the (admittedly few) shows that matter? Or their contextual relevancy?

Finally, finally, finally, with today's article, she steps out of the cutesy dorm-room viewing darkness (the one that always left me picturing her eating a frozen dinner, alone, in front of the TV wishing she was hit by a car and Dr. McDreamy/Steamy/Roofie fell in love with her while looking after her but then she dies and he kills himself and then they have tender angel sex) and into the territory of pissed off, not gonna take it anymore criticism that we get in glimpses from Manohla and even the milquetoast A.O. Scott.

She continues:

“Notes” has one of those pushy set-ups in which a noxious central couple is supposed to be normal, while their friends are wacky and desperate. Just turn it off and forget, for the evening, that you have ever heard of television. (It starts tonight on ABC. Forget that too.)

Ki-yah! I am so proud.

Granted, the rest of the article loses it's fangs as she ends up writing about how good the performances are, and even though I'd rather see her tear the show apart and decry the state of the television networks she loves so much, I have to say, I am very pleased with her today.

After today, I feel like I have a better-informed idea of who she is. She's just a sad little lady who likes to watch TV and keep up with celebrity trends and is really nice but lonesome. Also, I'm thinking that she's just so happy to be on the "inside," receiving screeners, getting the scoop before anyone else, that she fears being critical without asking permission first might get her kicked out of the club. She's lost a bit of weight since her pay checks started coming in a little more frequently and with more heft, but she'd still like to lose more. She doesn't really see herself moving beyond the Times or writing, and if she was young enough, she would be writing a lot more messages on her friends' Facebook walls.

So, Ginny, tonight, you go ahead and eat that pint of Ben & Jerry's, you've earned it.

Virginia Heffernan: Arg! Chagrin!

2007-04-06T11:23:00.000-04:00

Oh, Virginia. Once again you've made a complex mess out of a simple pancake recipe. When did this vaguely whimsical, surrealist lite take over entertainment viewers for the NY Times? The same way that so many entertainment/gossip blogs (Defamer, Gawker, et al.) seem to have all drank deep and heartily from the same well of tonal sarcasm do reviewers like A.O. Scott and Virginia Heffernan seem to have taken writing lessons from Frank Bruni's less successful writing professor brother-in-law.

A better, perhaps more succinct description might be impressionistic reviews. Take this sentence from today's review of the new season (or second half of last season) of Entourage:

This season is about how men love men, and how they hate themselves for loving men, and how they worry about loving men, and how they need to stand up to men so they can love women, or stand up to women so they can love men.

What? I--it--really?

It also becomes apparent in VH's review that she aspires to something better than critic for the New York Times. Something, like, say, a gossip columnist:

And then there’s Jeremy Piven. Honestly, in the off seasons he looks ready to lose it. Can he really continue playing Ari Gold, the jerk superagent, without getting delusions and landing in ego-disorder rehab?

Like, wow, Scoob!

Now you may not agree with me on this, but perhaps you can forgive me for constantly looking for reasons to hate her writing when you read her other article in today's Times about that Seven Minute Sopranos vid.

Heffernan first gained a foothold in the YouTube/viral video reviewing niche when she reviewed (is reviewed even the right word?) a few of those Brokeback Mountain spoof trailers from a few years ago. Cute. Since then she's balanced her work between reviewing TV pap like Laguna Beach and writing about web video for an audience who a) has already seen the videos under review and b) probably doesn't care.

So it was with this already in mind that I opened up the paper today and greedily devoured her write up about the latest viral-video from-two-weeks-ago-that's-already-been-milked-to-death like a junkie who knows the heroin is only going to hurt him, but can't help needling up first thing in the AM.

I read along almost happily, like Ike and Tina on a pleasant picnic, until I came to this:

And that point — the duet in a major key, followed by a breath — is especially affecting when Carmela reverses her enthusiasm for therapy in the next scene, having learned that Tony’s therapist is a woman. Standing on a balcony she rains a half-dozen black valises down on her husband and curses at him to leave the house. This is the first of several times Mr. Sabia and Mr. Gulyas use this scene. It becomes shorthand for Carmela’s indignation.

The repetition of this stagecraft has become many commenters’ favorite part of “Seven Minute Sopranos.” But it’s also where Mr. Gulyas and Mr. Sabia make clear that they bring a critic’s eye to the action of the show. But what statement are they making with the repetition? Something about the redundancy of Ms. Falco’s performance? Or perhaps the cyclical nature of Tony and Carmela’s marriage?

It's bad enough that Heff is even writing about this in the first place, but when she tosses in attempts to legitimately review a web video, I just about fall off my chair. On purpose. To prove a point, you know? What statement are they making? This is like anthropomorphism, only instead of non-human begins, we have two guys with a lot of time on their hands, and instead of the ability to speak the human tongue, they have a keen critic's eye and sly wit for web video critique.

Now, I am more than willing to admit that context is everything for me. If this sort of review had appeared on a site like The Daily Reel, I'd call it well played. Brilliant even. But why, tell me Jesus, is this in the NY Times arts section? I'm all for convergence, but really, like this? Maybe that is like me saying I'm okay with anal rape as long as it doesn't happen to me, but all of this makes me understand the outcry amongst Austrian coffee house intellectuals over the introduction of newspapers when it was said that the appearance of so many varied topics will only result in everything losing its meaning. The same argument is applied to Internet news sources where one can catch up on the latest car bomb attack with one eye, while the other orb scans the dets of Anna Nicole Smith's autopsy and OH MY GOD is Bragelina getting fat! At first I found this thought off putting and precious, but now I get it.

Part of the problem is, as Mark Cuban already pointed out, big newspapers like the Times oughtn't be covering things that are necessarily temporal. Things like big breaking news events and even viral video are covered with much more precision and timeliness by other web sites devoted solely to such matters. In essence Cuban is the hunky jock who outs himself to the hot former nerd with an eating disorder, reassuring her, Look at you, you're gorgeous. You have it all, you just can turn me un-gay. Stick to what you're good at: letting the men's basketball team have their drunken way with you. Or something like that.

Is it me, or is it a sign of the times when our collective interests can leap from opera to classical music performance to web video in one fell swoop? What are we to make of our cultural standing that now includes YouTube (on the cusp of getting its own verb a la Google or Facebook) as a legitimate art form? It seems to me that we are now practicing the circumnavigational habits of the men of yore by going so far backwards that we end up ahead. And at our helm is a mahogany bust of Virginia Heffernan.

Awful, Awful, Awful

2007-04-05T10:32:00.000-04:00

This site is turning very morose. It was reported this morning that Bob Clark, director of "A Christmas Story" and his twenty-two year old son were killed when a drunk driver collided with their car last night on the PCH.

First Darren McGavin died last year, and now this.

Just think, where would we all be without our yearly 24 hours of "A Christmas Story"? As the story goes, Bob was a lot more involved in the creation than one might suspect. According to local lore:

In the late 1960s, “A Christmas Story” director Bob Clark was driving to a date’s house when he happened upon a broadcast of radio personality and writer Jean Shepherd’s recollections of growing up in Indiana in the late ’30s and early ’40s. Clark wound up driving around the block for almost an hour, glued to the radio until the program was over.

“My date was not happy,” Clark said, but he knew right away he wanted to make a movie out of the stories, many of which first appeared in Playboy magazine and were collected in Shepherd’s 1966 book, “In God We Trust: All Others Pay Cash.”

Clark’s adaptation, however, didn’t happen overnight. At the time, he was a journeyman director who specialized in low-budget B movies. For years Clark tried to find a studio to finance the film. But none were interested. Nevertheless, Clark held on to his ambition to bring Shepherd’s stories to the screen, and, in 1981, he directed Porky’s. Which became a hit at the box office. Suddenly he had some clout the bargain with. In the wake of that hit the studio want a sequel to Porky’s. Clark agreed to make a sequel if the studio agreed to let him do “A Christmas Story” first.

Thanks, Bob.

Fare thee well Calvert 'Larry "Bud" Melman' DeForest

2007-03-22T11:40:00.000-04:00

Calvert DeForest was was one of those actors who you never really saw too often, except in the odd cameo or commercial, and never paid too much attention to beyond his little eccentricities and quirks (that sybillance!). But somehow, in the back of the mind, one was always comforted by the knowledge that he was still around somewhere. On Monday he passed away and the world feels just a little worse for it. DeForest once said that his first appearance on Late Night with David Letterman was the best thing that ever happened to him. In tribute, here are some clips highlighting the man known as Larry "Bud" Melman and his days with the man who signs my checks.

Port Authority

Bear Suit

Melman and Carson

Viewer Mail

Intro to Ep 1.1 of Late Night

Segovian Bean Stew and Kristin White's Studies

2007-03-21T21:27:00.000-04:00

So the latest bout with Spain was a resounding success: cultural immersion, inexpensive wine, and agreeable weather. But the one thing that stands out as particularly excellent was the lunch me and Kristin White had at El Bernardino during a day trip to Segovia.

After spending Thursday and Friday in Valencia, and Saturday in Toldeo our Frommer's guide had a record of 2/2 when it came to guiding us to exemplary meals. Meals to which we would compare all others. In Valencia it was La Lola on Friday night, a wonderfully chic (and friendly) modern Spanish place with quirky flatware and polka dotted walls (one snag: Kristin White's bilingualism lapsed and she mistakenly ordered our veal and duck rare instead of medium). Then there was Friday's lunch at a fantastic business lunch-y paella place where, again, we had a tremendous seafood paella with scary good helado (dark chocolate and frozen yogurt with berries).

So by the time we came to Sunday, we were riding on the waves of Frommer's epicurean benediction and our expectations were high. We had two names of places in Segovia that were written up in Frommer's. One was El Bernardino. The other was some other place whose name goes unrecalled. We quickly found the old what's-his-face place as it was (tacky) located right next to the mortarless Roman aquaducts. El Bernardino was located on the tricky diagonal Calle Cervantes. After a fortifying stroll around the town's old center we asked an officer of the law to point us in the right direction and...success.

As I glanced at the menu del dia I noticed one thing and one thing only: Segovian bean stew. That pretty much sold me on the place, so after an obligatory glance at the rest of the menu, we found ourselves seated in an empty room at a wonderful table by the window overlooking snow-capped mountains and being doted on by an older tuxedoed man (thus fulfilling our only criteria for dining abroad: old men in tuxes).

First was the idiosyncratic Segovian bread which has a wedding cake-ish look to it and holds its own in a very bread oriented country. Our menu would be such: the aforementioned bean stew, roast suckling pig, and a Segovian vanilla postre. Right before we were to receive our first course Kristin White excused herself to go to the servicios (as opposed to my uncouth preference for "el bano" which Kristin White pointed out is akin to "Where's the toilet?"). Mere moments after Kristin White went off in search of the bathroom, our waiter entered carrying a large kettle of soup, ladle and all. Noticing Kristin White's absence, he put the soup down on a nearby tray table, folded his hands in front of him, and patiently waited. This is why you only go to places where old men in tuxedos work. To kill time I admired the half liter clay pitcher that bore not only my wine, but also El Bernardino's insignia.

Her bladder thus emptied, Kristin White returned and we were allowed to get our stew on via our waiter's skillful and noble ladle. Now when I talk about my five favorite things I've ever eaten, I'm talking about harrowed ground such as my grandma's tomato sauce and fusilli, or my own braised pork shoulder or stuffed zucchino from Liguria. It is not a list that is easily infiltrated. So imagine my joy when I was able to induct a new member into the top five favorite ingestables list! To be quick about it, the stew was perfect: rich, savory broth, expertly cooked (huge) beans, and perfect...PERFECT...chorizo. There's a reason Segovia is saturated with salchicherias, and this stew's chorizo was it. To be even more succinct, I present the following:

Next came our roast suckling pig, a dish that is big all over Spain and indicated by El Bernardino's sign out front labeling it as an "asador." By this point, other people had been seated in our once private room, so taking another photo was out. But I stole the following photo off Google and it gives one a good idea of what we're dealing with. On the one hand it might seem cruel in some way to eat a baby pig and in such a manner. But in actuality eating the animal in a state where it still looks like the animal heightens the meal and the relationship between eater and food. So there. (Note: ours did not have rosemary. Just pig.) It's not a pinkish medallion that comes wrapped in plastic and labeled as pork. No, this is identifiable by it's cute face, tiny snout, and little trotters (also the teeth were in there, but they could easily be confused with a toddler's). It was delicious--impeccably crisp skin, meat that yielded to the gentlest pressure from a fork (no knives necessary) and it came served in this ancient cast iron roasting dish. Again, our heroic camerero was on hand to first present our piglet and then slice it up for us. One of the most enjoyable aspects of this part of the meal was searching out the tiny ribs and making damn well sure every morsel of meat was cleared off of them.

After a while of staring at a baby animal, Kristin White was ready for a change, and after I unsuccessfully attempted to find meat on the animal's underdeveloped jaw, we and the pig parted ways.

Next up was the vanilla tart. It was very pretty, very delicate and very fine, but after the greatest stew in the world and the Renaissance protein course, a simple postre could never have expected to hold court for long.

We lingered another half hour or so, enjoying just sitting in the restaurant, then realized we had been inside for over two hours and only another two remained until our train left back for Madrid. Drat.

Those mountains in the background below looked really tempting, so me and the sister bid our waiter are very sad farewell and went off in search of a route that would lead us near them. There was a pretty little path that lead around the side of the hill upon which the town rested so we followed that and were rewarded with a dramatic valley view of the French influenced castle. We continued down the trail and were brought to the valley between the two hills (one being Segovia's hill, the other being a little tree lined step hill). Zigzagging our way up we were lead through a small tunnel that popped us out onto the foothill that was the start of the giant plain that eventually lead to the snow-capped mountains. We we rewarded for our minimal effort with this:

We strolled about up here for a time before heading back to the center of town. At the edge of the town was a very fine rectangular plaza that overlooked the mountains and castle. It also had benches. We strolled around a bit more, feeling very full and enjoying the sun. It was a very pleasant plaza. After a while we took the bus back down past the acquaducts and back to the town's train station. A short while later and it was onto the train and chatting with a Mexican father and daughter and a Texan husband and wife. I tried to forge a new relationship between the two thus ushering in a new era between Tejanos and Mexicanos, but the Mexican dad was asleep, or at least was really good at pretending to not feel my jabs to his ribs. Moments later we were back on the metro and tucked back into Senora's apartment.

One other thing I have to point out. While strolling around the town's windy little streets I heard a familiar noise. After a quick bit of auditory detective work (don't know what that means) I was able to determine that it was a yeowling cat! I followed the noise to its source: a seemingly abandoned construction site. I made that little kissy kissy heeere kitty noise and sure enough, a small cat came to the window and started yeowling all over again. It was as if Cat Dad had come to life and this kitty cat was not really a cat but, (coughs) Damnit, I am a man, not a kitty cat! The scenario that most seemed to fit was his owner had been dead for weeks after inhaling all the construction dust and now the cat was just all out of sorts. And Purina. Here's a photo I took of my incarcerated brethren in the hopes that a single image can unite disparate peoples to action. Stand tall, Segovians!

p.s. I have no doubt in my mind that if this cat had the chance, he would have murdered me straight away.

Frank Bruni Is a Little Girl

2007-02-28T10:47:00.000-05:00

In the Food and Dining section of today's NYTimes, Frank Bruni reviews Robert, the steak house in the Penthouse Executive Club. The review (cleverly titled 'Where Only the Salads Are Properly Dressed,' which doesn't really make sense because the girls in question actually are properly dressed, this being a strip club and all) is exceptional, if only because it's fun to watch Frank Bruni pretend to be a heterosexual.

His squeamishness in the admittedly raunchy environment coupled with the glee with which he mocks the topless dancers makes for one hell of a restaurant review.

In this excerpt, he tests his wit against that of a stripper named Foxy:

“Foxy,” I began, then stopped myself, wondering if I was being too familiar. “Are you and I on a first-name basis, or should I address you as Ms. Foxy?”

“You can call me Dr. Foxy,” she said.

“Is that an M.D. or a Ph.D.?”

Oh-ho! Frank Bruni, 1, IDIOT STUPID FOXY, zilch!

Golf Season 2007

2007-02-28T09:09:00.000-05:00

Several scant weeks away. O, Caledonia!

"Chicken Sandwich" - A Newfangled Talkie Featuring Chris Sartinsky!

2007-02-28T09:00:00.000-05:00

INT. A DINER. DAY.

CHRIS SARTINSKY enters a small town diner. A MAN works behind the counter, cleaning up.

MAN: Welcome to the Stuckyville Diner, what can I get for ya?

CHRIS (mumbles): Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

MAN: Pardon me, sonny, you'll have to speak up.

CHRIS (clearer, louder): Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

MAN: Alright, chicken sandwich it is. Grilled or breaded?

Chris blinks as though never before faced with this option. Then:

CHRIS: Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

MAN: Would you like it grilled? We can grill it for you real nice.

CHRIS: Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

MAN: Or perhaps you'd prefer a nice greasy spoon special? Breaded, fried, some chips on the side...delicious!

CHRIS: Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

MAN (slightly flustered): Well, gee, kid, you gotta tell me how you'd like me to cook it.

CHRIS: Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

The man blinks hard at Chris. He stops and thinks. Then:

MAN: I got just the thing for ya. Wait here.

The lights fade down. When the fade back up, Chris is sitting dumbly at a corner booth. On closer inspection, we see that maybe Chris has been wearing the same clothes for a while.

The man approaches holding a plate or raw chicken and places it down in front of Chris.

MAN: Here ya go, sonny. Enjoy! On the house.

CHRIS: Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

MAN: Oh! I almost forgot!

MAN runs back behind the counter and returns with a kaiser roll.

MAN: Here we go, can't have a chicken sandwich without the seeded roll!

CHRIS: Yea, uh, chicken sandwich.

THE END

A Great Idea for a Novel

2007-02-25T14:35:00.000-05:00

So I'm walking through the produce market today and I see a depleted banana section. It was at about half capacity and people were sorting through the bananas, taking their pick and I thought to myself, what if there were no more bananas? What if there were, say, 100 bananas left in the world? What a great idea for a novel/la! You could trace the path of the last 100 bananas and I guarantee it would be enthralling in the right hands. Or, you know, not. You'd have to avoid being too precious about it, like a literary Babbette's Feast (not that it's a precious movie, but the tendency to deify the produce is always there).

At any rate, I, the patron of this idea, am officially commissioning this work. Go to it, America!

H is for Jumilla

2007-02-24T14:21:00.000-05:00

Of late I find myself drinking more and more Spanish wine. A region that this guy really likes right now is Jumilla in southeast Spain. Casa de la Ermita makes a damn fine product, and is rather inexpensive. In particular I like their tempranillo, mourvedre, and cab blend. It's aged about ten months in American and French oak. I'm not really sure what the difference between the two happens to be, but I can kind of guess.

They also have an even cheaper offering under the mark Monastario de Santa Ana that is simpler, younger and usually made of one varietal (they do wonders with tempranillo). As one would imagine, the Santa Ana wines are rougher and require a good decanting (I just dump it aggressively into a glass pitcher to oxygenate it), but for ten bucks, who cares.

The wines from this region tend to be more full bodied than a lot of the Italian wines in the price range (except for the bigger Bs) and less acidic, which could be because the Spanish tend to age in oak a lot longer (and more frequently) than do the Italians, even in the context of modern S&P.

In other wine news, I'm very excited to try Whistler's G.S.M. It's a blend of gamay (38%), syrah (37%) and mourvedre, aka monastrell (25%). What's interesting to me about this is that gamay is most commonly found in lighter, summer wines with low alcohol. To combine gamay with a big grape like syrah and the backbone provided by mourvedre should be very interesting, not to mention very alcoholic.

On a final Spanish wine note, whites from the albarino grape (tilde on the N) from the Rais Baixas region in Galecia are super neat. Can't go wrong when serving them with seafood or creamy pasta dishes. I don't like very round whites so the crisp mineral qualities of Alberino de Fefinanes (another tilde on the second N) get me excited in ways that make me blush when I am in public and feeling that way.

Granted I don't drink much white on the whole, but this is the only white that I've purposely sought out after the initial taste. These wines are never aged in oak so they retain their brightness. The first time I had the Fefinanes was when I made steamed mussels in a tomato broth with a whole roasted river trout. Really crisp, but fruity enough to avoid clashing with the saltiness of the mussels. Since then I make sure it's always around. I also tried a Dona Rosa RB, but found that it lacked the crispness of the Fef. Away it went.

At any rate, I hope this fills my snob quota for the day.

Food is Mortality

2007-02-24T14:01:00.000-05:00

I was convinced that I had written an article a while ago about how food is mortality. I remember I had written all these nifty little lines about how every time you have, say, your grandmother's tomato sauce, that is one less time you will have it together and so on and so forth. So I ran a search on my hard drive using the very chouette spotlight feature on OS X and as it turns out I did not, in fact, write anything of the sort. Methinks I had started to, but abandoned the piece once the baby came.

Nonetheless, here are two pictures I would have used to illustrate my fantastic article.

Fifty Years of New Words

2007-02-23T09:47:00.000-05:00

Because procrastinating is fun, I thought I'd present the following. In the introduction to the Webster's College Dictionary from 2001 they have this introduction talking about defining the English language in the 21st century and such and such. In addition to a brief history of dictionary-ing in the past century (for (por ejemplo, noted lexicographer Clarence L. Barnhart's ACD boasted of more than 132,000 words, as compared to Noah Webster's paltry 75,000...I smell sitcom!), the intro also has a nifty little section that shows the vocabulary additions from each decade, from the 1940s through the 1990s. From an almost anthropological stand point, it's quite the something or other to trace history through the words that were born out of each period. At risk of sounding like a linguaphile Billy Joel, here's a small sampling.

New Words of the 1940s

A-bomb; ack-ack; bazooka; bikini; Dixiecrat; dream team; fellow traveler; flying saucer; Molotov cocktail; G-suit; pro-am; name-brand; TV; redeploy; returnee; robot bomb; radar; tape recorder; test drive; underwhelm; xerography; yada-yada-yada.

New Words of the 1950s

acrylic fiber; A-OK; automate; beatnik; beltway; biathlon; biological clock; Black Muslim; brinkmanship; death row; computerize; demolition derby; fartlek; dreadlocks; Eurodollar; Freudian slip; funny farm; hovercraft; generative grammar; jet set; neutron bomb; off-Broadway; poliovirus; radio galaxy; sci-fi; rock n' roll; teleplay; trannsexual; TV dinner; UFO; uncool; underachieve; video tape; zydeco

New Words of the 1960s

acidhead; ageism; auteur; biohazard; blind trust; born again; central processing unit; cryonics; crib death; cold call; decriminalize; ecocatastrophe; dashiki; glam; gypsy cab; happy hour; love-in; nose job; nunuchaku; porn; repo; sitcom; spacewalk; vroom; workaholic; zilch; zit

New Words of the 1970s

acquaintance rape; airhead; anchorperson; brewski; CAT scan; child abuse; controlled substance; copay; China syndrome; def; diskette; detox; 800 number; gentrify; fast-forward; laid back; he/she; nouvelle cuisine; learning disability; pro-choice; sex change; surrogate mother; sound bite; word processor; triathlon; X-rated; yellow rain.

New Words of the 1980s

ableism; abs; AIDS; crackhouse; computer virus; DNA fingerprinting; dockominium; e-book; energy bar; Humvee; fatwa; gateway drug; gluts; headbanger; intrapreneur; hidden agenda; glastnost; liposuction; 900 number; nuclear winter; Rollerblade; slim disease; tree-hugger; triple witching hour; trophy wife; Twelve Step; WYSIWYG; yuppie.

New Words of the 1990s

active-matrix; anatomically correct; antialiasing; applet; body double; carjacking; CD; digerati; domain name; dramedy; ethnic cleansing; hyperlink; Generation X; Generation Y; granny dumpling; intifada; jaggies, kenbei; killer app; laogai; lap dance; mad cow disease; magalogue, McJob; stranger rape; strip mall; roofie; Roth IRA; scrunchy; World Wide Web; zettabyte.

Keywords

2007-02-17T16:19:00.000-05:00

Top five keywords for Our Town according to Google Analytics.

Counting down from number five...

5. our town news st. james

Okay, this makes sense because one of the staff writers is named Larry St. James, and the periodical is called Our Town. St. James is a town in Missouri. Someone just wanted to stay current with the MO's 411. No biggie. Commendable.

4. SCHEZUAN PALACE

This one's digging back into the vaults a bit, but the weirdo kinky sex enthusiast/restaurant reviewer Nancy Pierce had an article where she talked about going to a Chinese restaurant for the first time. The name of the restaurant is Schezuan Palace. Common name for Chinese-American restaurants.

3. sexpo italy

I was confused for a moment, so I did a google search on the phrase. Sure enough it comes from the Nancy. I thought I invented the phrase "sexpo" (goes to show my familiarity with the world of Sex-themed Expos) when I framed an article on butternut squash around Nancy's trip to a "sexpo" in upstate New York. "Italy" appeared in an op-ed by mayoral candidate Stanley Tucci on that same day, thusly the same page. Apparently this was enough to make Our Town the 7th result out of over 18,000 matches. I feel bad that more people are searching for Italian Sexpos than for the mind behind the Big Night.

2. eric mills

Easy enough. One of the writers is named Eric Mills. His mother, the doting Kathy Mills, is also a staffer. Who is Eric Mills you ask? Apparently he's an actor sort based out of Kentucky. Good luck to you, Eric! I glanced at the first two result pages and didn't see a sign of Our Town, so whoever was searching for Eric Mills really wanted to be thorough.

And the number one keyword search for Our Town...

1. Boner for my daughter

(Spits out tomato juice) Pardon? I, uh...what? Let's go to the videotape on this one. Turns out, we have the delightful mind of Chris Sartinsky to thank for this...this. In an A.J. Swish article he wrote about myspace, he crafted the following sentence:

“Hey, little girl,” my message began. “How are you?” She sent me a response offering to “fluff” my “boner,” which my daughter told me is cyber-speak for “look at my page.” I enthusiastically accepted!

Not only is this the number one keyword for Our Town, but it's also the second match on google. Interestingly enough, the first match is another inadvertent combination of "daughter" and "boner." In fact, very few of the matches actually involve what one would assume to be material relevant to these keywords.

I'm not sure how I feel about this. On the one hand, I'm getting lots of hits, but on the other, stickier hand, I seem to drawing the sexual deviant crowd. Shame on them, I say. But then also, shame on me for creating such unintentional (satirical?) smut.

And shame on Chris Sartinsky.

BU-4, UNH-2

2007-02-17T01:47:00.000-05:00

puck: "hockey disk," 1891, possibly from puck (v.) "to hit, strike" (1861), which perhaps is related to poke (q.v.) via notion of "push." Another suggestion traces the noun to Ir. poc "bag." Puckster headlinese for "ice hockey player" is attested from 1939.
Puck: "mischievous fairy" (in "A Midsummer Night's Dream"), probably from pouke "devil, evil spirit" (c.1300), from O.E. puca, cognate with O.N. puki "devil," of unknown origin (cf. pug). Capitalized since 16c. His disguised name was Robin Goodfellow.

pajamas: 1800, pai jamahs "loose trousers tied at the waist," worn by Muslims in India and adopted by Europeans there, especially for nightwear, from Hindi pajama, probably from Pers. paejamah, lit. "leg clothing," from pae "leg" (from PIE *ped- "foot," see foot) + jamah "clothing." Modern spelling (U.S.) is from 1845. British spelling tends toward pyjamas.

H is for Ortolan

2007-02-09T10:31:00.000-05:00

Eating a small bird which you have drowned in booze sound like something you might be into? Well stick it to the man and try some ortolan! Apparently you eat the thing whole, like this:

You catch the ortolan with a net spread up in the forest canopy. Take it alive. Take it home. Poke out its eyes and put it in a small cage. Force-feed it oats and millet and figs until it has swollen to four times its normal size. Drown it in brandy. Roast it whole, in an oven at high heat, for six to eight minutes. Bring it to the table. Place a cloth—a napkin will do—over your head to hide your cruelty from the sight of God. Put the whole bird into your mouth, with only the beak protruding from your lips. Bite. Put the beak on your plate and begin chewing, gently. You will taste three things: First, the sweetness of the flesh and fat. This is God. Then, the bitterness of the guts will begin to overwhelm you. This is the suffering of Jesus. Finally, as your teeth break the small, delicate bones and they begin to lacerate your gums, you will taste the salt of your own blood, mingling with the richness of the fat and the bitterness of the organs. This is the Holy Spirit, the mystery of the Trinity—three united as one. It is cruel. And beautiful.

A Very Good Thing: Eggplant Caponata

2007-02-09T10:07:00.000-05:00

Been going 'round the produce store a lot recently. Found the finest canned tomatoes I've ever had, as well as these great little Holland eggplant. Their sweet flesh and non-existent seeds make them pretty, pretty, pretty good for any recipe calling for eggplant. Plus there's this:

In China, as part of her "bride price," a woman must have at least 12 eggplant recipes prior to her wedding day. In Turkey, "imam bayeldi," a tasty treat of stuffed eggplant simmered in olive oil is said to have made a religious leader swoon in ecstasy (ed. note: the other interpretation of the name is that the priest fainted when he learned how much olive oil the wife had to use to cook the ultra-absorbent eggplant). When first introduced in Italy, people believed that anyone who ate the "mad apple" (ed. note: melanzane to Italian speakers) was sure to go insane.

Here's a fantastic recipe for one of my favorite things to ingest, eggplant caponata.

***

Ingredients:

3 Holland eggplant, cut into 1 inch cubes
1 28oz. can of La Fede whole tomatoes (hand crushed)
1/2 cup extra virgin olive oil
2 stalks of celery, diced
1 small red onion, diced
2 tbsp of capers (buy salt packed, not brined, and rinse well before use)
several dashes of red wine vinegar

salt
red pepper flakes (to taste)

In a large, heavy-bottomed sautee pan heat half of the olive oil and sautee the vegetables. When the eggplant has gotten a little color and the celery and onion have softened, add salt (add salt earlier and the vegetables will exude liquid and they will just steam), capers, vinegar and the tomatoes. Reduce heat, cover and let simmer for an hour or so, until the whole shebang has reduced a bit and the vegetables have cooked entirely through.

Serve with bruschetta or anything one would put into one's mouth.

***

By the way, if all this is too much for you, Trader Joe's makes a hell of a jarred eggplant caponata for only three bucks.

Psyllium For All

2007-02-09T09:23:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's all the graduating I did in May, or maybe it's the fact that I am attempting to make the first in-roads towards an honest to God career, but for whatever reason, I find myself drawn to, even obsessed with, the very mature (geriatric?) idea of intestinal health. It started out on a pointed health tip from a friend of a family friend about the preventative wonders of proper fiber intake (coupled, of course, with proper hydration). The friend, the kind of guy who takes fistfuls of supplements and wears earplugs* like I wear glasses, looked me over and said, "You're young enough that if you start paying attention to your fiber intake now, it could save your life." A compliment AND a preventative medicine tip? That was all I needed to hear.

Over the next few weeks I started dabbling with Metamucil: a teaspoon here, a tablespoon there. Not only did its plant fiber'd viscosity make it feel like an elixir that worked, but it also tasted like orange. It was somewhere around this time that I also discovered fiber cereals. One in particular, FlaxPlus Rasin Bran, ($2.50 at Trader Joe's, made by Nature's Path), struck me with a love arrow. This cereal, in just 3/4 of a cup, provided me with 11g of fiber. Between that, the Metamucil and my old standby of blueberry soy milk shakes, I was getting almost all of my fiber in one meal!

I grew cocky. "Who's better than me?" I thought as I looked down at my coworkers. I even, for a period, developed the habit of pop-quizzing those around me about their own fiber intake. Whenever my interrogation was met with a stuttering, "I dunno," I would launch into a lecture about the benefits and relative ease of proper fiber consumption. My morning and nightly BMs became exemplary and were analyzed for my family members' well-being around the dinner table. My father's frustrated sighs informed me of his own fiber deficiency. I was on top of the world.

But this proved too good to be true. While my enjoyment of the fiber triumverate never wavered, the gaseous side effects of so much fiber in so little time made me weary. I became a vessel for gas, a host for the psyllium parasite. It controlled me, I realized. Plus, at work I am around people constantly, so my impulse to network was constantly overwhelmed by my fear of embarrassment.

So I lowered my early morning fiber intake and tried to spread my intake out through the course of the day, a task which required planning and even restraint (the cereal really is addictive). This plan soon withered and before I knew it I was back on the fiber train hurtling towards the unknown.

Weeks later, now, it seems my body can handle the fiber better than it once did, and the side effects are minimal. I find that it takes a certain kind of maturity and Zen-like appreciation of synergy to really understand the wonder of a perfect bowel movement. Just like Matthew McCougnshneyfhy's (sp) character's obsession with clipping toenails in one piece in EdTV, so do I take interest and pride in having one solid, healthy looking, S-shaped specimen in the bowl beneath me.

Also, it seems that with all this comes a solid assurance that I will avoid many types of cancers from the belly button down. Oh, and by the way, I've also started wearing earplugs at work.

*This friend of a family friend wears the earplugs due both his raging Tinnitus as well as a deep-set fear of noise pollution-related hearing loss. I will say this, it's amazing how loud things sound when compared to the 29db that make it through the foam earplugs. This friend of a family friend also warned me against the evils of tonic water when I told him that my drink of choice was Tanq and Tonic. Apparently Liza Minelli's father, a famous film director of his day, drank the stuff "like candy" and was stone deaf well before his time. Pity.

Next: Greg reviews Choline Cocktail.

Ben Simpson Falls A Lot

2007-02-08T20:34:00.000-05:00

If only for the first time he falls.

Unloved Jokes aka MONOLOGUE FIESTA!

2007-01-26T13:53:00.000-05:00

From the past few weeks of freelancing at The Late Show...

-Television producers in the Netherlands have created a dating program featuring visibly disfigured contestants. They're getting a lot of heat for it, but I say if it gets Mickey Rourke dating again, so be it.

ZING!

-Crime has gotten so bad in Tijuana thar the police have resorted to using sling shots. They say it will help defend against Mexico's biggest threat: Dennis the Menace.

OH SNAP!

***

VAMOS! COMENSARAMOS LA FIESTA!

Useful Information

2007-01-19T18:50:00.001-05:00

GENERAL RECOMMENDATIONS FOR PREVENTION OF KIDNEY STONES

1. Drink at least 2 quarts of fluid per day.
2. Drink a quart of orange, grape, cranberry or grapefruit juice per day.
3. Limit high fat foods like fried foods, butter, margarine, mayonnaise, whole fat dairy products and high fat snack foods.
4. Eat meat, fish, and poultry moderately.
5. Limit high oxalate foods like spinach, tea, nuts, peanuts, chocolate, beets, beet greens, rhubards, strawberries and wheat bran upon the advice of your doctor.
6. Only limit dairy products and calcium-rich foods on the advice of your doctor. Usually two or three 8 ounce glasses of skim or low-fat milk or the equivalent in low fat or non- fat cheese and yogurt are tolerated well. Eat calcium-rich foods throughout the day, not just at one meal.
7. Avoid calcium supplements.

Glowing Review of the Week #2

2006-12-30T23:04:00.001-05:00

<<< thsi dumbass dos knwo hs thsam person i cant tell seems like he does not>>>

Dinner for 10 - 12/30/06

2006-12-30T22:37:00.001-05:00

Veal Saltimbocca w/ Red Onion Pan Sauce

Lasagna from scratch Y'ALL - besciamella and ragu bolognese

Butternut squash agrodolce w/ pepperoncino

Baby Spinach with lemon and chevre

Orange Olive Oil Cake w/ Poppy Seed Glaze

Overwhelmingly positive review of Greg and Walter #1

2006-11-30T23:59:00.000-05:00

WTF...that host was...geez KILL YO'SELF!

Looking Back...

2006-11-10T14:59:00.000-05:00

This November marks the 20th anniversary of blues semi-legend "Fortuitous" Fred Merman's death. In the spirit of moping about the house with a sullen disposition (and sticking it to his widow), a look back at the musician whose peers maintain, "never quite got it." Here, his top five essential albums.

Sweet East Hampton Sally

Merman's first major release stands as a tribute to his sunny childhood on the eastern tip of Long Island, NY. From his days at Merman Preparatory school (his great-grandfather founded the institution in the 1830s) to his extravagant courtship with the beautiful Sally Babson SEHS was the first blues album in history to be played entirely in major keys, although naysayers charge that Merman should have learned to actually play the piano rather than just stand near it.

Essential Tracks: "I'd Rather the Convertible"; "Absurdly Large Dowry Blues"

F.F. Merman's Greatest Hits

One of the earliest examples of a greatest hits compilation, Merman's second album came as a result of a particularly uncomfortable case of food poisoning that kept Merman out of the 1942 East Hampton Regatta. Faced with his own mortality for the first time, Merman simply re-released Sweet East Hampton Sally under a new name hoping to secure his place in history. A tribute to his cunning as a businessman, Greatest Hits stands nearly as tall as the album upon which it is based.

Essential Tracks: "I'd Rather the Convertible"; "Absurdly Large Dowry Blues"

Momma Said Harvard, Daddy Said Yale

Performed entirely in Latin, Momma Said focuses mainly on Merman's dual obsessions of boating and gymnastics. Critics call it his weakest album, both for its incomprehensible lyrics and total run time of eighteen minutes; however what the album lacks in quantity, it makes up for in elaborate gold leaf embossed velvet packaging.

Essential Tracks: "De Gustibus Non Est Disputandum"; "Beneficium Accipere Libertatem Est Vendere"

Many Moons

Upon Moons' release in 1957, slide guitarist Charlie "Chuckles" Watson famously quipped "this shit ain't even the blues" (always the kidder, that Watson!). Notable for its freewheeling, circus-like soundscapes and convoluted references to Christopher Marlowe, Many Moons was rumored to have been inspired by Merman's first of many trips to India in 1952.

Essential Tracks: "The Big Elephant"; "Is That Coolie for Sale?"

Daddy Don't Slum

Widely considered to be Mernan's "romance" album, Slum was released one song at a time via a cross-promotional deal with a local jeweler. As Fred neared middle age, he became known as a daring ventriloquist with an eye for real estate bargains and a taste for rare and exotic liquors. On display here are the man's overwhelming confidence and tales of good fortune. Of particular interest are Merman's verbose and telling song titles.

Essential Tracks: "My Baby and I Got Open Channels of Communication"; "The Trick to Avoiding Taxation on Inherited Land"

Blue Devil

Merman's final album, Blue Devil took twelve years to finish and features covers of blues classics such as "Gon' Down River" and "Baby, Please." While executives balked at the numerous copyright infringements, an aging Merman could often be heard to demand of his inner circle, "I want my teddy!" Intended as a glorious final curtain in a long career, Blue Devil would be all but unremarkable if it weren't for the forty-five minute closing track, "Fortuitous Fred Merman Takes a Bath." An innovator even to his death, "Fortuitous" Fred Merman will undoubtedly go down in history as a man who transferred his voice onto flat discs using available voice recording technology before retailing them in stores specializing in the sale of musical records.

Essential Tracks: "Twelve and a Half Bar Strut"; "Lake Geneva Part Two"

Awkward Celebrity Appearance of the Day

2006-10-10T10:30:00.000-04:00

From the "Martha" website: <<>>

I learned that both Martha and Scott enjoy their barbeque sauce on the sweeter side.

Later this week: Andy Dick visits Martha

Because I Loves it So Much

2006-10-03T11:58:00.000-04:00

Chris Sartinsky's Libelous Portrait of Marmaduke

Topo

2006-09-09T00:52:00.000-04:00

The Topo pilot is coming along quite nicely. Given that I am extremely paranoid and very proud of this series, I am waiting until I register it with WGAw. Also, I play a lot of tennis and golf these days, so I'm not really into a lot of typing.

What I will say is this: A race of aliens who all look like Ted Danson plan a hostile invasion of planet Earth by brainwashing our population via Kosmonaut Kitty's Karnival, a new and very popular televison series that replaces The Topo Show after Topo, an extremely famous celebrity chihuahua, is accused of murder.

More to come shortly.

God is Dead and We Are Alone...

2006-09-05T21:46:00.000-04:00

From a Times article discussing Katie Couric taking over the show at CBS comes this horrifying report. Behold, the horsemen!

When Elizabeth Hasselbeck, the Zeppo Marx of the foursome, said she donned a bathing suit to take a bath with her baby daughter, Ms. O’Donnell went wide-eyed at her prudery, and recalled that when she took a more natural bath with her daughter, the child asked, “When do I get my fur?”

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/09/06/arts/television/05cnd-watch.html?hp&ex=1157515200&en=a92eaa5b1e0cba1b&ei=5094&partner=homepage

Grancracker #2

2006-09-02T14:04:00.000-04:00

These are mostly rough outlines of what we will do live, but the general idea comes across.

THE DAN FLEMING DUO!

INT. A SMALL CLUB. BAGDHAD.

THE AUDIENCE HAS JUST SLAUGHTERED AN INFIDEL.

GREG AND DAN ENTER TO NEAR HYSTERICAL APPLAUSE.

GREG
Thank you, thank you. Thanks be to GOD, y’all! Am I right?
DAN
Whatever, Greg, ya big sack of crap! How’s everybody doing tonight?!
THE AUDIENCE WHOOS IT UP.
GREG
That’s just super! My name is Greg...
DAN
And I’m Dan!
GREG
And we are...
GREG (CONT'D)
...Grancracker
DAN
...The Dan Fleming Duo starring, me, Dan Fleming!
A PAUSE. GREG STARES AT DAN WHILE DAN MILKS THE APPLAUSE.
GREG
What was that?
DAN
I just--nothing--I just said the name of the group. What we call ourselves.
GREG
Right, which is...
DAN
(mumble)
The Dan Fleming Duo starring, Me, Dan Fleming.
GREG
What is that supposed to be? Like a bit? Like you’re doing this thing that’s funny? We’re called Grancracker. Like Dan and Greg combined is Gran...
DAN
Is that what that means? I was never clear on that.
GREG
Yes, that is what it means. Grancracker. Not the Dan Fleming Duo--what is that?
DAN
Alright, look, Greg, I didn’t want to say anything, but the other members of the group and I were talking this over and we decided that the Dan Fleming Duo has more of a ring to it. People respond more to my name and likeness.
GREG
The rest of the group said that? Was it a majority?
DAN
Unanimous. Twenty votes to none.
GREG
Seriously? They prefer you over me?
DAN
Big time. The entire cast.
GREG
Well how come I didn’t get to vote?
DAN
It was at our last meeting, which you conveniently missed.
GREG
I had to go to a funeral.
DAN
You snooze you lose my friend. Anyway, look, it’s not such a big deal. Come on, just go with it.
GREG
But I’m really not comfortable with this...
DAN
Greg--I didn’t want it to come to this, but if you don’t shut your mouth, you’re out. And if you’re out, I’m out because God knows you can’t have a duo with one person. One person?! Jesus Christ, Greg, think of others for once in your life! I can’t do this show alone!
GREG
Alright, fine, just...jeez...just relax. I’ll try it, okay?
DAN
Okay. Now, that being said, you’re going to have to do the show alone from now on.
GREG
What? Why?
DAN
Eh, a bunch of reasons. I don’t want to bore you with the details. I’m just not, you know, feeling this anymore. Us.
GREG
But I don’t want to do the show alone!
DAN
Greg, it’ll be fine. I’ll be just over here in the audience. Watching. I mean I gotta keep an eye on my investment am I right? From now on I’ll be taking most of what we make. You can have any change that’s left over.
GREG
Dan--
DAN
Greg, not another word. Thanks to that promiscuous immigrant I live with, Dan now gets to pay child support. When you impregnate an immigrant who works at a laundromat, then you can start getting your rightful share of the paycheck.
GREG
(sullen)
Fine...
DAN
(producing papers)
Okay, glad to see you’re coming around. I just need you to initial here and here.
GREG
What’s this?
DAN
It’s your contract for the Dan Fleming Players. You want to be part of the company, you gotta sign it.
GREG
Did you sign it?
DAN
I’m the company director. I don’t need to sign it. I wrote it.
GREG
What’s it say?
DAN
Oh, just stuff about your liquid assets, confidentiality. That sort of thing. Oh, you might want to wait until after you speak to your loved ones to sign it because once you do they are OUT of your life. As in for good.
GREG
Well that seems fair I guess.
DAN
Great. And hey, just pop this collar on will you?
DAN ADJUSTS A ROPE AROUND GREG’S NECK.
GREG
Well--
DAN
Great. Let’s just test it...
DAN YANKS THE ROPE, GREG NEARLY VOMITS.
DAN (CONT'D)
Perfect. (to audience) It’s about establishing dominance. (to Greg) All set, Greg?
GREG
Yeah, I guess so.
DAN YANKS ROPE.
GREG (CONT'D)
(feebly)
I mean, YEAH, let’s do this!
DAN
Okay, ladies and gentlemen, please welcome to the stage, The Dan Fleming Duo, Starring, Me, Dan Fleming!
DAN EXITS THE STAGE. GREG IS LEFT ALONE IN FRONT OF THE MIC.
GREG
Hi, there. Uh, how’s everyone doing tonight? My name is Greg White--
DAN PULLS ROPE. GREG WINCES.
GREG (CONT'D)
--Dan Fleming, and I am just really, really excited to be here. We’ve got a great show for you tonight. Does anyone have a cell phone they could call the cops with? (audience laughs?) No, please stop it--don’t laugh. I think I was drugged before the show... (more laughter)
DAN
Greg, enough pussy footing! Make with the jokes! What an idiot! Am I right folks?
GREG
Alright. Uh, did you guys ever notice how when you’re kidnapped by a cult leader, and you make a suicide pact, how the leader’s always the last one to die? Sounds more like a follower to me.
DAN
(off stage)
A little too close to home, not really that funny! Try something about cats!
GREG
Uh, I don’t know any...
DAN HANDS GREG A CARD.
DAN
Here, read this.
GREG
(reading)
<<<
“A woman telephoned a veterinarian and asked him to come examine her cat. "I don't know what's wrong with her," the woman told him. "She looks as if she's going to have kittens, but that's impossible. She's never been out of the house except for when I had her on a leash." The vet examined the cat and said there was no question about her pregnancy.
"But she can't be," protested the woman. "It's impossible."
At that point a large tom cat emerged from under the sofa.
"How about him?" asked the vet.
"Don't be silly," answered the woman. "That's her brother.">>>
DAN LAUGHS HYSTERICALLY.
DAN
That was awesome! Do another!
GREG
I don’t really think--
DAN YANKS CHAIN FURIOUSLY.
DAN
DO IT, CAT MAN!
GREG
Oh, God, I just want to go home!
DAN
Read!
GREG
Why do, um, cats like Mozart? Because it’s meow-sic to their---
DAN COMES CHARGING ON STAGE. UPSTAGES GREG.
DAN
You are worthless, Greg! I am fantastic! You can’t trust anyone except me!
GREG
I just want to go home...
DAN
Everybody thank you so much! I’ve been Dan Fleming, you’ve been great!
DAN SHOVES GREG OFF STAGE.
END

Grancracker #1

2006-09-02T13:57:00.000-04:00

This is the first routine we will perform under the name Grancracker. The formatting is whacky because of the copy and paste from FD, but guess what? DEAL WITH IT! (edgy!)

DAN’S WIFE DIES

INT. CLUB
WE ENTER TO RIOTOUS APPLAUSE. WE DO THE STOIC WAVE. WE EXIT. WE RE-ENTER.

DAN
Hi there everybody! I’m Dan!
GREG
And I’m Greg!
DAN
Give it up for us, everyone!
PAUSE FOR APPLAUSE.
DAN (CONT'D)
It’s great to be here, really it is, nothing like being in love in New York City, am I right people?
GREG
He doesn’t mean me. We’re not--you know...like that.
DAN
Oh, gosh, not at all! Nice catch there, Greg!
DAN MIMES THROWING A FOOTBALL, GREG MIMES CATCHING IT. WE HIGH-FIVE AND THEN HAVE AN EXTENDED HUG.
GREG
That was platonic people, it was not a gay hug. Get your minds out of the gutter, alright?
DAN
As a matter of fact, I’m so not gay that I actually got married last month.
GREG APPLAUDS, AUDIENCE APPLAUDS.
GREG
How is the old ball and chain these days Dan?
DAN
Oh, she’s just great.
GREG
How great is she Dan?
DAN
Greg, she’s so great.
GREG
That’s wonderful, bro. I’m really happy for you.
GREG RESISTS THE MANLY BRO-URGE TO HUG DAN.
DAN
Although I’ll tell you folks, it’s not easy being married. Anyone in this room married?
THE MONKEYS CLAP IN RESPONSE.
DAN (CONT'D)
Alright, so you people will know what I’m talking about.
GREG
Not me. I am alone. Every night I return, alone, to the deafening silence that is my life and wait for death to take me. But go on, Dan, please. Tell everyone about how happy you are.
DAN
Uh, alright. Where was I? Oh, right, I was saying, I never realized how weird it would be to share a bathroom with a woman, let alone one that I have sex with.
GREG
Oh, so is that why you missed rehearsal last week? Too busy plowing the wife doggy style to help Greg write some jokes?
DAN
Greg? This really is not the time. Not cool man. Just calm down.
GREG
You’re right, I’m sorry. I’m happy for you bro! You’re the man!
DAN
Okay, let me just finish the bit, alright?
GREG
Yeah, absolutely. I’m sorry, go ahead.
AS DAN TALKS, GREG DRAWS ON A PIECE OF POSTER BOARD.
DAN
Okay, so folks, how weird is it when you’re talking to your wife after having sex, you’re both in bed, you know, panting, naked, saying how wonderful the other person was, when all of the sudden your wife or partner or whatever you want to call her, gets up and says, “I have to poop.” So I’m lying there, you know, just getting my second wind back after having great married sex, and the next thing you know, I hear . And it’s always that little sort of mousey plopping poop. Is my wife not getting enough fiber? And they never close the door. It’s always, “But I feel so comfortable with you...” and of course you don’t want to say anything because once you acknowledge that comfort level, it becomes a conscious effort to maintain it and--
DAN NOTICES GREG DRAWING. HE HAS DRAWN A CRUDE SKETCH OF DAN’S WIFE.
DAN (CONT'D)
Greg, what are you doing?
GREG
Oh, this? It’s a picture of that wedge between us. What’s thdges name? Dana?
DAN
Yes, my wife’s name is Dana, Greg, and I’d appreciate it if you showed a little respect.
GREG
(to audience)
See? This is her, with hairy armpits, eating garbage. She’s saying, “I’m a real stupid whore.” What is that, Dan, she doesn’t close the door? What is she an animal? Who doesn’t close the door?
DAN
Greg, you know what? That is really inappropriate. I think if you spent some time with Dana you might actually like her.
GREG
Well to be honest I just wish we could go back to the old days where it was just you and me and you didn’t have this ball and chain to deal with. It’s like you’re always busy with her and there’s no time for me.
DAN
Well, Greg, you’re going to have to learn to deal with this because we just found out the other day that Dana’s pregnant. With twins.
GREG
What?! Dan, that is not okay. You’re gonna be like a million times more busy! When are they due?
DAN
Not for another 9 months, she just got pregnant last week.
GREG
Do you want to keep them?
DAN
What? Of course! Greg, I love Dana and I’m sorry that doesn’t fit in with your rehearsal schedule. Maybe it’s time we both go our separate ways.
GREG
Did Dana put you up to this?
DAN
What? No! I’m just saying--
GREG
Because if she did--that is so not cool!
DAN
Greg, you know what, we have an audience here, why don’t we just finish our bit and talk about this later? Okay?
WE CALM DOWN, GAIN OUR COMPOSURE.
DAN (CONT'D)
Sorry about that folks, so as I was saying--
DAN IS INTERRUPTED BY HIS CELL PHONE.
DAN (CONT'D)
Goddamnit! I thought I turned this off.
DAN ANSWERS HIS PHONE.
DAN (CONT'D)
Hello? Yeah... Who-- What?! When? (ad lib this bit) NO!!!!
DAN DROPS PHONE HORRIFIED. HE COLLAPSES TO FLOOR, HYSTERICAL, CARRIES ON, ETC., ETC.
GREG
Who was that?
DAN
There’s been an accident. Dana was hit head on by a garbage truck...she’s dead.
GREG KICKS DRAWING ASIDE. RESISTS THE URGE TO CELEBRATE. SMALL FIST PUMP SNEAKS BY.
GREG
Oh, Dan. I am so, so sorry.
DAN
(lost)
My whole world is gone...
GREG
(motioning to the two of them)
Well, not all is lost...
A BEAT.
GREG (CONT'D)
Well, you know what they say about having loved.
ANOTHER BEAT.
GREG (CONT'D)
Well, the show must go on! C’mon, Dan, get up.
DAN IS JUST A MESS.
GREG (CONT'D)
Dan, come on, we have a show to do.
DAN
GREG! MY WIFE JUST DIED! MY CHILDREN! Oh god!
DAN CHOKES BACK VOMIT.
GREG
Dan, I don’t think the audience wants to watch you act like a faggot. C’mon, let’s just finish the act, then we’ll hit the DQ. Come on. It’s what Dana would have wanted.
DAN
(sucking it up)
You’re right. She knew that this was important to me. The least I can do is finish the act.
GREG
Thatta boy. Go for it.
DAN’S SPEECH IS BROKEN UP BY GIANT SOBS AND CHOKES.
DAN
(a mess)
So, didja ever notice how women complain if you leave the seat up, but then when you leave the seat down she gets angry because there is pee on it? Or what’s the deal with women never being on time? They should--they should make a watch for women that is 3 hours ahead, so that by the time they actually finish getting ready to go out, they’re on time.
GREG
That’s real good, Dan. Keep going.
DAN
(a bigger mess than before)
One more thing, before we go. Women are the absolute worst drivers...am I right? Every time my wife gets behind the wheel of the car (struggling to finish) it’s like, Hey, honey, you know what? I think I’ll walk...
DAN CANNOT GO ON.
GREG
(cheery)
Okay, Dan. Nice job! Folks, we want to thank you so much! I’m going to go get my pal cleaned up and then someone’s getting taken out for a big ice-cream cone! Goodnight!
GREG HELPS DAN AMBLE OFF STAGE.
MORE RIOTOUS APPLAUSE.

Wow! Virginia Heffernan: Now Smarter Than Ever!

2006-08-16T23:59:00.000-04:00

Why bother writing about Laguna Beach, Hef? This article...it's not even commentary, it's just a general description of the show! And it's in that pseudo-ironic "I watch trash, but I'm so clearly above it" kind of way. You're doing it to hurt me, that must be the only answer. Are the editors of the Times really so desperate? What have things come to?

Why is Virginia Heffernan allowed to get away with this stuff? In her latest enfuriating arti--eh, I don't have the strength...just read the damn thing.

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/08/16/arts/television/16lagu.html?_r=1&ref=television&oref=login

Hi, My Name is Virginia Heffernan...durr...durr...

2006-04-30T16:00:00.000-04:00

Wow, Virginia Heffernan, a writer for the NY Times' entertainment section is so smart! She, like, gets Ricky Gervais and most Americans apparently don't! Wow, also she dares you not to find Tristam Shandy hilarious. She's so cultured! Wow, I wish I understood why Karl Pilkington (who is not a "deadpan actor" you stupid woman) was so funny! I'm so glad she wrote about the Ricky Gervais Podcasts on APRIL 24TH! How current! How delightfully topical! I bet she's traveled a lot. LOL! She even mentions something about Moroccan leather! Where is Morocco anyway? Well, whatever--I guess I'll go watch American Idol or something lower-class because without Ms. Heffernan (what kind of name is that?) to explain "smart" comedy to me, I'm lost. Thanks Hef!

Read on:

http://www.nytimes.com/2006/04/24/arts/television/24heff.html

Wall Of Classes - Presented by Phil S.

2006-04-25T23:33:00.000-04:00

This is lacking around 3,000 words but guess who's too gosh darn lazy to make the necessary additions? At any rate, there were simply too many ideas to fit into a small newspaper article (I was budgeted at around 1,000 words). Main points to discuss: we're lazy, we're idiots, the way we approach our own education is a joke, I am nostalgia, I am excited, I like using words that make me sound tall (PAUL BUNYAN Y'ALL!)

It’s that feeling that overwhelms us whenever we walk into a library, or flip through the course bulletin: I know absolutely nothing. Oh sure, we think we know something about this and that, but in reality, we are entirely blank. Take me for example, I’ve read some good books in my day, had some intellectual conversations over intellectual food, traveled a bit, and generally speaking watched, listened, and learned myself into a false sense of academic security. Why, I’m even taking five whole classes this semester! That’s one entire class more than I’m expected to take!

But the sad truth of the matter is that despite four years of college, countless papers, and numerous trips to the library, I still have a very small grasp on the total available knowledge out there. Which brings us back to the course bulletin. We’ve all flipped through it while making the tough choice that we must make at the start of every semester: what will I learn? Nay, what will I choose to learn? What subjects will I spend my days and nights pondering? In some cases the choice is clear, either because of a predetermined track or simply because of major/minor requirements. But then there are the one or two other courses that are open to almost any school in the university.

These are delicate matters, for if we choose the correct course(s) we are allowed to bask in the florescent lighting that is academia at its best. Choose incorrectly, and you end up either kicking yourself, or worse missing out on a fraction of your $40,000 tuition. Tread carefully indeed.

Which brings us again back to the course bulletin. As a graduating senior, I am filled with equal parts euphoria and anxiety, nostalgia and regret. Of all the odds and ends running through me at this point in my college career, and indeed my life, regret is the one that smarts the most, for we can do nothing to alleviate feelings of regret except forget that which pains us…sort of. In this case, I regret not learning everything that I haven’t learned in four years of higher education and the thought that I would graduate without at least getting some idea of what I was missing out on just didn’t mesh. So, I decided to schedule one day in my week, a Monday, and take as many classes here at BU as I possibly could. Moreover, I wanted to expand my definition of what I call Boston University, as there remain countless students, teachers, buildings, and hallways that I will never know. Call it a desperate student’s academic mid-life crisis, paid for by your undergraduate student fee.

I began my day at 8AM in the serious hallways of CFA. En route, I pat myself on the back for being awake, fully dressed, and out on the street by 7:30. My self-congratulatory behavior ends when I see scores of other students who are way ahead of me, coming back from ROTC physical training, heading to team practice or--gasp!--work. Upon entering the ivy saturated building, I am greeted by a sculpture of a cowgirl’s head, and I realize that this is my first time setting foot inside a building I walk past nearly every day. A moment or two later I realize something else: that I like being in CFA. For starters, it’s quiet, and when the quiet is finally broken up, it’s usually by a cello or a grand piano. It’s a good kind of cacophony. I sit in on an ear sight training course wherein students, at 8AM mind you, are asked to sing, conduct, identify, and tear apart music to its bare bones before building it back up again into something coherent to the rest of us. The class is taught by an encouraging, Jesus-y looking fellow named Jason who mans the piano in the room.

To begin the class, Jason plays a chord and asks students to identify things unknown to me such as “major 6th” or the “perfect 4 up.” It is alien and fascinating. It also sounds pretty. The students here are a serious lot, scrunching and furrowing their brows as they attempt to dissect what to the rest of us sounds just like any other piece of music. But they are not the rest of us, I would soon learn, they are assassins, picking out single notes and instruments from 300 yards away without even using a scope. Upon each correct answer, they simply shrug and go back to studying the notation before them.

My next class is organic chemistry, and it is in the science building. I reluctantly tear myself away from the sirens and stumble back out into the morning light. As I walk across campus at this still early hour, I think how different walking down Comm. Ave. feels. We tend to ignore the many phenomena that make up our campus life. It is only when the familiar becomes slightly unrecognizable that we actually pay attention to our lives.

I arrive at orgo a few minutes early and grab a seat; another new building, another new classroom, another new set of faces. There are a few glances in my direction that seem to say, “Who are you and what cruel act of fate brought you to this place?” I have been told by many that orgo is not something you enjoy, or even learn, but rather, something that is to be endured. Lucky for me, I have the luxury of not having to pay attention in class, and I can instead watch the students and enjoy the show put on by the very lively professor. He’s a cross between Latin pop star Marc Anthony and a younger version of Don Quixote, all hopped up on Miami sun. He poses himself at odd angles while posing questions to the class and answers his rhetorical questions with answers such as “Heck yes!” and “Good heavens no!” I am loving it and for a moment I even consider switching majors. The students around me seem to be in pain, but I can’t get enough of the funny little shapes being drawn on the board. Class flies by and I walk way having learned nothing except that elimination decarboxylation is awesome. So is Professor Quixote. I should do this every Monday.

The rest of the day goes on as such: at 10AM I head over to physical biochemistry but am informed that the class will be having an exam that day. Rats. So I head upstairs in CAS to the Geddes Language library (a fine resource, along with the beloved Krasker) and make close with a German language audiotape. Despite my forty minutes of German lessons, as of this writing I am not fluent in German. At 11 I sit in on an Earth Science course with the exuberant Professor Baxter. We learn about fault lines, meteorite impacts, and the Triassic up to the Cenozoic periods. Students discuss controversial theories that are causing a stir in the world of geology. I envision a life where I probe and study the history of the rock called Earth. I probably wear a vest of some sort and most certainly carry a knife. I am respected and feared by contemporaries. The students are also pretty darn keen.

At noon I visit the School of Theology and sit in on a Marx discussion. The philosophy students talk a lot, saying very little, in the same way that English students are prone to ramble on about the way scene 3, Act 4 of King Lear reminds them of something else that makes them feel this way before another student argues that, no, it makes them feel that way. Philosophy students are a pretty hep group when it comes down to it.

I make my escape and venture into Greek/Roman mythology. Another misfire as I learn that the class will be watching a video in class today. It’s essentially a tourism film set around the long, ancient walk taken by ancient Greeks every Easter. It’s interesting enough. I catch something about a pomegranate seed and someone’s daughter named Persephone. I remind myself that I must remember to read up on these things some day. The narrator walks a lot and reads passages from Socrates and Aristotle. He also complains that there are too many cars in Greece. He looks lonely.

From there it’s a string of Morphogenesis, Food and Culture (the only class of the day that I am actually enrolled in), a class on Eastern Religion (Japanese Shintoism and the like), and finally a class on Guerilla Warfare with a wildly amusing Frenchman, Professor Maitre.

It is a long, long day, nearly 10 hours of class straight. I walk several miles (no problem for a marathon athlete such as myself), see lots of new faces, walk around in some new buildings, and even pick up a thing or two. But most importantly I learn that the way we as students of higher education approach learning is an absolute joke. This applies for TV students as much as it does Econ students or Art History disciples. We rope ourselves into narrowly defined academic pathways, both in the literal sense (our physical routes) and the figurative one (the small portion of knowledge we choose to focus on). In short, we all should be seeking out new pathways and shame on us if we fall into any kind of routine for too long.

In the end, one overwhelming theme comes up repeatedly: we cannot learn everything, and to do so would be stupid. Instead, we need to constantly feed our sense of curiosity and always pursue “why?” with another series of questions. In doing so, we are exposed to unknown corridors, and become Renaissance men (or women) in our own right, confident that at the end of the day, we can settle into our beds and say to ourselves with conviction: I know absolutely nothing.

Hello, My Name Is Wilmer...durr...durr...

2006-04-24T01:05:00.000-04:00

Oh snap, fools, just finished watching the latest episode of "Yo Momma"!!!!!!!!

While reading "The Tempest" I realized it was time for Wilmer TV and angrily hurled the Bard's work against the wall and cursed his name: "You're nothing! Why couldn't you have written 'Yo Momma'?? I hate you Shakespeare!"

Honestly, I really am at my wits' end. To call the show bad just seems lazy.

Tonight's episode (alright, it may not have been the latest, but it's news to me) featured the four finalists from this week's episodes. It culminated in a speed round that made me contemplate punching a hole in a window, inserted my head in the shattered opening, and scraping my neck across the broken circle.

I think the producers tell Wilmer to look incredibly surprised after every "joke" is told. Either that, or he's having many strokes each episode. I tried to find pictures of such a face, but Satan has exclusive rights over all media related to the show.

Also, file this under "Kill Me Now" but the editor is clearly using the same MVP 04 "crowd cheer" sound effect to supplement the blood-thirsty crowd's cries for more hilarity, wit, and instant death.

From the 11:30 airing of the ENGLEWOOD BATTLE:

I eagerly awaited the appearance of my beloved Wilmer (he's a genius), but instead was greeted by the sight of one of his lesser minions. He boldly stepped up in the middle of a conveniently gathered crowd of ne'r-do-well looking types and proclaimed "Alright, y'all, I'm looking for delivery, quickness, sting...who thinks they got the legs to stand up for Englewood?" The lemmings cheered. First was Henry vs. Allen.

Now I'm not sure about this, but I thought TV shows cost money to produce. Now if this is true (the jury is still out...for example, "Lost" is funded by the Make-a-Wish Foundation, so does that actually count?) and we're going to call "Yo Momma" a TV show, we can probably assume that its budget is on the lower end of things (somewhere between, say, a condom commercial and The Andy Milonakis Show), we can estimate that each episode of "Yo Momma" costs, say, $10,000. Keep that in mind when reading the excerpts below.

Henry: Your breath so stinky, it smells you ate some ass chips.

Allen: You remind me of my uncle: drunk.

Allen: Yo momma so fat, she sweat meatloaf juice. Come on. I mean, come on.

$10,000 spent on this. Every time a little Rwandan AIDS baby cries out in the middle of the night, I want an MTV producer to smack the baby with one of Ashton's trucker hats, haul in a massive HDTV (of course he'll have to run an extension cord from the village's only power outlet...they can pick up the bill later) and make the baby watch an episode of "Yo Momma." Then while the baby watches the show/dies, the producer can lecture the African mother, also dying of AIDS, on why Wilmer's show NEEDS to stay on the air at $10,000 a pop. I think the villagers will understand. Now of course I realize that MTV isn't a charity, but I just want to stick it to those Africans using their natural predator: Wilmer Valderrama (he feasts on them, you see).

During the Wilmer-centric huddle, one of the judges expressed concern over a contestant: "I'm just not sure about Alan...some of his jokes didn't seem original...the punchlines were hard to understand." Uh-huh.

Tonight's Englewood episode also featued a Cribs-meets-Room Raiders segment wherein the finalists scout out their opponent's house for "ammo." Like, you know, a funny looking couch, or, you know, shoes. I pray that one of them finds a gun, brings it to the final "head to head" and kills everyone before turning the gun on himself only to find that he's out of ammo, leaving him to wander the Earth a fugitive zombie, his hunger for "yo momma" jokes growing by the day.*

En garde, ammo: "Your room is so small, it's more like a walk-in closet." Get it? Because he's poor.

Finally:

I'm not sure what to make of this truly disturbing chestnut: "Your momma is like a bowling ball; she's picked up, fu*ked, and thrown in the gutter." Okay, I get the picked up part, integral part of bowling, and I get the gutter reference as it's part of the standard bowling lane. But the middle one? I don't...I mean, surely he doesn't...it would just seem that...I have to go lie down.

Okay, everyone, ready? On three; one, two, THREE!!!

THANK YOU WILMER!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

*Then one night he is kidnapped while shopping for toothpaste. He is never heard from again.

You're A JERK

2006-04-24T01:04:00.000-04:00

Yo Momma

2006-04-23T00:37:00.000-04:00

Once I was in a room with a pretty awful human being in a very expensive town house in Manhattan's Upper East Side while "Date My Mom" played on the flatscreen television mounted on the wall. With equal parts disgust and apathy I commented, "How is this actually a show?" The horrible little devil who I was sharing airspace with turned sharply and spat, "You just don't understand your generation" before continuing work on the small fetus she was muching on.

At the time I found this quite insulting, but having just caught the last ten minutes of (Executive Producer) Wilmer "That Mexican Guy" Valderrama's new yo-momma-joke-centric MTV show "Yo Momma," I can say without pause, that my generation (if it is indeed my generation that is the "cause and most cursed effect" of such a horror) is the worst thing to happen to mankind since Hitler decided to "take a detour." Truly, I cannot begin to express the depths of my regret for playing some unwitting part in the creation of the monstrosity.

In an attempt to up their credibility, the New York Times put out a brilliant piece of journalism titled "Talkin Trash With Wilmer Valderamma." In the article (written by very legitimate journalist Lola Ogunnaike), Wilmer describes his desire to "keep growing as an entertainer, keep challenging myself." Wilmer continued, "I'm really focusing on the next chapter of my life," he said. Apparently the next chapter of his life will also involve a candid camera-style show set at the Wailing Wall.

According to the article, the idea came to Wilmer one night while watching 2001's Freddie Prinze, Jr. epic, "Summer Catch." Inspiration struck Wilmer (why couldn't it have been a truck?) during a scene in which two jocks exchange "yo mamma" insults. Quoth the Valderrama: "One of the guys said, 'Your mother's so fat that when she wears heels she drills oil,' " he recalled. "And I immediately thought, what if we can find that one clowner in every group, the smack talker, and show him at work?"

Enter Rod Aissa, MTV's Senior VP of Talent and Series Development who had been chasing the Wilmer ever since he first learned that MTV focus groups repeatedly showed Wilmer as being what the people wanted. And by people I mean Nazis. And the devil. Says Dr. Aissa: "It's what kids do, and it's what I did as a kid," he said, recalling the time when dissing a friend's mother earned him a playground beat-down. "Everyone will be able to relate to this show because almost everyone has told a 'yo momma' joke at some point in their life." But what Mr. Aissa did not reveal in the article is that he believes, "People also learn how to suck the soul out of another human through the nasal passages...it looks like you're kissing them, but you're really killing their insides."

So anyway, long story short, if you tune in to this brain child, you get to hear quips like these: "You're so ugly even Colin Farrell wouldn't sleep with you"; "Your momma is so fat she jumped into the Grand Canyon and got stuck"; "Your momma's ears are so big she uses 20-inch rims as studs." Oh snap!

Towards the end of the article, which is bound to receive lots of national writing awards, Lola gets the dirt on what we're all really wondering about: Is Wilmer currently dating anyone? "If it comes, it's welcomed," he said. "But I'm not looking." Oh...my...god! How did that SLUT Lindsay Lohan ever break up with him? If it were me I'd pull her hair.

Alright, so what do we do about this? I for one am at a loss, but if the dissenter's route is to become an expatriate, then I must learn to escape my generation by BREAKING THE FABRIC OF SPACE AND TIME.

Truly, watching Wilmer conferencing with the likes of Chingy and co. while standing in what looks like a left-over set from "You Got Served" judging, yes, JUDGING, "Yo Mamma" jokes must be one of the greatest joys I have known, right up there with watching the extra features on the DVD of "Riding the Bus With My Sister." The show is so bad it makes me want to bathe in every gay episode of "Date My Mom" while perfuming myself with Paris Hilton's bile.

The participants just look uncomfortable exchanging insults derrived from their third grade playgrounds (or prison yards) and even moreso when the family members are brought onstage to act as targets for variations of the "Yo Momma" theme. It's like "Whose Line" for people who have undergone operations to replace their brain with still born babies. Absolutely astonishing. Best of all, the winner gets $1000, a prize slightly higher on the impressive scan than Dance 360's grand Xbox 360 (although I think the 360 also gives out some cash too, making Yo Momma even sadder).

MTV, please get AIDS.

No bloody nipples, loose stool, or blackened apendages.

2006-04-21T00:14:00.000-04:00

Consentual Google-ing

2006-04-13T00:21:00.000-04:00

WEAREONTHEINTERNET

Sufia's Spin

2006-04-11T21:25:00.000-04:00

Once a week I speak with my friends and family back home (it is only once a week because of the high prices charged by American cellular phone companies...not all of us can be some bimbo who has her T-mobile sidekick and talks all day while baring her breasts for all to see!). Whenever I speak with my friends and family, they always ask me the same old thing: Is it true that everyone in America has a gold farm? I sometimes feel like laughing at their naivety, but then other times I feel guilty for laughing. After all, it's not their fault that their genitals were removed at the first sign of puberty (because I attend university in America I have avoided this ritual).

This week I am going to talk about the US postal system. That's right, all you alcoholics and idiots, your mail system which so many of you seem to take for granted! In Florida, where even bankruptcy cannot touch your personal belongings, the mail comes swiftly and every day. Abroad though it is a fact that well over 1.82 million children go everyday without mail...or even stamps with which to mail a letter to themself! This is because in many places abroad, it is a fact that mail is simply not allowed. Not allowed? you might ask as you drive your SUV down the street, thumping some bad tunez before running over a homeless person and laughing. Yes, not allowed I tell you.

But there is hope--you can do something about this problem using your skills and knowledge. Many times people think they can be free without actually being free from things like government or fitting in with the crowd. Just because you have a right to stand up, does not mean that people abroad will always have food to eat. This is not enough I am saying out you.

A 1995 newspaper article from an American newspaper showed that only 14%--fourteen percent!--of children who are eating US candy (manufactured abroad of course) are not eating enough food made out of chicken products. Is this because they are afraid the chicken products that are not packaged so nicely will have to be killed by their own parents? Raise a gun and shoot the chicken if you are so afraid of killing with your own hands as many of us do at home in Florida. We do this because we are forced to because we cannot afford store-bought chicken because we give all of our money to charities and homeless people.

It does not matter to us that we live in a stucco palace. In fact, sometimes the showers take a while to heat up with the water and I am left to stand in a towel made of the most luxurious of cottons while I wait for sometimes over 3 minutes. But here in Boston University, you might be inclined to murder someone and get away without a trial because your father is a judge. When I am in my Egyptian sheets at night in bed at home in Florida, I listen to the gentle lapping of the bay, or sometimes to the sound of one of our many fountains, and think, "What would my life be like if I had no arms? Or worse, if I had no foie gras to eat?" Then I translate the thought into French, then into Greek and finally into Latin and I think how pleased my father was when I completed my language lessons and translated the works of Dante into Mandarin.

It is a well known statistic that 99% of people who graduate from college to not share their skills with others and pass down methods of curing disease. We can become the future engineers or civilization! But instead, you are too lazy to look at the eagle as it passes overhead and miss the chance to see a really nice bird.

Analysis

2006-04-06T10:39:00.000-04:00

It seems that my blog has an unseemly high body count for such a mild-colored template (now Chris' black and red scheme just screams serial killer...but toupe? hardly).

That is why from this moment on, I am pledging to keep the blog safe for all characters; no more bludgeonings, brainings, stabbings, shootings, lampings, terminal illness, amputations, bus crashes, and so on.

Deal?

My Great New Catch Phrase

2006-04-06T00:15:00.000-04:00

The other day I was just sitting around watching the old boob tube (as if anyone actually calls it that, am I right?) when I flip over to the food channel. That guy Emeril was making some kind of omlette. Or maybe it was steak. I'm no good with these things. But I'm sitting there watching him and I think to myself, Now THERE'S a man who has a catchphrase (BAM! and all that). I take a look around my tiny apartment: dirty clothes, empty pizza boxes, old news papers, a priceless antique gramophone. Disgusting, I think to myself. I say, Larry, you better clean yourself up or one of these days or it's YOU Emeril will be cooking. My eyes dart from the pair of underwear draped over my chair to the television screen. Just try it, Emeril I say outloud (but not too loud...that'd be weird, am I right?!). Emeril, yeah he's a cool customer alright...look at the way he's just talking to the audience and making that sandwich or that roast duck...whatever it is...if you didn't know better you wouldn't even know he was thinking about killing and serving you to his audience...Unless you clean yourself up, I think...no, that's not it...unless... Then it hits me: unless you get yourself a great new catch phrase!

I get up from the couch (alright, so it's not a traditional couch, but the milk crates are made out of a pretty resilient polymer and hold up well to repeat sittings) walk over to my kitchen cabinets, take a plate out, and smash it on the floor, watching the once loved Chicago Bears Super Bowl plate shatter into a million pieces. I raise my ams above my head and scream, "Touch down, Chicago!" Huh...just like that and I've got a catch phrase. That wasn't so hard, I think. I yell it again: "Touch down, Chicago!" Not bad...but not great either. I rub my chin, It does have a certain ring to it (a Super Bowl ring? LOL!), but it might get confusing since I a) do not live in or near Chicago and b) do not, in the course of screaming my catch phrase, mention which sports team I am referring to. Sure, common sense would lead the savvy audience to understand the connection betwixt "touch down" and Chicago...I mean, I'm not talking about the Bulls here, am I RIGHT?!?!? Heh...keep it cool Larry.

I put this one on the back burner and set about on a new catch phrase. Boy, only my first day on the job and already I've got one on the back burner! This was going to be easy.

Next I walk over to the clock I have on the wall above my television set. First I kick the TV, but it hurts my toe and I come to the conclusion that a TV is probably pretty hard to break. Besides, if I got my catch phrase out of the same TV that I watch Emeril on, it'd be pretty much like plagiarism. My eyes return to the clock and a shadow of doubt passes over my eyes and furrowed brow: But if I break it, I think, how will I know what time it is. JUST DO IT! a voice in my head cries out. Tossing caution to the wind, I leap up, snag the clock, and hurl it into the mirror in the hallway. "You're out of time!" I shriek. I run over to the clock, which is now in three pieces amidst a pile of more broken glass (albeit this glass is shiny) and yell it again, emhpasizing each word by kicking the clock: "YOU'RE--OUT--OF--TIME!" (I must admit I get a little tangled up with the contractive "you are" and the whole kicking scheme...do I kick once because it is now one word, or do I kick it twice because it is standing in place of two? Just a few of the important questions I now have to live with as the owner of a catch phrase.) I try it again, thrusting my finger in the air to puncuate the phrase instead of kicking, but I still feel an overwhelming sense of disappointment.

When I calm down a bit and my breathing returns to normal I stand in my quivering apartment and just listen. For what, you ask? For anything. For a sign. For the inspiration I need to create the big one. The big one? you say. Yeah, I respond cooly. But, Larry, you persist, you've already got two great catch phrases, they're phenomenal! HUGE! I just shrug it off. Yeah, they're okay I guess. I feebly pick up a novelty ice cube with a fly in it that I bought myself a few weeks ago and toss it to the ground. It takes two pathetic, clattering bounces before coming to a rest. "Waiter, you're out of time...bam..." I mumble. I think about maybe getting out of the apartment, going to see a movie, or going out for a drink, but the thought of mindless entertainment seems trite after all this self-discovery.

I wander around the apartment aimlessly, like a sheep without a shephard. Why are you doing this to me God? I cry out. I pause, evaluating what I'd just said. Nah, it'd never work...maybe for, you know, poor people, but it just doesn't fit me. I mean look at me, I've got it all: a TV, a fully stocked fridge, a couple of novelty items...a floor lamp. Suddenly my eyes shoot over to the floor lamp near the window of my ninth story apartment. That's it! That's the sign I was looking for. Nervously, I approach the lamp with a trembling hand, like I'm Indian Jones taking that bag of gold or something (was it gold? I missed the first few minutes of the movie...didn't see the end either). I appraise the lamp for a moment or two, trying to really feel it out. After a moment of careful consideration, I throw back the curtains, open up the window, and, yanking the cord from the wall, hurl the lamp out into the street below triumphantly. I watch and wait as my lamp hurtles towards the earth, gaining speed, eyeing the pedestrians below as the Ikea Nrsturmiggher I bought for $10 climbes closer and closer to terminal velocity. I wonder what my new catch phrase will be, I ponder and I feel like a little boy on Christmas day! The lamp looks like an angel I think to myself, but my reverie is interrupted as it crashes violently right into a woman walking her dog. Man what a sound it made! For a moment I am stunned by the sight of what appears to be brain matter on the side walk...the only sounds coming up from the street seem to be silence and the woman's dog barking.

People begin running towards her and cars are stopping in the middle of the street at odd angles to investigate. People are screaming now. For a moment I lose myself in all the commotion before I realize that I'm letting my catch phrase slip through my fingers. I quickly regroup and focus on the shattered lamp below. Before my mind has a chance to fully focus, I feel a great white light coming over me and I belt out, "Who's your daddy?!" I catch myself and quickly suck in my breath. I hold it and I wait. Is it here? Has it really come? I keep my mouth shut, not wanting to let the beautiful bird escape its cage. Who eees your daddy. It's perfect! It's classic, but with enough of a contemporary feel as to not bore the kids. Plus, it's pretty sassy! Is it sexual, or is it familial? Ah, it works on so many levels! A multi-tiered catch phrase? Not even Emeril has a multi-faceted, multi-textural saying! Bam? What's that? Nothing, that's what. It's over before it's begun. But "Who's your daddy?" Now that's something to write home about!

I lean out the window and realize that in my elation, I had forgotten all about the lamp and the woman. I forgot the thank the lamp! I hastily put on my coat and run down stairs and out the vestibule. I push through the crowd, wretch at the sight of more brain matter, pull a jagged shard of lamp out of the woman's back, and scream at my former lighting fixture: "WHO'S YOUR DADDY!" For a new twist (world premiere!) I twirl as I say it and it feels g-r-e-a-t. I run up to a woman in the crowd and scream it again: Who's your daddy?!" But wait--just there--something wasn't right. I take a swing at the woman's head but am restrained by a man in the crowd. I turn on him quickly, "Who's your daddy?!" I scream again. It--no! it cannot be! Have I been deceived? What seemed so perfect just a moment ago has now lost its eternal luster! Just as I'm about to yell it again, a police officer tackles me to the ground and I feel cold metal wrap around my wrists. I try to bite his hand as it passes close to my face.

"Come on, buddy," he says, jamming his batallion into my rib cage, "We're going downtown." That's it! All this time and I was so blind to the simple reality of it all! "We're going downtown!" I shout. I shout it to anyone who will listen, which at this point includes a few camera crews from the local news stations. I scream it and I scream it and as they shove me in the back of the police cruiser, I begin laughing uncontrollably. "Get him outta here," one of the bigger cops says to the first cop. Get him outta here, indeed.

Katie Couric to Join WWE, The Undertaker Courted for Morning Television.

2006-04-05T23:21:00.000-04:00

In what is quickly becoming a bidding war between the three major networks (NBC, ABC, Lifetime), Katie Couric has announced plans to leave the "Today" show in order to pursue a career in professional wrestling. Since last August, when Ms. Couric made public her plans to leave, industry insiders questioned who would replace the decorated morning show veteran (two Purple Hearts, one Medal of Honor, BS in interior design from Phoenix University). Around the same time, WWE superstar The Undertaker began filling in as weatherman/funnyman Al Roker's replacement. Now, in a bizarre example of art imitating life imitating wrestling stars filling in for funny weathermen, Mr. Taker is being courted by several of the major networks in an attempt to draw the same kinds of figures brought in by Mr. Taker's "Today Show" appearances. "I really hope we can continue bringing fans the same kind of journalistic integrity and pleasant man-on-the-street segments they have come to know and love," said Jeffrey McHale, "Today" executive producer. "I also hope that we can get a really cool slow-motion shot of The Undertaker jumping through a plate glass window. You know, like in The Matrix." But The Today Show isn't the only program seeking to nab Mr. Taker. Said Lifetime VP of programming Lisa Katz, "Our core demographic has grown saggy from age and too many of the same old program. We hope the addition of The Undertaker will give us a boost in the ratings, as well as in our demographic's collective caboose." Rounding out the bids is ABC President, Michael Ropus: "If it weren't for the fact that my wife was dying, I'd have an affair." Now that's entertainment! And as for Mr. Taker? When asked to comment, he simply grabbed this reporter by the neck, lifted him high above the ground, and brought the faliling writer down at astonishing speeds upon his knee, shattering his spine. Love him or hate him, he sure is strong!

It's Like Hilarious with a Dress!

2006-04-04T23:49:00.000-04:00

http://gofugyourself.typepad.com

The Buck Stops Here...

2006-04-04T22:55:00.000-04:00

So the other day I'm walking through the town square and I see some nice looking girl across the street, you know? Being married I kinda blushed and just went about my business. Then all a' sudden I hear the girl laugh and I think, Geez, that laugh sounds familiar...sort of sounds like someone chipperin' away on acorns while wheezing. So I take another look and who do you think I see walking around town square with a man's arm around her waist? Nancy! I'd know that patchy-haired back anywhere... So I run up to her, tackle the guy, driving his head into the pavement, and I yell, "Nancy, what in the world are you doing?" Turns out it wasn't Nancy at all, just some broad and her boyfriend. The woman starts yellin, who do you think you are, and on and on...meanwhile the guy's not really moving around a whole lot and there's blood everywhere. I wipe some blood outta my eye and yell, "Great, now I'm hallucinating too! And there's blood on my new pants!"

I gotta get Nancy outta that animal prison--I'm crackin up...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you...Seona Dancing!

2006-04-04T22:14:00.000-04:00

Courtesy of Mr. Jeff "Not a Terrorist" Greco

http://www.seonadancing.com

Libel or Slander? A True Account

2006-04-04T21:51:00.000-04:00

On March 29th I submitted the article "BC Trumps BU. Eats Baby" to BU's alternative news source, The Source. On March 31st I received the following email from editor Carlene Olsen, one in a series of astonishing communiques.

On Mar 31, 2006, at 11:53 AM, Carlene Olsen wrote:

Hey Greg,

I just read through your humor article and I may have missed this,
but what exactly is the baby flesh tradition? I am asuming it is a
mockery on something and that the players do not eat baby flesh,
so I was wondering if we could clarify that a little so a million
emails don't come in about that.

Thanks!

-Carlene

I responded with the following:

Hi there Carlene,

I've added a line to clarify. See below.

"...Yes, indeed, there’s nothing the gentlemen of the BC hockey squad love more than greedily consuming the flesh of a living child..."

-Greg

Several hours later:

On Mar 31, 2006, at 6:23 PM, Carlene Olsen wrote:

Hi Greg,

Ok, I am sorry to bother you about this again, but are you saying the BC hockey team does in fact eat babies???? Maybe it would work better if you just sent me a little paragraph explaining the article, because I want to be sure I know the facts. Even though it is a humor piece, I'm guessing quote a few people would not take eating babies very well, so please let me know exactly what you mean.

Thank you,

-Carlene

I think to myself, "Well you see--wait, what?" and respond:

Hey there,

Yep, I'm talking babies alright. They're real sonofaguns...

People didn't take Jonathan Swift well either and when you take into consideration the fact that my writing legacy is greater than his, we should have no problem at all.

So brief paragraph...I am attributing the devastating BC win over BU to BC's habit of consuming human infants. It gives them some sort of super human strength I guess.

thanks,

Greg

Uh-huh...smells like the story of the century!

On Mar 31, 2006, at 8:22 PM, Carlene Olsen wrote:

Hey Greg,

Ok, well if they do in fact eat babies, I need a verifiable source before I can run the story and if that is actually true, I think there is a much larger story worth taking on then a humor piece. I just cannot seem to believe the hockey team actually eats human babies and no one has done/ or said anything to larger news organizations about it...

Thanks,

-Carlene

Worn down by this exchange, I weep until I am incapable of crying anymore before drifting into a dreamless sleep.

Why I Think Ben Simpson Would Make a Good Superhero

2006-04-02T20:31:00.000-04:00

Ben Simpson has a 40" vertical leap.
Ben Simpson can catch a salmon in his mouth in the summer and fall
Ben Simpson once told me a really funny story about milk coming out of his nose.
Ben Simpson is convinced he can fly.
Ben Simpson can speak several languages, all of them English.
Ben Simpson loves peace.
Ben Simpson hates black people and Asians.
Ben Simpson lives in Ohio aka secret headquarters.
Ben Simpson has never been seen in the same room as Spiderman or Superman.
Ben Simpson owns lots of technology, a must if one is to fight crime and stay up to date.

Ben Simpson: Whatta Guy!

2006-04-02T20:21:00.000-04:00

READ BEN SIMPSON'S BLOG EVERYDAY

!!!!!!!!!CHRIS SARTINSKY IN 3-D HYPERLINK!!!!!!!!!

2006-04-02T20:19:00.000-04:00

EAGLE SCREECH!!!!

Chris Sartinsky

2006-04-02T20:06:00.000-04:00

Go to his site and read all about it!

shrimpsar.blogspot.com

I tried to do something nice for him and hyperlink his BLOG, but Safari won't let me see certain features of the "Create" tab in "Posting."

I try to do a nice thing and I get THIS scathing criticism. Biting!

Some Context

2006-04-02T04:04:00.000-04:00

http://www.tvgasm.com/archives/television_specials/000761.php

A Small Cat Trying to Comprehend Its Reflection for the First Time

2006-04-02T03:48:00.000-04:00

Just walking around, trying to eat a bee...if only I had wings...then I'd show 'em "who's bad"...Michael Jackson, no? Yeah, sure is quiet around here and---what the--? Is that...did they buy another cat? Hey...hey you...kitty cat. Who are you? What are you trying to do here? Are you trying to wreck a home? Because it is working!

Fade out

Fade in

Just doing this little yarn dance...bite the yarn, swipe at it, do something cuddly. Yep, sure is quiet and--I don't believe this. You again? Look, why don't you just go somewhere else, huh?

Fade out

Fade in

Going to lick myself. Going to lick myself in front of the glass door. Licking my crotch, cleaning up, doing the dew, living la--sonofa... Alright buddy, is this what you want? (Scratches mirrow). Whoa, he's quicker than I thought. Alright guy, why don't we strike a deal. Putterthere. (They shake on it). Nice.

(That night the small kitten harvests its reflection's kidneys and sells them on the black market. It's reflection dies the next day despite the dialysis. Moral of the story is, don't harvest the vital organs of your loved ones.)

Deleted Scenes From Last Year's DVD Release of "Riding the Bus with My Sister" Starring Rosie O'Donnell

2006-04-02T03:33:00.000-04:00

Scene 24: Rosie O'Donnell's character Beth Simmons tries to create an alternative source of energy, but then realizes she is too retarded to do so. She poops her pants.

Scene 9: Andie MacDowell's Rachel Simmons tries to kill Beth by drowning her, but Beth farts while being held under water and Rachel lets her live. Andie MacDowell has no idea the camera was rolling and the police are never alerted.

Scene 34: Beth's on-again-off-again boyfriend, the semi-retarded black belt Jesse, brutally rapes Rachel and leaves her for dead. Beth poops her bed.

Scene 40: Rachel is called to photograph a crime scene and does so. Her brilliant photography helps lead to the arrest of several diamond robbers. Beth tries to kill herself because she realizes she will never lead a fulfilling life.

Scene 19: After a long night of playing pool and slumming it amongst the locals, Rachel turns down Rick the bus driver's advances. The next morning Rick crashes the bus into the bank, killing everyone on board except Beth, who has her legs amputated.

Scene 90: As the film nears the four hour mark, Rachel and Beth "get it on." Director Anjelica Huston vomits off set.

Scene 33: A ten minute scene shot in extreme close-up wherein Beth meticulously eats a Pop-Tart. In voice over, we are told that Rachel has just tried to commit suicide because if she can't have Rick she doesn't want to live. We discover that Jesse is actually a ghost living amongst the living in order to prevent a futuristic war.

Scene 62: The character credited as "Street thug" learns the joy of charitable deeds and helps set up a Christmas tree in a nursing home.

Scene 91:Beth and Rachel change positions. Anjelica Huston tries to kill herself.

Scene 100: The real life Beth Simmons charges on set and poops on Rosie O'Donnell. Strangely this film is left in the final film. Everyone involved tries to kill themselves.

The Real World: Arboreum

2006-04-01T19:18:00.000-05:00

This is the true story of six species of plant picked to live in a house. What happens when trees stop acting polite, and start acting real?

Int. House. Day.

JAMES, a ficus plant (mid-Western, religious character), enters and spots MIKEY, a palm tree (frat boy character), giving a massage to a JESSICA, a weeping willow (repressed, quiet character).

James (confessional): I don't know what's going on with Mikey and Jessica, but they've been getting pretty serious lately. I'm pretty religious...I'm just not comfortable with all of the sexual tension.

(back to present)

Mikey: Hey, hey, forget him...he was a jerk.

Jessica: I know, but we've been dating for over 3 years...I can't just forget him like that. Why would he do this to me?!

Mikey: Hey, sh, sh, sh...just breath.

Jessica: You're such a good friend, Mikey.

Mikey: I know, I know...shh...

CUT TO:

Ext. Marina. Evening.

DANIELLE, a patch of moss (non-black minority role) is having a drink with her housemate MARCUS, a lupine (the gay character).

Danielle: So are you are your boyfriend serious?

Marcus: Yeah, um, pretty serious, it's like, when we're together it's like he's *there* you know but when we're separate, I dunno, it feels like we're not together, you know what I mean?

Danielle: Definitely.

A PAUSE

Danielle (cont'd): My brother has cancer. (cut to commercial)

FADE IN:

Ext. Street. Night.

MIKEY and DARREN, an agave plant (non-offensively black frat boy character), are walking to a club.

Darren: So you gonna get with Jessica or what?

Mikey: Whatever, bro.

(Two petunias drive by in an expensive convertible and give Mikey the eye)

Darren: Yeah, PLAYBOYEEEE!!

CUT TO:

Shots from the club: Mikey and Darren grinding with different slutty plants, taking shots, flexing.

Darren (to Mikey): My mom just died.

CUT TO:

Jessica and MELANY, a species of stricta (granola lesbian), are at the house having a heart to heart.

Melany (eating organic pudding): Soooo, like, do you think you and Mikey will end up hooking up?

Jessica: I don't know--we're such good friends right now.

Melany: Yeah.

A BEAT

Jessica: Mikey has AIDS.

FADE OUT

CUT TO

ON THE NEXT EPISODE OF THE REAL WORLD: ARBOREUM...

Shots of Mikey and Darren jumping into the pool naked

Shot of Marcus and Melany sky diving

Shot of Jessica and Mikey climbing into bed together

Shot of Darren and Danielle in a screaming match. Danielle is visibly intoxicated.

Shot of Mikey dying of AIDS

FADE OUT.

Why Can't My Life be Like Keynesian Economic Theory? By Marc Blaskowitz, Age 37, Insane

2006-04-01T19:03:00.000-05:00

Everyone just quiet down!

I wish my life was like Keynesian Economic Theory.

In Keynesian Economic Theory, a mixed economy is promoted, where both the public and private sectors of government play a role in the economy. In my life I eat food through a tube and throw up.

In Keynesian Economic Theory, aggragate demand for goods is seen as a driving force behind the economy. In my life, Jacob screams at night when Michael turns off the light in our room.

In Keynesian Economic Theory, macro-level trends can, and should, overwhelm the micro-level trends of the individual. In my life Shane bit me and then punched Dr. Rothschild and Shane had to go into a room where after he got back from it he couldn't talk or walk by himself anymore.

In Keynesian Economic Theory, there is no strong automatic tendency for output and employment to move toward full employment levels. In my life, I can't have pens.

I wish Keynesian Economic Theory was my life because then macro-level trends would overwhelm Jacob when he eats my fruit snack.

Why Can't My Life Be Like Dragonball? by Marc Blaskowitz, Age 37, Insane

2006-04-01T18:40:00.000-05:00

Everyone's always telling me, "Marc, get your head outta those comic books and do your studies!" Well you know sometimes I don't feel like doing what you are telling me to do stop it! Huh...huh...huh...besides, these aren't comic books they are graphic novels. Plus you read them right to left even though that's not how you read books and things from America and other American-speaking towns and countries.

I wish my life were like Dragonball and Dragonball Z.

In Dragonball, Goku kicked Android 20's head off during a battle. In my life I have to take medicine and get haircuts.

In Dragonball Furiza took over the planet Vegeta and blew it up, and Prince Vegeta had to leave because his home was no longer there. In my life I have to share a room with a crazy person Jacob is crazy and I hate him so I wish Jacob would die.

In Dragonball Future Trunks is the disciplined and noble warrior from the future who aids the warriors in the battle against the androids. In my life Michael has to clean me after I make dirt in my tighty whities. Michael taught me how to say tighty whities. I DONNOT WANNA EAT THAT!!! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

Huh...huh...huh...huh...

In Dragonball Piccolo takes Gohan under his wing so he can train him to be a great fighter. In my life I touch myself when Carmela brings me my pills.

Why can't Dragonball be like my life? Then Gohan would kill Jacob for sure.

Visiting My Wife Nancy in Her Holding Cell

2006-04-01T18:23:00.000-05:00

Rough day. Just returned from visiting my wife Nancy in the animal hospital where they are keeping her until things get smoothed out. By way of refresher, she was taken into custody after she attacked me during a simple misunderstanding. If only my neighbor didn't have to interfere! I am so sick of people sticking their noses into our lives! So I married a half-human, half-squirrel hybrid woman! What's the big deal? "My son's marrying a chipmunk, wonderful," quipped my mother when I first told her of my engagement. "NANCY'S NOT A CHIPMUNK! SHE'S A SQUIRREL!!!" I felt like screaming at her. I didn't scream then and I didn't scream whenever anyone questioned our love. Maybe I should have. Maybe if I had stood up for myself--no, for us--things wouldn't be like this now. I can't stand looking at Nancy all chained up like some kinda animal in that little cage.

"Can't you at least find a bigger cage for her?" I asked one of the nurses. "I'm sorry, this is the biggest cage we have--we're not used to accomodating...objects...of her size." I finished feeding Nancy the acorns I had brought her, kissed her goodbye through the cage, and got the hell outta there because I was afraid that if I didn't, I'd do something I'd regret.

Took a shower, didn't feel like eating anything. The living room feels so empty without Nancy curled up on top of the TV and sounds too quiet without the sound of her tearing the stuffing out of the back of the couch and hiding it in the cabinets. "Nancy, cut it out" I'd always say, but now I'd give anything to have her back here trying to naw one of my socks off.

On a positive note, however, our temporary separation has given my scabs time to heal...literally. Without her constant biting (she's gotta keep her teeth trim somehow!), I can walk around the house without fear of being bitten. "What are you doing, man? Why don't you go out and find yourself a real woman?" my friends always ask me. "Why do you let her bite you? Just hit her down or something. Has she gotten all her shots?" If by shots you mean some sorta sexual innuendo, then my answer is a resounding YES. If, however, by shots, you mean vaccines and the like, then no, which would certainly explain the aches and dizzy spells.

Nancy, if you've learned to read English and to navigate the Internet since we've been apart and you are reading this post, be assured, we will be together again! But for now, I need to go lie down...one of the wounds on my knee is turning a greenish/grey color. Better call tgghe diocthor asdjl;k,......................................

A Letter to the Editor of Aryan Loyalist Magazine Accidentally Published on the Letters to the Editor Page of "Cat Fancy" Magazine

2006-04-01T17:27:00.000-05:00

"PAWS" FOR APPLAUSE

...Our February 2006 issue caused quite a stir among readers when we posed Jasper, a playful Burmese, in front of our cameras for a Valentine's Day photo shoot. Additionally, readers found our "Ten Ways to Tell if Your Cat is in Love" featurette especially useful when setting up their furry companions on V-Day dates! Below, some of your responses...

As soon as I opened my mailbox, I knew that the February issue was going to be unlike any other. From the picture of Jasper holding a box of chocolates in a tuxedo, to the series depicting Jasper posing on the couch shaped like a pair of lips, this was BY FAR photographer Mike Jones' finest work! Keep up the great work!
-Jane Ansdell, Kansas City

Just finished the Ten Ways... featurette and accompanying quiz and all I have to say is, Boy oh boy, I better keep the cat-nip away from my Egyptian Mau, Rex if I don't want the stork to deliver a family of kittens! Rex scored a purr-fect ten! Wonderful.
-Michelle Auerbache and Rex, San Jose

Your cover story on the Chartreaux was both enlightening as well as uplifting. The accompanying photo spread was delightful. Keep the insightful cat-related writing coming!
-Daniel Mancino, Fort Worth

I don't mean to nitpick, but I think it would be really great if once every so often you guys could publish a list of breeders organized by state. That would be really useful. Otherwise, kudos on the Feb. 06 issue.
-Pam and Tony Petrillo, Brooklyn

Your feature on using the Internet to spread the white power message was extremely useful. I've tried the usual, handing out pamphlets at malls and high schools, but people just don't respond to traditional forms of communication anymore (something I blame the Jews for). But after reading your article, I bought a domain name (whitepowerordeath.com) and started up a message board. Within a few days I had over 50 posts from people in 8 different states (!) across this country of ours. Another thing I wanted to get off my chest was how much I hate niggers and how I think faggots should be forced to live in cages or in underground communities where they couldn't turn the youth of America into a bunch of prancing Chinks. Keep up the great work!
-Jane Ansdell, Kansas City

Robot Given Fried Chicken. Flips Out.

2006-04-01T16:50:00.000-05:00

TOKYO--Scientists in Tokyo were given cause for celebration this week as their new Asimo robot responded to stimuli it was not programmed to receive. Says head developer Masahiro Fujita: "For a long time we only would do things like say 'Hello' to the robot or ask it to clap its hands." For months on end, the research staff spent its days making the robots perform "pretty menial tasks" in the hopes of discovering a new combination of movements to program into the robot's circuitry. "To be honest, it was pretty boring work."

But change was not far off as Mr. Fujita explains: "The other day during lunch one of my colleagues decided it would be funny if he posed with one of our Asimo robots while holding a piece of fried chicken to the machine's lifeless mouth. To our astonishment, the robot grabbed my colleague's hand and took a bite of the fried chicken. The Asimo completely flipped out, performing several backflips in a row before strangling one of our research assistants to death."

Adds project team leader Tony Yorozu, "We were able to power down the robot and tear his metal fingers off of our coworker's neck, but it was too late...he had suffocated. When we powered the Asimo back up, he began hitting himself in the head while standing on one foot and waving. It was a total freak out."

A mournful day for the research staff and family members of the deceased, but not entirely without a silver lining as Fujita continued, "It was actually pretty awesome when considered in stark contrast to the monotony that characterizes the majority of our days in the lab."

As the day progressed, the robot returned to normal, carrying a drink tray around the laboratory and walking up and down a flight of stairs while "humming" a digital melody. Although he was scolded repeatedly and forced to look at his victim's lifeless body, the Asimo did not seem to comprehend the data he was being presented with.

While the robot's powerful grasping ability may have taken one life, it just might play a role in the creation of new ones, as several researchers see "an entire line of fried chicken eating robots" being unveiled within the next several months.

Concludes Mr. Fujita, "I guess it was just one of those things...a glitch in the system or something...it's a shame he had to kill Yoshi, but we were probably going to fire him sooner or later anyway. We're sending his family a few Asimos by way of apology. You know, as a way of saying, 'Sorry your son died and all...' But on the bright side, the robot went through its Jump Kick sequence all by itself. It was friggin priceless." As the Bard said, famously, "Show me a robot that can do a hand stand and I'll show you something written in iambic pentameter."

Wall of Classes Revised

2006-04-01T10:40:00.000-05:00

In a brilliant stroke of masterful planning and pragmaticism, I have moved my day of classes from a Friday to a Monday in order to make it one full day (there are very few late afternoon classes on Mondays).

So here's the story...

Wall o’ classes

DAY 1→ A Monday

8AM – CFA MU107→ Ear Training Sgt→ Prof. Leibman CFA 171 STATUS: OKAY

9AM - Ins & Theor Exp AM 310 A3 -- Murray ENG 113 - STATUS:

10AM – CAS CH525 Physical Biochemistry Professor Mohr – STATUS:

11AM – ES302: Earth History CAS B31C (MWF) Prof. Baxter – STATUS:

12PM Marxism? PH 418 → Professor Cao, STH 541 - STATUS: OKAY

1PM – (1-2) BI304 Morphogenesis: 5 Cummington St. Room 121→ Patt – STATUS:

2PM – CL 213 Greek/Roman Mythology in CAS 522, professor Ruck - STATUS:

3PM – Food and Culture

4PM – CAS RN103 World Religion East Prof. Korom

5PM – CAS IR557→ Guerrilla Warfare Prof. Maitre

6PM--> Attend a 6-9 MET class? Or go home and eat dinner? Dinner.

Waiting to hear back from a few professors before I can mark it, but it seems like this Monday will be the day. Go academia.

BC Trumps BU. Eats Baby.

2006-03-29T19:20:00.000-05:00

WORCESTER--This past week the BU Men’s Hockey team fell in a devastating loss to the Eagles of Boston College during the final game of the NCAA Regionals in what many are calling a “soul-crushing sequence of events,” one that has “utterly squashed [my] will to live,” making many fans “question the very fabric of [their] existence.” The contest determined which of the four Northeast regional teams would have the honor of competing in this year’s Frozen Four tournament in Milwaukee, and was not, in many opinions, a true display of the Terriers’ ability this season. When asked to comment, one BU fan simply sighed and shook his head before walking into oncoming traffic.

Although the Icedogs bested the Eagles in four consecutive games leading up to the playoffs, when it really mattered, the Eagles showed up to play. And consume human infant flesh. “Yeah, it’s sorta this weird tradition a few of the older guys started a while back. It seemed to bring us good luck, so we just kept doin’ it,” said sophomore goaltender Cory Schneider. “At first I was all, ‘Ew, no way, that’s a real-life baby! No way am I gonna eat that!’ but after a while you sorta get used to it. I’m at the point now, where having done it for so long, it barely even registers in my mind.” Added junior Forward Brian Boyle, “This one time I punched the baby before I ate it and all the guys were just crackin’ up. Now it’s sorta my thing.”

While some fans view the practice as unorthodox, or worse, illegal, a large majority of BC’s “Superfans” find solace in the ritual. Sophomore Brandon Stevens likens it to a family: “In a family there are certain traditions that you have—like some families eat the same dinner every Christmas, and other families pass down wedding rings from generation to generation. Well, it’s a lot like that, only in this case our players eat a baby before, and sometimes during as well as after, a hockey game. I really don’t see what the big deal is. Besides, who cares about hockey anyway?”

Moments after the final second ticked off the game clock, the sound of students’ cheers could be heard all over campus accompanied by trumpet fanfare and barking dogs. As the students rushed to the quad, senior Marc Livingston commented, “Yeah, it’s pretty sweet that we won I guess—I mean look at this T-shirt. Pretty awesome huh? But I really can’t talk now—we have to hunt down a few babies before the team gets back to campus or they’ll be pretty ticked off.”

When asked for her reaction to her team’s big win, freshman Ashley Lisenco bared her blood-stained fangs and, beating her chest, shrieked into the night air in a blood-curdling display of Boston College fandom. Although the atmosphere was one of quiet terror, the torches held by the students clearly and brilliantly illuminated the excitement in their youthful, predatorial eyes.

“We have to be quiet when we’re hunting babies for the team to eat, because if the parents hear you coming, they usually lock the door or pull out a gun,” said one junior who asked that he remain nameless, not because of a desire for anonymity, but because “the brain-washing really does a number on your short-term memory.”

Coach Jerry York best summed up the team’s season as only Coach York can: “You know, these guys have worked so hard this year—I told ‘em, ‘Win or lose in Milwaukee, you guys can leave knowing that you fought the whole way there.’ I’m just so proud of them—plus, they really love the taste of baby flesh. I mean, what can I say? They’re crazy for it!”

Wall o' classes Part 1

2006-03-28T11:08:00.000-05:00

Here is the final line-up for Part 1 of my Wall of Classes:

Wall o’ classes

DAY 1→ A Friday

8AM – CAS AN 102 A6 – PRB 106 (3 Cummington) Muller

9AM - Ins & Theor Exp AM 310 A3 -- Murray ENG 113

10AM – GRS RN607 REL Room 404→ Prof Klepper

11AM – ES302: Earth History CAS B31C (MWF)

12PM Marxism? PH 418 → Professor Cao, STH 541

1PM – Morphogenesis: 5 Cummington St. Room 121→ Patt

2PM – CL 213 Greek/Roman Mythology in CAS 522, professor Ruck

3PM – Food and Culture

Part 2 will have to be on a separate day unfortunately because there are very few classes past 4PM on Fridays. So it'll be a Friday/Monday affair. Like a June/December wedding. Or something like that...

Topo

2006-03-26T22:38:00.001-05:00

Also coming soon...

Weekly installments of Topo.

Our Town

2006-03-26T22:38:00.000-05:00

At long last, Our Town...

Coming soon.

Lemme show ya life! Urrrrghhh!

2006-03-25T01:27:00.000-05:00

So me and JAFFY are walking back from a picture show and Jaf says, "Lemme show ya a shortcut." So we tread alongside the D line tracks behind Landmark Center and I am fairly certain we'll be butchered and raped but Jaf says, "Nah, fuhgeddaboutit!" before bending one of his fingers back until it snaps at the joint. "Gosh that smarts!" he yelled. Just as we're about to emerge onto one of Beacon's side streets, our eyes fall upon a little urchin man on the street. The smell of alcohol was detectable from the ten foot distance that separated the strangely clothed man from me and Jafman. "Lemme show ya life!" he yelled. Then he yelled it again, followed by a distinctive (and vindictive) "urrrrghhh!"

We high-tail it out of there because if there's one thing we hate more than drunkard homelesses, it's drunkard homelesses with unkempt facial hair. For shame. We ease a little, from a sprint to a light trot and Jaffy remarks, "Wouldn't it be hilarious if we just went back there and murdered him?" Boy, did we laugh! But that got me thinking, suppose we did go back there and stab the life out of his malnourished body (to say under nourished would imply that he is not consuming anything, which just isn't true...he reeked of whiskey! Am I right, Jaffy?!): would anyone care? Probably not. And then I got quiet and sad. But then I realized, Hey, if we can't murder the homeless to better define our existential boundries, who CAN we murder? Am I right?!?

Awww....

2006-03-24T00:27:00.000-05:00

The cutest thing...

2006-03-22T00:51:00.000-05:00

My wife Nancy just came in from gathering...boy, does she love it. In fact the only reason she ever stops gathering is because it's getting dark out. If it weren't for that sun, she'd never sleep, a zombie addicted to the rush out of shoving many, many acorns into her cheek sac, never blinking, never breathing. Dead alive.

So she gets inside and sort of spits/vomits the acorns onto the living room carpet. So I walk in to the room, see the mess and go, Nancy, I hope you're planning on cleaning that up. I said it with my usual flair and wit. Next thing I know, Nancy leaps up and attacks me. I guess I must've startled her. I passed out before long so what happened next is just hearspeak. My neighbor Mike, always suspicious of Nancy (believe me, he's not the first), likes to lurk outside of our house with a loaded dart gun (ditto). Mike, seeing what was happening, busts the front door in and without a moment's hesitation, fires a few darts into Nancy's neck. He's a real hawk-eye...sorta like me, only with a gun. I did play college ball, ya know...

Now they're holding Nancy at a local animal prison. When I came to I asked Mike, why an animal prison? Because she's an animal, he says. Half and half I remind him and then I add, But she's all woman, if you know what I mean.

Be it as it may, he replies, they might have to put Nancy down and we both laugh until I realize what he means by "put her down" (I was thinking sex) and I stop laughing, but Mike just keeps on going.

TO BE CONTINUED...

A 17th Century Treatise on the Modern Majordomo

2006-03-20T11:44:00.001-05:00

Name's Pete, but you can call me Pete, Peter, or just plain Pete. So the other day my buddy Ryan asks me, "Hey, Sam, how's tricks?" I says, "Ryan, you gotta stop referring to me as your dead son, it's time you got help." So Ryan runs off blabbering, tryin' ta pull his hair out and begging God to take him when I spot a pal of mine eatin' a sandwich 'cross the road. I leap across both lanes of traffic and land in front of my pal. His name's Oscar. Oscar says, Good morrow, how's tricks? I point to the squirt bottle I got filled with milk on my utility belt and my plunger. I says, "You tell me." "Holy smokes!" he says is that... "Yep," I cut him off, "it's the Titan." He asks if he can touch it and I say, "Sure, but then I gotta kill ya" and we both laugh and laugh. I'm a pretty funny guy when I wanna be--it's just that mostly I ain't in the mood after fixin' all these toilets. My prices are pretty competetive too. For a milk misting and plunging I charge $80 an hour and only make you drive me to your house, not both ways, as I prefer to jog home. Sometimes people'll spot me runnin' down the street an kinda look at me funny. I just give 'em a look as though to say, "Hey, if I wanted a turkey sandwich, I woulda asked for one, now go back and fix it!"

What else...oh, I get in a fight at a park last week. Some dope had to go and insult my wife and I and I just lost it. Now I'm generally a pretty easy going guy, but when someone starts questioning my wife's genus and species, I have been known to get pretty upset. You see, it all started when I married a squirrel...oh sure, go ahead, make your snide remarks, you can't hurt us..try having your house set on fire in the middle of the night...that'll build some resiliency to that sorta thing. Besides, she's a squirrel-human HYBRID. This is why I get so upset, see? Technically she's only half-squirrel, and believe me, brother, the rest is all woman. Except for her reproductive organs. And her teeth. But we're looking into adopting and dentures, respectively; you'd be amazed at some of the dental options available to hybird-Americans such as my wife, Nancy (although I call her Jim as a joke...what'd I tell ya, pretty funny guy, huh?).

Tomorrow is November 2nd, the busiest day of the year. For some reason, everyone wants their annual milk misting the first week in November. I says, you want a plunging too? It comes with the package but most people just say, no, just a milk misting for the upstars (or downstairs) bathroom. I says, okay, lady, you're the terrorist, not me! People tell me I should go into stand-up because of my personality and rapid fire style of humor. Observe: this one time I'm in line at the supermarket and it's one of those restocking days for me and the missus (Nancy stays at home because she used to get in trouble a lot with the cereal aisle, always eating the nut clusters out of the boxes and carrying on until the manager had to come and shoo her off the top shelf with a broom) and I've got all the greats: the milk, the eggs, the coffee, the pork pieces, the wood block (for Nancy's teeth). So there's this woman in line in front of me and she's wearing one of those big hats, you know, those big hats people wear? And she's got a ton of produce on the conveyor belt and I'm thinking, Oh boy, wunna those loonies, ya know? Wunna them people who wears big hats and eats a lot of produce. Lemme spice it up another level (that's my catchphrase...Emeril famously stole it from me during a pie eating contest...he steals lotsa things from me. For example. this sound familiar? Whammo! See what I mean? He's a catch-phrase thief.).

So I shoot the cashier a sly look, like we're in on a secret together, pick up one of this lady's oranges, wind up and throw it as hard as I can at her head. Well I'm a dead aim and played a little college ball, so I hit her right in the base of her skull and the hat flies off and she goes down hard. She starts screaming, saying how she can't feel her arms and the manager rushes out and the stock boy, stocky little fella, falls off his ladder while he's trying to put up some new boxes of Cream o' Wheat and minor chaos breaks out everywhere (except at the deli counter...that guy is one cool customer). So in the middle of all this, I shoot the cashier another sly look, although he ain't lookin' at me, turn to the manager, who by now IS lookin at me (pretty angry too), and say, "It's ok, I have sex with a half-squirrel, half-woman hybrid! My wife Nancy is half-squirrel!!!" and I smile one of my famous toothy grins (I sometimes wear Nancy's old fake teeth...makes me look book smart). Everyone admitted it was pretty funny, but they were just too concerned with trying to resuscitate the woman I hit with the orange. Yeah, I'm a real funny guy when I wanna be.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Delicious TV

2006-03-16T08:48:00.000-05:00

Jaffy Simpson sits in his trailer on the outskirts of the Utah desert. From his grimy couch he can see Devil's Armchair and other rock formations.

Jaffy: Sure is nice out today.
he walks to the front door and takes a look around. Crosses arms.
Jaffy: Oh there's that damn bird again. Shoo! Shoo!
throws rock into the air.
Jaffy: Not this time I guess. (marks off a tic) So quiet out here.
walks back inside, turns suddenly on the door
Jaffy: Ah. You have to be fast if you're gonna catch someone sneaking around. I'm still training.
Jaffy: Sure wish that water meter guy would come back. He was pretty funny.
cut to shot of calendar: October 1994.
Jaffy: This calendar should be replaced. (calling out) Are any of you guys going into town this week? (under breath) Ya fucktards...heh.
Ambles across room opens cabinet door, takes out pan. Stares at pan for several minutes, replaces it in cabinet.
Jaffy: Heh...heh...always count on that for a laugh.
Jaffy scribbles down some notes and falls to his knees, clutching his heart.
Jaffy: Well, time for breakfast.
Jaffy opens up a sack of cane sugar and begins hungrily devouring it. Suddenly, a knock on the door. He freezes. His face and stubble are covered in cane sugar.
Jaffy: Hello?
Delivery Man: You, uh, Jaffy, uh, Simpson?
he gets up too fast, stumbles, falls, gets up, opens door
Jaffy: Yeah ya schmuck, are you, uh, blind? read the sign!
Delivery Man: I'm sorry sir. Sign here.
Jaffy (suspicious): What is this shit? I'm not signing anything. This some kinda scam?
Delivery Man: It's just a delivery sheet sir--you sign here, I give you your package.
Jaffy: My package? Who sent you here?
Delivery Man (points to badge): FedEx, sir.
Jaffy: I didn't think you delivered this far out--usually it's UPS.
Delivery Man: We're trying to expand our services sir.
Jaffy: Is it working?
Delivery Man: Well I'm here aren't I?
Jaffy (thunderous laugh, heaven moves): You're alright. Wanna come in and have some sugar water?
Delivery Man: I can't sir, I'm working.
Jaffy: Gimme that.
He signs the delivery sheet and hands it back.
Jaffy (curt) Here.
Delivery Man: I'm sorry sir. Maybe another time.
Jaffy: Sure, whatever.
Delivery Man hesitates. Moves out of sight for a moment. Returns leading a little baby calf on a string.
Delivery Man (handing JS the string): Here you go sir.
Jaffy: What the hell is this?
Delivery: It's a calf, sir.
Jaffy: From who?
Delivery Man: Uh, card says here, Jane Simpson.
Jaffy: That no good liberal farm whore. It's bad enough having her send me vegetables every other week...I can't take this...you take it back to her and you tell her, "How dare you!" Say that to her when you see her.
Delivery Man: I won't see her sir. I only work in the state. This was sent from Washington State.
Jaffy: Well I don't want it.
Delivery Man: That is up to you, sir. Enjoy your package.
Man exits.
Jaffy (to calf): Well you can't live in my house. I keep a clean ship. No animals allowed.
Calf questioningly looks at the layer of filth that covers every area of Jaffy's apartment.
Jaffy (in response): yeah but check out the comics--arranged by release date and by rank in the series. It's an average of the two. (comics are on an island of pristine arrangement amidst a sea of human waste)
Calf urinates on dust outside. Eats a crusty piece of tortilla from the floor.
Jaffy: Oh, gross! Well I'm going inside. I have things to take care of.
he closes door and walks back inside. The calf cries out.
Jaffy (head back in the sack of sugar): Scram!
Calf whinnies a little.
Jaffy crosses back over to door, props it open. Fine, you can watch me inside, but you can't come in.
Jaffy moves his small kitchen table over one foot, looks around room, moves it back in place.
Jaffy: Well that's done.
Deafening silence. A long beat as the calf and Jaffy stare around the place. Somewhere in Ohio, a mosquito bites Mrs. Jane Nickerson while she sits outside with a few friends talking about the addition to the library. She and her friends remark that it seems awfully early in the year for mosquitos to be out. She decides to put on a cardigan because "it's getting a little brisk."

Jaffy walks over to the calf and tries balancing a tea cup and saucer on the calf's head. It falls into the hardpan dirt below and cracks.

Jaffy: Aw, great...just great.
He storms back inside mumbling under his breath.
He looks out the back window and watches a small flint of light reflect off a truck a mile off in the distance.
Jaffy glances over his shoulder at the calf. The calf stomps around in a small circle and leans his head against the trailer.
Jaffy opens up a cabinet. He looks inside for a moment before tearing the cabinet door off the hinges.
Jaffy: Well that's one more thing I have to fix around here now. I should open up a handy-man shop...(louder, in calf's direction) because I'm so good at fixing things.
The calf is a cool customer. Unimpressed.
Jaffy grumbles and goes to work fixing the cabinet door. He tries hammering something into somewhere but it doesn't work. He tapes it to the cabinet several times but each time it falls. He eventually decides to just put it on his "to do" list.
Jaffy: Phew...well that's done.
He brushes his hands off and walks to the door. Squints into the sun.
Jaffy: Hot out here. Must be well over 90.
He walks back inside, gets a glass of water from the sink. Walks back outside, pours it on the calf who does not like it. It stomps its feet and whinnies.
Jaffy (jumps back): Jeez louise...just trying to help a guy out...calm down.
There is a pause. The calf shakes itself out a little, turns its back to Jaffy, begins walking away.
Jaffy: fine, go...yeah...stupid sister of mine is what she is. No good.
The calf walks 10 feet out and walks back in a big circle.
Jaffy tears open his sack of sugar and begins shoveling the crystals into his mouth.
He gets up abruptly and offers his hand to the calf which licks his hand clean.
Jaffy giggles and then coughs.
He offers the calf another handful, then another. He pours the sack of sugar out onto the floor near the doorway and the two go at it, shoving their mouths full of the sweetness. The two eat for what seems like hours. Finally they finish, their bellies full.
The calf urinates on the ground outside.
Jaffy: Ew...wanna come inside?
Jaffy picks up the string and leads the calf into his new home.
There is a knock at the door.
Delivery Man: Hello? Sir?
Jaffy stumbles to the door. Jaffy is probably diabetic due to his sugar-based diet.
Jaffy (blinking): Ma, telephone for you--wha--oh, excuse me...hello. What the hell do you want? (to calf) Probably here to bring me a wife now, huh. Next thing I know we'll be best friends, huh?
Delivery Man: No sir. It's against company policy.
Jaffy: So why did you knock on my door.
Delivery Man: I made a mistake sir.
Jaffy: A mistake?
Delivery Man: Yes sir. I delivered the package to the wrong address.
Jaffy; The wrong address? I'm the only one out here!
Delivery Man: Apparently so.
Jaffy: Well then who were you looking for?
Delivery Man: Number 12, sir.
Jaffy: There is no number 12. Probably just a typo or something. Why would my sister send a package to someone else?
Delivery Man: I don't know sir. Nonetheless, I'll need to reclaim the package until we get can it sorted out back at the office.
Jaffy: What? Well how long will that take?
Delivery Man: About 5 to 6 weeks.
Jaffy: 5 to 6 weeks?!?
Delivery Man: Yes sir. So I'll have to take the package back.
Jaffy (considers): No.
Delivery Man: No? Sir, it's company policy.
Jaffy: I don't care. You can't have the calf.
Delivery Man: Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to take it.
Jaffy: You come in here and I'll kill you. How's that?
Delivery Man: Sir, I don't want to call the police.
Jaffy: So don't. I'm warning you: you cross that line and I will kill you. You can't take my friend.
Delivery Man: So are you saying that you're willing to risk personal injury, criminal charges and jail time in order to keep your package?
Jaffy (unsteady, but holding his ground): Yes.
Delivery Man: Well in that case...Jaffy Simpson, consider yourself MELTED!
Jaffy: What the--
A camera crew and several producers appear in Jaffy's doorway clapping. They have balloons and such.
Producer 1: Great job, Jaffy, you were just great.
Camera man 1 enthusiastically gives a thumbs up. Drools a little.
Jaffy: What's going on here?
Producer 2: We're producing a new reality TV series called Melted where we take an embittered soul and MELT THEIR HEART! Jaffy Simpson CONSIDER YOURSELF MELTED!!!!
Producer 3: Great TV, Jaffy. Do you own a TV?
Jaffy (hamming it up): Sure, only it's a sink, not a TV. (into camera) Camera! CAMERA!
Camera man 1 moves back and flicks Jaffy's hand away.
Producer 4: Don't touch the lens.
Jaffy (jovial): So who put you up to this?
Producer 5: Your sister. She said you never write, never call, and live out here all by yourself in the desert.
Producer 6: When we heard this we knew you had to be on the show so we broke in here one night while you were sleeping and installed 36 hidden cameras!
Producer 7: You've been MELTED!! Yeah!!!
Delivery Man: And I'm just an actor! Convincing, no?
The producers high five and congratulate themselves.
Producer 8: Celebrity judge!
Al Roker shuffles into frame.
Al Roker: I thought it was great! I give it...a great!
All celebrate with noise and general fan fare.
Producer 9: Congratulations, Jaffy. You were fantastic.
Long pause.
Camera man 2: Okay, I'm out of tape. Jerry?
Camera man 1: Yep, me too. Just about.
Producers (in unison): Okay, well Jaffy thanks again, we'll send you a tape when its edited.
Jaffy (pointing to a broken microwave): Can I get a DVD instead? Woohoo! Camera! Camera!
Producers: Well we'll be going now. Great job buddy. Oh, almost forgot. We'll have to take the calf back now. (baby voice) It needs to get back to its mommy, doesn't it?
Jaffy's joy balloon deflates and is replaced by Jaffy's budding anger balloon.
Jaffy: What's this?
Producers: (baby voice) We'll need to take back the calfie whaffie.
Jaffy: Okay, first, don't patronize him. He's my friend. Second, no. You can't take him.
Producers: Jaffy, don't do this.
Jaffy: Okay, okay, how's this.
Jaffy slowly runs over to his cabinet, grabs his pan, slowly runs back over to the doorway and tries to strike Al Roker with the pan. His blow is easily deflected.
Producers: Jaffy! No!
Jaffy cannot hear them. He is in a blind rage. He swings and swings, hitting nothing, before he eventually tires himself out. Puffing, he stands before the producers crying.
Jaffy: You...can't...take...him.
Producers: Jaffy are you saying you're willing to murder Al Roker in a blind rage just to keep this calf?
Jaffy (unsteady, but holding his ground): Yes.
Producers: Alright, this sucks and we really hate to do this, but alright. Officers?
Two large police officers enter with their guns drawn.
Jaffy (to the calf): Go hide in the cabinet.
The officers approach Jaffy. Officer 1 puts his hand on Jaffy's shoulder. Jaffy grabs the officer's gun and tries to shoot himself in the face but it doens't work.
Jaffy: What the--
Producer 10 (emerging from thin air snickering): Jaffy Simpson...you've been COPPED!
Jaffy Simpson: Oh boy, not again!
Everyone bursts into laughter.
Jaffy: Who put you up to this?
All eyes on the calf.
The calf grins widely.
Jaffy: You're my best friend.
Producer 11 (eating a small pre-mature baby): Delicious.

Asimo

2006-03-15T00:40:00.000-05:00

I have seen the future, and it's a creepy robot.

http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=1210345008392050115

Burger King vs. McDonald's

2006-03-13T00:57:00.000-05:00

Mike, Mikey, Ted, and Charlie are sitting around a table at a Burger King.

Mike: Mikey, do you like being my friend?
Mikey: Yeah, lots. Ted, do you like being my friend?
Ted: Yeah, lots. Charlie, do you like being my friend?
Charlie: Uh, yeah, sure.

Mike, Mikey, Ted look at each other disturbed. After a moment's hesitation Mikey steps up the plate.

Mikey: Uh, Charlie, you know, we're all good friends here, and, ah, well, there's just a certain way we do things around here.

Charlie: Pass the ketchup, bro.

Charlie goes to reach for the ketchup but Mike grabs his hand.

Mike: I don't think you understand, "bro." You don't fuck with our shit and we don't fuck with yours.

Ted: We had a deal man.

Mikey: Stay outta this Ted.

Mike pulls a gun to Charlie's head.

Ted: Hey man, what the fuck are you doing?

Mike: Didn't ya hear Mikey? He said stay outta this.

Charlie: What the hell are you guys doing?

Ted: We'll ask the questions here tough guy.

Mike turns and blows Ted's head off.

Charlie: Holy shit! What's the matter with you?

Mikey glances over at the BK manager who is pushing the emergency button.

Mikey: Shit.

Mikey tries to grab the gun from Mike but ends up shooting himself in the face.

Mike: Oh no...oh nonononoono oh God no. Mikey! Mikey!!!! Alack!

Mike shoots himself in the face.

Charlie is stunned.

Suddenly Ronald McDonald and Grimmace bust in.

RM: We're too late.

Grimmace (into camera): Hi kids, Grimmace here. If you eat at Burger King, YOU AND THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE WILL DIE.

Ronald draws a yellow "M" with his fingers in the air.

Sketch #2

2006-03-13T00:39:00.000-05:00

Dan Swanson, aging crooner, pushing 40s, thinning hair, thinning resources.

Velvet curtain opens: Ladies and Gentlemen, Dan Swanson.

(applause)

Dan enters huffing and puffing, sweating profusely.

Dan: Thank you thank you, thanks BE TO GOD!!! Hee-yah! (jump kicks).

Dan begins crying. Dan slaps himself and calls himself a pussy. He stops crying.

Dan: I just want to say that it's been a hard year. Let's see if you can spot this little number--it's a favorite of mine and I hope it's one of yours. My mother ruined my sex life. Hit it boys!

(a band starts up somewhere OS)

Dan: Sometimes you gotta go, where everybody knows your name/And they're always glad you came/you gotta go where everyone goes, the people are all the same, you gotta go where everybody knows your name." CHEERS ladies and gentlemen. Great, great, great. I once met Ted Danson at my ex-wife's wedding. I wanted to tell him I was a big fan, but I was too angry at him for STEALING MY WOMAN!

(applause)

Dan: Thank you, thank you.

Dan almost vomits. Chokes it back. Smiles.

Dan: Ladies and gentlemen, now I'd like to bring out a good friend of mine, a man who's been with me through thick and thin, a man without whom I'd probably be dead! (applause) My stagehand Jason!

(a scraggly looking urchin stumbles on stage, blinking at the lights...his mind is not with us)

Dan hugs Jason tightly. It's awkward. If Jason wasn't so hopped up on whatever it is he ingested he would be able to appreciate the frightening intensity of Dan's hug too.

Dan: Jason, tell the folks how we met.

Jason: I'ma turkey sammich. Gonna fuk shit up ifah dun git my outta MY WAY!!!

Jason tries fighting off the unseen demons and punches Dan in the face.

Dan: Hot damn that smarts!

(applause)

Jason: Gon sticka knife yo ass.

Jason shits himself and begins humming loudly. Like a refrigerator!

Dan: Ladies and gents, my lifelong pal Jason! Give em a round of applause!

(no applause)

Jason shits himself again and hums ever louder.

(roaring applause)

Dan pisses himself.**

(over the applause police sirens can be heard in the background--Dan freezes)

Dan: Guess they found out about daddy's little secret!

(the police sirens pass)

Dan: Phew, false alarm! Alright, for my next act, I'm going to dial my ex-wife and her lover Ted Danson. Jason, my phone!

Jason ambles off stage. Dan is forced to run back and get his phone for his own damn self.
Off stage we hear Dan ask Jason if he's feeling alright and that he should have some water.
Dan reappears on stage.

Dan (on phone): Hello? Who's this? Julia? Oh my...are you Nancy's daughter? Sweety, where is Nancy? Not home? Is Ted Danson there? He is? Could you be a lil' pumpkin and put him on the phone? Muchas gracias you little bean.

Dan mimes furiously eating a steak and really hams it up. Whatta ham! (applause)

Dan: Hey, Ted? It's Dan. Nonono, don't hang up, please. I just wanted to say that i'm really happy for you and Nancy. Yeah, you're welcome--it took a lot of courage for me to admit that I had a problem. And that problem is YOU. Becker was shit!

Dan hangs up. Applause.

Suddenly a SWAT team lead by Jason busts in, slaying Dan in a hail of gunfire.
Mayhem ensues. Mayhem stops. Order is restored. Jason steps up to the mic.

Jason: And there you have it folks! Goodnight!

SWAT Gunman: Nice work, Jason.

Jason: Christ, whatta mess.

Curtain falls.

**At this point in the writing I began laughing like a maniac to myself. What foul one-upsmanship.

Even Spies Take the Bus

2006-03-12T23:58:00.000-05:00

It is the potently ubiquitous yet rarely enforced rule, unique to this time period, but with its roots in Village Idiots: it is the “no cell phone” rule when traveling in public spaces.

Let’s paint a familiar scenario: you’re sitting on a bus returning to school and the person in the seat behind you is chatting away to her BFF*, oblivious to the fact that she is causing great pain to her fellow travelers. She is most likely wearing Uggs, a short skirt, and a belly shirt that exposes an over-hanging gut, like some fleshy Hanging Garden of Babylon. Her weapon is a bedazzled Sidekick (shout out to T-mobile, y’all!). As she chatters away, the conversation on your end might sound something like this:

“Uh-huh…well—uh-huh…(squeal)…like…Alcopulco…a turkey sandwich…she’s so annoying, she’s just so skinny…I just wish my life could be like Laguna Beach…”

And this goes on for some time and the whole while you and your fellow passengers are left sitting there hoping for a swift and painless death to relieve you all from this auditory torment. As you near your final destination, someone else has gone and started up a new phone chat and, astonishingly, it is even more (ob)noxious than all the ones that came before it (and there were many), and in a last ditch effort to dull the pain, you make good with God, break the emergency window, and leap out of the moving vehicle (to make matters worse you land in the back of a Nut Company’s truck, this one carrying cashews, and you HATE cashews both for their shape and comparatively mushy texture. "Why couldn't it have been almonds?!" you demand of your God, but there is no answer. Typical.).

Now mind you, not all public phone chats are not violently snotty; some are just painfully boring. An excerpt: “Oh, I dunno—sort of—sort of overcast…I was going to bring a sweatshirt—no the grey one—but it had a ketchup stain on it…yeah I had a hamburger last night…it was okay…I think maybe later I’ll buy some new soap.” Which conversation is worse? Hard to say.

Public transportation authorities have tried to solve the problem by placing signs and making announcements on board, but nothing seems to work. Picking up on the odor of altruism, I’ve sniffed out the trail and followed it until I found a solution for this thorn in the heel of the human condition. Thus far we’ve established that people are addicted to talking on their cell phones in public, and it’s clear that they’re going to do this regardless of “the rules” or the personal comfort of the people around them. This much we know. So if we can’t stop people from having obnoxious or boring conversations in public, how can we at least dull the pain for those who have to hear it? Easy, by enforcing a new rule, nay, a law, this one punishable by death, that says that all conversations held in public need to sound like espionage novels. This way the people around the cell phone users are entertained and in the best cases, are left begging for more. It’s free entertainment on the cell phone user’s dollar.

Under this new set of rules, a conversation like the ones above would be translated into something like this: “Blackbird…he’s been neutralized. The syndicate found the bug we planted and while we were in the convoy they picked him off from a helicopter which I promptly began firing rockets at until it exploded. Then my car exploded and then this woman out walking her baby exploded because she was also a spy and her baby was actually a bomb. When I came to I was in a bunker near the Earth’s core where I was tortured—don’t worry, I said nothing of the map. They don’t know we have it. I managed to melt the handcuffs with my shoe laser before killing everyone in the bunker—of course I didn’t kill the scientists…they’re the only ones who can stop this now and if anyone---” (lights on, PA system crackles on) “Ladies and gentlemen, Boston South Station, please watch your step on your way out.” Collective groan.

On the way out, everyone will pat the cell phone user on the back and congratulate them on their continued success in the fight against the syndicate and possibly even hoist the cell phone user on their shoulders amidst great cheering and song. However, tragedy strikes shortly after the celebration begins as the cell phone user is picked off by an agent of the syndicate proving once more that not everyone who follows this new rule is following it because they are courteous, law-abiding citizens; sometimes spies just need to take the bus. If this new plan succeeds, I plan on splitting the proceeds with a charity devoted to the children of spies who have been assassinated on public transport. What proceeds, you say? What proceeds indeed!

*(means “best friend forever”…see they call it BFF because it’s the initials of the three words which they represent, it saves time, like text messaging someone instead of calling them and it’s all very clever)

New one

2006-02-26T18:23:00.000-05:00

Good Morning BU Tonight

Good Morning BU!

Christian and Grace→inane banter.

Cut to sports guy Chris

Chris
Well, I’m sure this week in sports was really exciting, but to be honest I have no idea and at this point couldn’t tell you the difference between the Red Sox and a sail boat. You see, my wife Christie decided I was a “negative influence” on our two young kids—

Christian
Oh, Tyler and Kolbe, love ‘em, adorable.

Grace
Just such delightful children.

Chris
Thanks. Well apparently I’m a deadbeat, so in the middle of the night, Christie managed to dislodge all of the two-by-fours I had on the front door and escape without waking me. Gee, sneaking off like a gypsie in the middle of the night—that’s a real great influence for the kids. What is this, “Not Without My Daughter”? Oh you’re quick Christie, but don’t forget I know where your mother lives. (sobs) I am not Alfred Molina here!

Christian
Great work Chris, thanks! What a funny blooper reel.

Grace
Who knew ducks could rollerblade?

Christian
And how.

(stage hand laughs OS)

Shot of the audience outside the window going nuts.

Christian
Early this morning in the small mid-West town Hanesborough, tragedy descended on the Johnson family. Father Hank Johnson was working on a telephone utility line when his grounding was temporarily cut, sending thousands of bolts of electricity through his body. He died almost instantly.

Audience is visible during this entire segment, oblivious to the tragedy.

Grace
He leaves behind a wife and three young children. This morning with us, we have his widow, Jane. Jane, good morning, thank you so much for being here.

Jane
Hi Christian, hi Grace.

Christian
Jane, walk us through this early morning.

Jane
Well, I, ah, was sleeping. Hank usually leaves on Monday morning pretty early so I didn’t say goodbye to him when he left and he didn’t bother waking me up. It was just a routine maintenance check. So he went to work and I was sleeping and, um…and then…

Grace
And then someone called you saying…

Jane
That there had been an accident…

Christian
Aaaaaand…

Jane
That Hank had been injured.

Grace
Go on…

Jane
And that it didn’t look like he would make it.

Grace (to Christian)
God I can smell the Emmy.
They clasp hands.

Christian
How did your children take it?

Jane
To be honest, I haven’t told them yet…it’s still four AM here and I didn’t want to wake them…they’ll find out soon enough.

Chris
Hey lady, you sure your husband just didn’t sneak off in the middle of the night?

Christian
Chris, really inappropriate. Not cool.

Grace
Not at all. Gosh.

Jane
I really don’t know how I’m going to tell the kids.

Grace
Any tear jerking anecdotes?

Jane
He would have been 40 tomorrow.

Christian mimes a fade-away jumper at the buzzer.

Christian
Jane Johnson, thank you so much for being here with us this morning, we’re so sorry for your loss.

Chris
I appreciate the sympathy guys. I’m drowning in my own sorrow here…

Jane
Thank you Christian, thank you Grace. I’m a big fan. And if it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to invite you to the funeral. Hank was such a big fan too and I know---

She is cut off.

Christian
(holding remote)
Did we lose the satellite signal? Hello. Hello? Jane?

Grace
Darnit.

Christian
Well that’s technology for you folks.

Grace
Mm—iPods. All of it.

Christian
Well it’s 9:05 and that means it’s time to step out and see our man on the street, Jaffy Simpson. Jaffy?

Jaffy
Hey Christian, morning Grace. You’re both looking great and so is this audience

Audience
WOOO!!

Jaffy
Alright folks, who wants to win some cash?!

Audience
WOOO!!

Jaffy
Okay, since Valentine’s Day is just around the corner, we’re going to have a little Valentine’s Day quiz. And today’s contestant is…

Puts his hand into large bowl, pulls out a slip of paper.

Jaffy
…Barbera Schlessinger! Barbara, where are you, you vixen, get down here and let’s win some cash!

Barbara runs into the shot screaming.

Jaffy
Okay Barb, tell the folks at home where you’re from.

Barbara
Green Bay, Wisconsin! Woo!!

Jaffy
What a shit hole! Okay let’s play! I’m going to ask you a series of questions, and for every correct answer, you get $50! First question! In what year--

Barbara
I want to say hello to my aunt Lindsay and grandma Susan. Woo!

Jaffy
Alright, cut. Now you don’t get to play. You’re out.

Barbara
What?

Jaffy
Nope, sorry, no dice. You want to make shout-outs, make a goddamn sign, but don’t waste my time. America’s time. We’re doing a Valentine’s Day Quiz here! Shout-outs need not apply. Get out of here.

Barbara
(tearing up)
But…I slept out here last night to get a spot on the show this morning. The producers said—

Jaffy
The producers said, the producers said. You want some sympathy? Tell your husband to go electrocute himself like that schmuck in Nebraska. Get lost. Back to you in the studio Christian. Who needs a drink…

Chris is sobbing on the ground and has a gun to his head.

Chris
She was all I ever wanted Christian. I have nothing now…NOTHING!

Christian
Chris, just calm down, you’re not making any sense. Just slow down pal.

Chris
You know what doesn’t make sense? Why come God let bad thing happen to good Chris? Why come?!?

Grace
Chris—

Chris
No! You don’t get to say anything! Not any more!
(gestures to camera)
You! Point that thing at me, am I on? Now we’re going to do my own show…it’s called Good Morning Russian Roulette. Grace or Christian, who’s going to play the first round with me? No pun intended!

Christian
(to Grace)
You go.

Grace
Why me?

Christian
Because you replaced my cohost…you’re just as replaceable…the people need me.

Grace
Oh get over yourself. Go cry into your wig.

Christian
It’s not a wig.

Grace
You know what? I quit. (to producer OS) Jamie, you can sell whatever is in my dressing room. This concludes our broadcast. Grace out, bitches!

She exits.

Christian
You walk outta here I’ll make sure…fine, good, GO! Get out! Go back to the women’s prison! See ya, warden!

Chris
(crosses over to Christian)
Come on, Christian, it’ll all be over soon. We’re going to play! Weeee!!!

Christian
Oh. Oh God.

Police helicopters can be heard in the distance. A police officer calls for Chris over a loudspeaker and lights flash. Both react to the impending SWAT bust. The studio lights are cut and a spotlight focuses on Chris. Chris makes Christian hold the gun to his head, Christian tries to stall. Suddenly Chris is shot by a SWAT team sniper, spraying Christian with blood. Christian looks at his hand, sees the blood, gets the reality of it, and begins crying.

Christian
(a broken man)
We’ll be right back.

CHEERY LOGO! GOOD MORNING BU!

GOOD MORNING BU IS BROUGHT TO YOU BY MOUNTAIN SLEW! DO THE SLEW!

Stephen of the North

2005-11-30T23:35:00.000-05:00

Filming is going along quite well; knock on every hardwood surface in sight.

Great actors, nice composition, good story editing. So far we've shot for over twelve hours, captured an hour and fifteen minutes of footage, and of that 1. 15 we'll use maybe 10-12 minutes in the final film. Two days down, two to go.

Outline-->Script-->1,2,3 Draft-->Shoot, shoot, shoot, shoot-->E.d.i.t.-->Export=Over two months.

New Sink

2005-11-16T23:15:00.000-05:00

Today B&G built us a new vanity and replaced our sink. The toothpaste-stained seashell is no more. For a glimpse of the seashell, visit any of the other apartments in 860 Beacon EXCEPT ours.

Our old sink would leak out of the base unless you made damn sure to turn the knobs all the way into a full OFF position. After bathroom use, I am usually more concerned with the bleeding than I am the faucet, and as a result, the sink leaks a bit here and there. Last week I left the sink leaking. The bathroom kinda flooded. As a result, the laundromat below us developed a leak. Knock on the door: You got a leak? I don't think so--oh, right but the bathroom IS kind of flooded, so I guess yeah.

The new sink is awesome and the vanity is brand spankin new and also is awesome and also is white.

Just a nice one for bed.

2005-11-15T01:03:00.000-05:00

"A white--or black--form, which could be a man unless it be a woman, moves forward (is it forward?). the old sailor shudders--or is it sneezes?--we can't be sure; he cries, "Let's go!" and throws himself into a whitish--or blackish--sea (we can't be sure) which could well be the Ocean."

Also from "The Painting of Modern Life" by T.J. Clark.

Golf anyone?

French Cafes in the 19th Century OR: Next Week on Arrested Development

2005-11-15T00:59:00.000-05:00

From "The Painting of Modern Life"

"...Towards the back a theatre stage with footlights; and on it a comic in evening dress. He sang disconnected things, interspersed with chortling and farmyard noises, the sounds of animals in heat, epileptic gesticulations--a Saint Vitus's dance of idiocy. The audience went wild with enthusiasm...I may be wrong, but it seems to me we are heading for a revolution. There is a rottenness and stupidity in the public, a laughter so unwholesome that it will take a great upheaval, the spilling of blood, to clear the air and make even comedy sanitary."

Ritter Sport!

2005-11-15T00:52:00.000-05:00

I do nothing but look at hockey stats that I don't understand. I reenact scenes from the games; reactions, cheers, goals. I consider buying a jersey several times a day. When I go to FitRec I can't look at Agganis Arena out of fear that I will black out and find myself in an abandoned warehouse hours later. I kind of know a few of the players names (Yip sounds like a dog, Curry is a food). My heart aches when I realize that there is only one more home game, possibly two, that I will be able to attend until second semester hits, and when second semester hits, I don't plan on leaving my bunker that I'm currently digging. Let it be known, if they try to pull me out for graduation, I will take them with me and I'm not talking red carpet and stage.

Alright, we've still got a month left in the semester, right, guy? Huh? Okay, that's better, no more tears, huh? After all, you did just broker what I'm pretty sure is a historic deal wherein you obtained the exclusive rights to the Gaza Strip (Gazaa? Striip? Wild Mid-East spellings) in return for a flotilla market warship. Not Mexican food. A warship.

I worked out tonight and then DOWNED a shake with over 60 grams of protein! I had one pound of filet mignon for dinner!

Oh god, if these scripts don't get me a job writing for a TV show, guess who's jumping? Jeff.

Beyond this, there is simply too much goodness to get into right now. Endless potential this year.

It is enough/to make the heart/swell.

That street

2005-11-13T00:13:00.000-05:00

Left the Coolidge Corner theater at 11:45 and seeing as how I was in no rush, I opted to walk back to my apartment rather than take the T. First off, the length of the walk from Coolidge Corner to my apartment is the perfect amount of time for a short stroll: a very pleasant 20 minutes. Less than that is tedious (an 8 minute walk is something to abhor) and more than that breaks the cradle of "stroll" (pilgrimage? fat baby!). Clear sky and warm air.

There were of course the glorious town houses and inns around the 1200s Beacon Street and down to the mid-1100s, and all of the nice little things to look at along the way. Then I get to St. Mary's Street, but not on the even-numbered side of Beacon, but the odd-numbered side. The two sides seem like separate entities because the beefy section of the T tracks makes it impossible for one to walk from one end of St. Mary's to the other. But walk down it sometime, it's an entirely different world.

Toward the end of a very quiet section of St. Mary's (100 on down to about 130) is another street that runs perpendicular to St. Mary's and parallel to Beacon, and can be most easily located by imagining the first right you can legally take after turning right onto Park Drive (when traveling East)...that is our street.

There's also a great neighborhood that begins around this street, but this area is best left for running. A one hour run is the best way to see an area that requires studying and appreciation and time because you are running so you are accomplishing something, but at the same time no one can blame you for not looking harder at the molding on top of the bell tower.

Then there was the whole episode of Le Corbusier and City Hall and Mugar/Law Building/GSU, but that is still an incomplete thought. But I assure you, mind-blowing stuff.

Visitors from up north

2005-11-11T23:04:00.000-05:00

0-2, 2-2, 2-3. Egad.