I kicked off my NYE celebration by going to pick up my buddy Jared at the train station, at which point I noticed that someone, in the true spirit of the holidays, had smashed in the rear vent window on my car. Nothing was stolen, and no one even tried to open the door after smashing the window -- the hole in the middle was too small to fit a hand through. Right now the prime suspect is America's youth. I'm watching you, America's youth. Keep your nose clean.
NYE dinner was spaghetti with homemade sauce. If you've never made your own tomato sauce, let me tell you something: For $10 in ingredients plus about two hours of your time, you can make a small quantity of sauce that is almost 70 PERCENT as good as the massive $1 jar of Safeway-brand sauce you have sitting in the back of your cabinet. And your guests will definitely taste the difference. Mainly because your sauce will have lots of tomato seeds in it. Mmmmmmmmmm.
NYE dessert was spaghetti with homemade sauce. You probably think ice cream tastes the same no matter what shape it's in. Well, you are WRONG, killjoy.
The party moved to Wonderland Ballroom, which thanks to its total lack of a cover charge was slammed. I have been drunk, and I have been in crowds. But I have never been so drunk that I tried to walk THROUGH another human being. Sure, I have felt stronger, and smarter, and funnier, and better looking. But not once have I finished my tenth Yuengling and thought, "That should do it. Time to pass through solid matter." However, this happened about three times a minute at Wonderland. How crowded was it? When I got home, it was discovered that some one had bled all over the back of my shirt. Now, I have never bled on anyone before, but I'd like to think that if I did, I would tap them on the shoulder, and then, while pinching my nose to prevent further bleeding, explain to them that they might have a dry cleaning emergency come tomorrow. Right now the primary suspect is America's 20something white d-bags and their dates. I'm watching you, America's 20something white d-bags and your dates. Keep your noses clean. And plugged.
All in all, it was a fine New Year's Eve, and at the very least I know I started 2008 much better than the person who bled on me.
As part of my birthday celebration last week, I stopped by the National Cathedral to pay my respects to everyone's favorite sexist, foot-dragging, doctorate-degree having, stroke-suffering president, T. Woodrow Wilson (also born Dec. 28).
It's probably the closest you can get to a dead president without the use of a crowbar. He's in a floor-level sarcophagus on the south side of the room, and you can walk right up to it. I'm guessing you could climb on the lid, start pounding it with your fists and scream "Why did you leave me" for a good 30 seconds before security could respond.
There are a few quotes on the walls and the seal of the president in the floor. But for a guy who led us through World War I and positioned the United States as the number one power broker of the 20th century, it's remarkably understated. The whole thing seems like an afterthought in the context of the Cathedral itself.
But if you think Wilson has it bad, his wife Edith, who may have been effectively running the country after Wilson stroked out, is also in the cathedral ... in the vault underneath the floor where Wislon sits. So you're walking over top of her the whole time you're looking at him.
After watching Letterman on Wednesday, I am reminded that one of the worst conversations you can have with a stand-up comedian starts: "You know who I really love? Robin Williams."
Robin Williams is his generation's Dane Cook. A lot of regular people are laughing and enjoying themselves, and off in the corner are some tortured souls pulling their hair out and saying, "Really? REALLY?" Almost every comedy movie featuring either man is beyond horrible, but they KEEP ON GETTING MORE MOVIES.
DAMN YOU ROBIN WI ... *(gurkleFSXFGx) [rage-induced brain hemorrhage]
Headlines
It's not quite "Ike Beats Tina to Death," but hats off to the guy who got "Tuna Cans Dolphins' Cameron" on the front page of ESPN.com yesterday. Brilliant.
EN GARDE!
I mentioned before that I am taking a fencing class on Saturday. I'm hoping three hours is enough to master fencing, because it would totally help my New Year's resolution to fight more crime.
I really like the idea of being able to use a sword, probably because I have never been stabbed with a sword. In most of the scenarios I have imagined I'm wearing a pirate costume, I have two swords, and the people I'm fighting are trying to kill me with moldy pieces of fruit or something Nerf. Needless to say, they usually regret their choice of weaponry after I've skewered their lungs a few times. Getting stabbed back could put a damper on the fantasy.
But then again, maybe I'm the greatest swordsman who ever lived! If that turns out to be the case, I'm definitely going to sell everything I own on Craig's List and buy a boat. So if you don't seen any postings for a week after Saturday, it means I'm on the high seas. Or trying to figure out how to attach the marina's sewage pump to my boat. One of those two things.
So much to discuss. First: Former Redskins receiver Darnerien McCants was at Chief Ike's Mambo room last night. Singing like R. Kelly. And as far as I'm concerned, Darnerien McCAN. Go to his web site. The song starts playing right away.
It's a lot easier to understand why the Redskins were so bad from 2000-2004 when you realize that there was a seething mound of raw sexuality distracting them in the huddle.
Oddly enough, his career hasn't exactly taken off (though opening for a Monday open mic is nothing to sneeze at) and at this point I have to think it's strictly a promotional problem. I mean, the talent is there.
Consider his album as described on his Web site: "Track Jacka Vol.1. Mix tape full of music that won't be heard anywhere else."
Well, not with that attitude, it won't.
And "Track Jacka?" You just lost your entire crossover audience with that title, DM. Free of charge, here are some better titles:
1) "Both Feet In." See, because not only would that be a successful reception, it shows that you're totally into the music now. It's commitment. Old Darnerien and new Darnerien come together.
2) "First and Long." Sex sells.
3) "In the Slot." Again, sex sells.
Movie Review: Sweeney Todd
There are two things that I have a very, very difficult time watching on screen -- things that make me cover my eyes and cringe like a girl. One is use of a hypodermic needle, the other is throat slashing.
I can take beheadings, disembowelings, romantic duets ... but no throat slashing. For some reason I can actually imagine what it feels like.
There are about 12 throat slashings in "Sweeney Todd," and I still really, really, really liked this movie. It's basically what you'd expect from Tim Burton, but since the guy is clearly a genius, there's nothing wrong with meeting expectations.
So, if you only see one disturbing musical this year about a man's homicidal and unhinged quest for revenge, go see "Sweeney Todd."
I went fencing Saturday, and it was awsome. You always like to imagine that you have a natural flair for these things -- fencing, horseback riding, undoing the corset of the governor's daughter in such a way that she suddenly realizes she DOES want you. But to have it confirmed? Beyond fantastic. It was a lot like "The Mask of Zorro," but with slightly fewer burning buildings.
And dammit, you can learn to fence too.
1) Stretch. Think about the standard fencing motions and then loosen up those muscle groups. For example, when carving your initials into someone's ascot, you're going to need a limber wrist. And if you run a guy through all the way to the hilt, you'll probably have to brace yourself by putting your foot on their torso to pull the sword out. Flex your arches and calves a few times.
2) Footwork. In fencing as in life, the most important things happen from the waist down. Ideally, you're hoping to keep your weight centered, your knees bent and your torso stationary. A good place to start is to be in a high school marching band, enter a series of beauty pageants, or train for Olympic ballroom dancing. Once you've done four to five years of that, you're ready for the en garde position:
Put your feet together. Turn your non-dominant foot 90 degrees to the left. Move your lead foot forward one foot-length. Then move your back foot backwards one foot-length. Keep your knees bent. To move forward, advance your lead foot a short distance, plant it heel first, rolling the foot forward. Barely lift your back foot and slide it forward to follow. To move backward, start the motion with your back foot, and don't bother worrying about the heel-toe rule. You cannot move sideways in fencing. Attempting to do so would only show your poor character, not to mention explode every ligament in your knees simultaneously. You cannot run in fencing. Attempting to do so results in a penalty strike between the shoulder blades, the prime target on all cowards.
Lunging: Many strikes in fencing begin with the lunge. Extend your sword arm as far as you can without dislocating your shoulder. Now move your front foot forward violently, if possible faking some kind of karate kick to intimidate your opponent. Shout "Ha HA!" or "Have at thee!" or "Arroint thee, wench!" or something to that effect. Lunge your body forward, with your knee ending up over top of your foot. If your knee goes past your foot, your hamstring will snap in half instantly, then roll up like a window shade. During the lunge, your back foot should remain in position on the floor. Should you find your foot wandering, take a spare epee, stick your shoe to the floor and practice repeated lunges until you feel comfortable or you pass out from blood loss in your shoe. To recover from a lunge, simply shift your weight backward, although any respectable lunge should end in the death of your opponent, and require no recovery aside from improvised motions to escape spurts of blood.
3) Sword technique. Once footwork becomes second nature (you should be able to complete a marathon in three hours using the standard fencing advance), you can turn your attention to sword technique. Most sword ability is god-given, but there are some basic strategies:
The Stab: Stab your opponent. In the face, neck, torso leg, arm, or wherever. While anyone would relish the chance to slash, hack or otherwise mutilate an opponent, the genteel art of competitive fencing only recognizes stabbing as a legitimate strike.
Parry #8: If an opponent approaches with their blade toward your leading shoulder, use a clockwise motion to first deflect their blade and then, in the same motion, cut off one of their sideburns.
Parry Alpha Seven: If an opponent approaches with their blade toward your back shoulder, move your arm across your body and use the hand guard of your epee to catch the end of their blade and push it aside. At that point, you have the option of attemting a strike on their sword arm, or shouting "For England" and then lunging your knee directly into their groin.
Ethical Dilemma: Can I Stab Someone in the Boob? Fencing ethicists have struggled with this question for centuries. In a classroom setting, it stands to reason that a man might be partnered with a woman when practicing. In these situations, is it right for a man to stab that woman in her boob? Under epee rules, the boob is a perfectly legal target, but would striking a woman there be interpreted as groping with a prosthetic aid? Or would a conscious effort to avoid the boobular region be taken as a patronizing or sexist slight against the female opponent? If you have a good answer for this, let me know before the next time I go fencing.
Non-Fencing Hand: What to do with your non-fencing hand? If you have less than cat-like balance, or if you are backing up a spiral staircase, you can use your off hand to balance. If you have respectable agility, use your off hand to constantly flip off your opponent, or perhaps tear up large photographs of their loved ones as a psychological tactic.
4) Equipment and rules. Not everyone needs protective gear, but if you're just starting out, you'll probably need to own or borrow some kind of a kevlar vest that also covers your neck. You might think that a really heavy T-shirt, something with some seriously thick cotton and a tight weave, will get the job done. But you are wrong. You also might want to wear loose pants, if only for aesthetic reasons.
The fencing mask is also useful -- while some would cringe at any compromising of their vision, a decent mask is no worse than staring through a screen door. Do not build you own mask from an old screen door, because it might not be as effective as a regular mask at stopping a three-foot piece of metal from puncturing your eye. You can tell if a mask is right for you when it sits snugly on your head, and also causes you to sweat one third of your body weight every ten minutes.
In a friendly, Olympic-style fencing environment, your sword will be attached to a sensor system which hooks into the back of your vest, thereby tethering you to the ceiling. However, attempts at Thunderdome-like leaps will not work, and likely will leave you in a vulnerable position. In a non-friendly fencing envrionment, the sensor system will be adjusted to deliver a 10,000-volt shock through your blade every time you score a touch on your opponent.
There! You know now everything I know about fencing. Go forth and give it a try -- it really is a blast. I would definitely recommend the D.C. Fencing Club, even though it appears to be a crystal meth lab from the outside.
And for the record, I won all three of my matches and mildly pulled my right hamstring. It was the best birthday present ever.
I'm typing this from my BRAND NEW DESK. I did not plan on getting a new desk, but it turns out that if you bought a $100 desk from Staples, you weren't in it for the long haul. The big hint was the loud cracking noises and visible buckling.
This desk is more than a desk, though. It's an opportunity for growth. I'm 31. It's time to start thinking, and shopping, like an adult.
This is a $200 desk from Office Max.
Run Lola Run
One of the big items on my Christmas list was cold weather running gear, because one of my goals for 2008 is to pretend that I am a good runner. On the rare January day when it isn't 75 and sunny, I've road tested the stuff, and it works great.
But when it goes down to 35 and I look like this ...
... (including the gun, I jog in D.C.) I usually get passed by this guy:
My manhood is also reaffirmed every time a 5'2" girl with negative three percent body fat in what amounts to underwear goes by at full speed. Sure, we all hate the annoying friction and aerodynamic drag of clothes. But it's 35 DEGREES.
There was a time not long ago when most of a young man's life was spent dreaming about the few sunny seaside weeks a year he might see, in a socially acceptable context, nearly naked women jogging. And now you just have to take a walk in the middle of January. This is last-days-of-the-Roman-Empire stuff. Sigh.
I made it back to Mount Vernon on Jan. 6 (the Washingtons' anniversary), for a few reasons:
1) I have a serious problem.
2) The third floor was open!
Because of the fire code and whatnot, the top floor of George Washington's house is inaccessible to the public 11 months out of the year. But from the start of December to the 12th day of Christmas, you can actually get up there. Because in recorded history, there has never been a fire during these weeks, anywhere in the world.
We've all heard the rumors about George Washington's secret brain-damaged man-child, manacled to a wall in the attic away from company and forced to eat rats for sustenance. And yes, we've all wondered if maybe Washington didn't die of a throat infection, but in fact had his jugular torn out after hitting Bruno with a riding crop one time too many. But they don't show you that room, or even the secret door behind a portrait of John Paul Jones that would access it.
Instead, you get to see the lader up to the cupola, some storage rooms, some spare bedrooms, and one very interesting chamber: Martha's bedroom. After George died in 1799 (jugular), Martha shuttered their bedroom and moved to the third floor, staying in a smaller, darker room until her own death two and a half years later. If I heard right they have the original furniture and drapes still in the room. We don't really mourn people the way we used to, nor do most of us have mansions big enough to go around shuttering rooms. So to see her old room -- spacious, bright, decorated -- compared with her new room -- cramped, dark, spartan -- it really is a striking demonstration of what she must have been feeling without George. (Or Bruno, who was of course put down after killing George.) To steal a factoid from one of the guides, David MacCullough called Mount Vernon the autobiography Washington never wrote -- you get a remarkably solid idea of the man from the plantation and how it ran. Looks like you can learn something about Martha too.
Holiday visitors actually get to learn a LOT, as they hand out Martha's "Great Cake" recipe. Without reprinting the whole thing, I will mention that 40 eggs are involved, as well as 5 pounds of butter. Basically, the kind of recipe you can have when slave labor is involved. Yikes.
I had a manly weekend. So manly that I am just now able to write about it.
1) FRIDAY NIGHT! I didn't really do much on Friday night. That's because I was storing my energy for ...
2) HOOTERS! That's right, I went to Hooters. Specifically the one in Chinatown. If you've never been to Hooters, it's an eatery for the discriminating eatery for gentlemen that attempts to combine every thing that would result in the early death of a discriminating gentleman. I had fried pickles.
There's always good people-watching at Hooters. You'll usually see: 1) people on very awkward dates, as the man in question did not realize that Hooters is not really a great date spot; 2) older couples who are dead to their surroundings and really just want to eat more wings in order to hasten the sweet release of death; 3) families that I can't quite think of an explanation for. There are also waitresses who seem to enjoy working at Hooters, and waitresses who are spending every free second of their shift trying to figure out which life choices were horrible, horrible mistakes.
Claims that Hooters exploits attractive women are as ridiculous as saying the NFL exploits men who are big and fast. Hooters Girls have the same right to use their natural female sex appeal to earn a living as do super models Cindy Crawford and Naomi Campbell. To Hooters, the women's rights movement is important because it guarantees women have the right to choose their own careers, be it a Supreme Court Justice or Hooters Girl.
The chain acknowledges that many consider "Hooters" a slang term for a portion of the female anatomy. Hooters does have an owl inside its logo and uses an owl theme sufficiently to allow debate to occur over the meaning's intent. The chain enjoys and benefits from this debate. In the end, we hope Hooters means a great place to eat.
You gotta admire the spunk. And also the assertion that being a Hooters girl is a choice on the same level as being a Supreme Court Justice (which you can't choose, you must be chosen). And the phrase "the chain enjoys and benefits from this debate." Have you ever heard anyone have this debate? Can you imagine people taking any part of their day to seriously contemplate this issue? If you've never seen the Hooters logo, the eyes of the owl are in the middle of the two Os, so that they look like a portion of the female anatomy. Hooters, you have BALLS. Seriously, go read the entire "about" page on Hooters.com. You won't be sorry.
2) BASKETBALL! Hooters was the pre-game meal for Georgetown vs. UConn at the Verizon Center. I enjoy college basketball, but I do not care for either of these schools. The one thing I do care for: free tickets. This was a good game. What wasn't good: the Georgetown student section. Just awful. I guess if you take a bunch of relatively well-to-do white kids and give them T-shirts, it does not a basketball crowd make. The cheering was lackluster, predictable and completely reactionary. There were no attempts to distract UConn players during freethrows. NONE. I'm not expecting girls from a Jesuit school to flash the opposing team, but you can't take some of that trust fund money and buy one of those hypno-spinners?
Great finish though: senior Roy Hibbert, who is 7'2" and had made exactly one 3-pointer in his entire college career, was left alone with the ball at the top of the key in a tie game with six seconds left. Really, there was no one within 8 feet, and no one ran out to cover him. You could almost see him look around, think, "uh, shouldn't someone be covering me?" Then he waited a second in the interest of sportsmanship, thought about what he wanted to have for dinner, recited the pledge of allegiance to himself, reached a few conclusions about the ethical implications of a godless universe, and when STILL no one had moved out to cover him, shrugged, took a 3-pointer and swished it. Good stuff.
3) DINNER! I ate at Faccia Luna for a friend's birthday. You might not find this manly, but what you don't know is that I ordered PENNE! This is widely considered the manliest pasta.
4) JOGGING! Nothing says "manly" like cold-weather jogging. Wrestling a grizzly bear in the nude comes close, but that's about it. It should be noted that I felt slightly less manly after a conversation during 3) DINNER! In that conversation, a woman holding a baby informed me that she took an 8-mile jog three days before having said baby. She was averaging 9-minute miles. I average 9-minute miles, I have never run 8 miles in one shot, and to the best of my knowledge I am not 9 months pregnant. But I still feel pretty good about my 4-mile run, because I have a manly Nike sweatshirt that lets people know who's boss. Equipment makes the manliness.
5) HOCKEY! On Sunday I went to see the Flyers-Capitals game, also at the Verizon Center. Using my awesome celebrity pull, I scored tickets for me and five friends in the top row. Right next to the press box. In folding chairs. This sounds crappy, but it was in fact great. No obstructed views, plus all the legroom you could possibly want. Instead of the regular cramped seats, we had a six-foot deep patio. I wish I had known this in advance, because I would have brought a hibachi. Also, during an intermission, a guy from a Czech newspaper came out and interviewed the fans next to us about Alex Ovechkin, who was playing his first game after signing a 13-year, $124 million contract. Attention comedy industry: I am willing, TODAY, to enter a 10-year, $4 million contract with any major network or agency. I am totally willing to trade some of my phenomenal earning potential for a little bit of stability. By year five this will totally be a bargain. Offer only good while supplies last.
Anyhow, the Flyers won, 6-4. My roommate was in attendance, and this was his first ever hockey game. How can someone reach the age of 24 without seeing a hockey game? He is from Oregon. The closest thing they have to a sport is hitting a beaver with a croquet mallet. Someday, if they build any cities, maybe the children of Oregon can know the true joys of grown men, some with mullets, skating into eachother at full speed.
6) FOOTBALL! I watched the Giants-Cowboys game after getting home from hockey. As an Eagles fan, the best thing about a Giants-Cowboys game is that either the Cowboys or Giants will end up a loser. In this case, I think the T.O. factor makes the Cowboys the best loser, especially since the Giants will now get mauled by Green Bay. Really, mauled. Eli Manning can't play in bad weather, and even in warm weather the offense has been anemic in their last two wins. I am tired of Brett Favre but the Packers should probably kill the Giants very, very dead. Here's hoping.
Also, to increase the manliness of watching football, I did sit-ups during the third quarter.
There were many other manly things that happened over the course of the weekend, including chundering, head-butting and setting things on fire for entertainment value. But you get the idea.
I haven't gotten around to watching the video yet, but I am heartened by the stunning breakthroughs that have finally revealed how seeing, hearing, touching, smelling and tasting a person would be essential to falling in love with them.
And all along I thought love was just about the money. Although this would explain the stunning lack of romantic comedies featuring "locked-in" quadruple amputees .
Cheers
Somewhere beyond Monopoly, beyond Life, way, way beyond and slightly to the left of Scrabble ... there is a world of board games so awesome that most mortals cannot begin to fathom their greatness. And in this realm lies ..
I played the Cheers game on Sunday. It consists of a series of multiple-choice questions on the smallest details of every episode of "Cheers." The game had been unopened since 1992 and was sitting in a closet. All the cardboard playing pieces had to be punched out of a sheet.
I now realize that by punching out the pieces of a mint-condition version, we turned a collector's item into something that is not worth the carboard it's made of.
Sadly, there is no Franklin Mint edition of the Cheers game.
Maine Event
I'm in Portland, Maine, at the Comedy Connection on Friday and Saturday night. If you are a moose you get in free. But as a moose, that's pretty much the case with any establishment you might frequent.
Cover the Earth ... IN BLOOD!
This has apparently been out there awhile, but it's new to me ... on the highway today I passed a Sherwin Williams paint truck. Here's the logo from the side:
DOes that logo make you want to buy paint? Or does it make you suspect that Sherwin Williams is up to something unspeakably evil?
If you have painted your house in Sherwin Williams paint lately, I highly recommend you strip the walls as soon as possible. Before they initiate The Great Purifying.
Fun Party Games That People in the 25-35 Age Range Can Play By Themselves
Find a Barack Obama supporter and ask them why, exactly, Barack Obama should be president.
Tell somebody that you don't know what Facebook is and then ask them to explain why it should be used.
If you see Harry Potter on a bookshelf, and there are no kids in the house, ask the hosts why they read poorly-written kid fiction.
For every appetizer you eat, ask, as seriously as possible, what the best kind of wine is to go with it. Even if you are eating Cheetos.
Sit somewhere central in the room and watch a movie on your iPod with the headphones in. Laugh really loudly. If anyone tries to see what you're watching angle the screen away from them.
Mention to anyone who listens that you think Ron Paul has some interesting things to say.
Carry a copy of the Book of Mormon with you. Hold it under your arm the whole night. When anyone asks if you're Mormon, tell them no. If they ask why you have the Book of Mormon, say "I have my reasons."
If the hosts have a large table, ask if anyone would like to play a game of Wine Pong. If anyone suggests Beer Pong as an alternative, with a straight face, tell them Beer Pong is a stupid game.
Start texting other friends at the party, in the same room, with mildly erotic messages as they talk to other people. Do not make eye contact with anyone who you have texted.
The first "National Treasure" had everything I look for in a movie: history and a German chick with a decent rack. It was good.
"Book of Secrets" also has history and the same German chick, but it's not as good. It's watchable, and the stunts are cool. I was entertained. But this time out they're stretching a bit much. In the first move they worked really hard to devise an ingenious plan to break the law for the greater good. In this movie the heroes commit about 20 flagrant crimes in broad daylight, without ever first asking people for help. You'd think that making the archaeological find of the century would open a few doors for a researcher, but I guess not.
It's too much plot, not enough character. But it's still not bad. And they did set things up for the third installment. A chance to get back to the roots.
Museum Review: Portland Museum of Art
You're probably in Portland all the time, and yet you never think to stop in the PMA. Well what the hell is your problem?
Me gusta. It has about a 90-minute walkthrough, and the art on display has a definite Maine flavor. There are some big names and the usual hat-tips to the major schools from 1800 on, but even the stuff from the big boys often has some tie-in to New England. There's a very cool N.C. Wyeth room, a few Magrittes ... but as far as people I've never heard of who now intrigue me, the award goes to Rockwell Kent.
This one ain't in the PMA but it's similar to ones that are. Striking.
You're gonna get quite a few seascapes and landscapes at the PMA, which is fantastic if you are cool like me. (Thomas Cole in the heezy, yo.) The modern art gallery is tiny and sort of lackluster; they could probably chuck the Alexander Calder into the bay and make some more space for paintings of trees and weatherbeaten widower fishermen.
But all in all, a fine little museum. I just reread this entry and it makes me want to punch myself in the throat.
I finally got a card to let me use my video camera like a digital camera. A mediocre digital camera, but a camera nonetheless. And I'm passing the savings on to you! Some pics from the Portland Comedy Connection:
I'm the redhead. The other guys are comedians Tuck and Rich, who were instructed to "look angry." They are good at taking instructions, having acted out a potential stabbing with a pen. A for effort, guys.
Because they're interviewing people FOUR TIMES. I don't care what the job is. I don't care that head coaches get paid millions. You do not do this.
At this point, Dan Snyder is the really fat guy in front of you at the ice cream counter, asking to try samples of almost every flavor. And then, what does the fat guy do after 30 samples? He says he's full, wheels out and goes to another ice cream store.
No one likes that fat guy, Dan.
Oh wait, I hate the Redskins. Keep it up, Dan! Fly, Eagles fly ...
Words That Should Be
Twont. Originally an instant messenger typo, "twont" could have any number of meanings, and we should as a nation vote on it. Is it a pejorative? A contraction? A skin defect? Or all three?
Jick. This was invented by an old friend of mine about five years ago. "Jick" is a universal ethnic slur, applicable to any person of any race or color. Just listen to it. When you hear the word "jick," you don't know what it means, but you do know you were insulted.
Chunkle. This has to refer to a bodily expulsion. Consider: "I can't believe you chunkled on me! This jacket is dry-clean only!"
I realize that these words were probably included somewhere in volumes 1-83 of Sniglets. But I'm not going to check.
I will regret saying this ...
But Quarterlife isn't that bad (especially compared to Roommates, which tries to be ironically awful, but in fact is just regular awful, even with Doug Benson). It has hot chicks and it's reasonably well acted. I only want to punch people in the face every three minutes or so, which is comparable to network television. I could see this as a WB show. I have no idea how they make money putting it on the web for free.
And the one guy looks like Jon Mumma with an Jewfro.
I have been informed by my brother Dave that my use of the word "Jewfro" in
yesterday's post was horribly inappropriate. The correct term is "Isro." My
apologies to the Jewish people.
Take Him to Detroit
Check out this story about the mayor
of Detroit. I don't know what's better: that this story broke, or that Kwame
Kilpatrick could probably get re-elected in a landslide if they had a vote tomorrow.
Somewhere in America, Chris Rock is having a stroke.
New reality show: John Street, Kwame Kilpatrick and Marion Barry become the
co-mayors of a small town somewhere in Iowa. This would be better than anything any
writer anywhere could come up with. Please, Hollywood. Make this happen.
Now that he has locked down the fat
drunk manslaughterer vote, Obama is UNSTOPPABLE. Fat drunk manslaughterers
everywhere will line up at the polling stations to vote for him. That's like 10
percent of any state with a lot of farms and farming equipment.
Sing Sing Sing
About two months ago I entered into a karaoke murder/suicide pact with my friend Allyson. The terms:
1) Each person must sing 8 songs in 2008.
2) Each person can choose 4 of the songs for themselves. (This is the suicide part.)
3) The other 4 songs will be chosen by the other person, with the option of
springing at least two of those songs unannounced at a karaoke venue. (This is the murder part.)
This was a deal struck between two people with, at the time, a grand total of
four karaoke performances between them. No one was drunk when they agreed to it and there are no prizes involved. Why did it happen? The world may never know.
If you've ever seen me perform comedy, then you know that I have, basically, a woman's voice. I've tried to deny this, but I've come to accept that 3,000 telemarketers can't be wrong. There is no magic transformation when I sing, the way that British people have no accent or stutterers have perfect diction. I still sound, basically, like a woman, and even then not a particularly attractive one.
With this in mind, or maybe just because she hates me, Allyson has chosen for me: 1) "What a Feeling" by Irene Cara; and 2) "With Every Beat of My Heart" by Taylor Dane. Plus two songs to be named later. Anticipating her slight, I chose for her 1) "Fantasy" by Mariah Carey; and then because I felt bad about how cruel "Fantasy" was, 2) "Power of Love" by Huey Lewis. Plus two songs to be named later.
On Sunday night we kicked things off at Steve's Bar Room. I had never been to Steve's Bar Room before, but according to the Internet, they had karaoke on Sunday night, starting at 9. This fact was confirmed by a very authoritative 8 1/2 by 11 sign taped to the inside of the door on the street indicating it was the "best" karaoke night around. You might think that a sign has the potential to be misleading, but get this: it was in Times New Roman font, black ink on white copier paper, slightly dogeared and taped to the glass. That's how you advertise when you are confident in the awesomeness of your event. It says to the viewer, "I am not spending more than 25 seconds on this sign in Microsoft Word, because the event sells itself."
So what is Steve's like? It's hard to do it total justice, but Steve's looks like someone inherited the lease on a large supply closet for a non-profit, and then opted to remove the shelving and open a bar. It's on the second floor of a pseudo-office building with a langauge school in the basement. We rolled in at 9, at which point we were promptly informed that they don't open until 10 on Sundays, web site be damned. When we rolled back in at 10, there was no one there, because on a Sunday night, the party, realistically, shouldn't start until about 11. That's the kind of place Steve's is, i.e., it's probably a drug front.
Fortunately, our early arrival gave us plenty of time to go through the karaoke books. We both decided to start out with our own choices, because Allyson will need at least four months of voice lessons and maybe some kind of laser vocal chord surgery before attempting "Fantasy," and I haven't learned to flashdance yet. My personal top choices, reached after hours of careful consideration: 1) "Can't Live If Living is Without You," Harry Nilsson; 2) "Same Old Song," The Four Tops; 3) "Saturday in the Park," Chicago; 4) "Punk Rock Girl" by the Dead Milkmen.
Of those four songs, none were on the list, but understandably so, because they needed to make room for 10 Kelly Clarkson songs. Did you know Kelly Clarkson had 10 singles? Me neither.
Plan B quickly became "Beverly Hills" by Weezer, because I know the lyrics, and it didn't look like a Diana DeGarmo crowd. Did you know Diana DeGarmo had a single? Me neither. The place started to fill in with regulars, and by 11 I'd say there were, oh, 20 people sitting around the bar. After an emcee for the evening kicked things off with a stunning rendition of a Wham song, I was the next person up. I tried to get the crowd on my side early, asking them to "give it up" for Aaron, who, according to several sources, was celebrating his birthday at Steve's that night, starting at 10. Now, I've never met Aaron. But judging from the reaction when I asked the crowd to give it up, he either left early, or he is a jerk, because his friends do not cheer for him at all. Maybe it was my fault for not clearly indicating the antecedent of "it." I would assume that most people understand "it" is applause, but if they thought "it" was free will, or ice cream, or hope for a brighter tomorrow, then sure, don't give it up.
Anyhow, it was a stunning rendition, in that I was stunned that no one at the bar seemed to be paying attention, acknowledging the fact that karaoke was even happening, or indicating that I was in fact physically in the room. Given the long and documented history of the power of music to touch hearts and captivate minds, I cannot tell you how good it felt to get no reaction. NONE. Not even contempt. Admittedly, I'm not THAT inspiring, but someone should have looked up (other than Allyson and the two other friends in attendance who were switching between awkard smiles of encouragement and hysterical snickering).
But I got through it, and then I had the great pleasure of watching Allyson sing three lines of "I Love Rock and Roll" before her spirit broke mid-verse. Then some other chick sang "Deja Vu," and the best karaoke night around ended. After four total songs. And no one at the bar seemed upset about it.
It was a great night. Seven more songs to go! And no more songs at Steve's.
I got to see Robert Klein at the Improv. It's strange when you see a living legend -- here's a comedian who was there at the birth of the modern artform, who is cited as a huge influence by a lot of the stars of the '80s and '90s. He has a revered position in the history of stand-up.
And his show was nothing special. It wasn't bad, or cringe-inducing, or anything of the sort. The crowd never turned against him. But there wasn't anything sharp or fresh or inspiring. He opened with a song about a colonoscopy -- who knows, maybe he was the first ever to discuss it on stage, but it's something any regular comedy club patron has seen before. He talked for 15 minutes about Michael Dukakis, Dan Quayle and the 1984, 1988 and 1992 elections -- political material that's at least 15 years old. You could see the younger people in the audience glossing over, and even the older patrons were starting to scratch their heads. He dropped a lot of celebrity names in a very obvious way, and he went into completely stale Viagra material -- jokes I've heard from twenty different comedians in twenty different clubs. It was like an open mic set from a very good performer that just happened to last an hour.
There were encouraging flashes: he has first-hand stories about comedy legends that anyone would want to hear; he launched into six minutes about the U.S. presidents, the kind of subject you just can't get away with anymore unless you have the street cred of a Robert Klein.
But most of the night it was just mild laughter. No real lulls, but no high points; no sense that you were watching someone who had completely mastered a craft. Some in the audience still felt compelled to give a standing ovation, because I guess that's what you do for living legends. He's working on material for his ninth HBO special, and after a set of more than an hour, I couldn't even pick out five minutes that would be a part of that special.
I've had this discussion before, with different names: If you could take Richard Pryor, and have him start today, how far would he go? In his day he was shattering all kinds of barriers, and in a certain sense, all that modern comedians are doing is playing with the rubble he created. Those recordings created the modern standards, but oddly enough they don't meet them anymore -- there's nothing shocking about them in this day and age, and the social context has changed so much that a new generation can't appreciate how innovative Pryor actually was.
I guess the curse of success is that, eventually, you're a victim of it. What people expect from performers is really beyond what most human beings can actually deliver. The number of artists who can sustain decades of innovation is miniscule; even the brightest, most brilliant perfomers have limits. American culture evolves so rapidly anymore that it's almost impossible to stay in front of that wave.
But then again, maybe that's why we cling to legends -- because sometimes change comes so fast, and can be so overwhelming, that it's nice to spend time with what we already know. Maybe there's a value there that can't be measured with straight-up laughter.
But you can judge for yourself; he's at the Improv again tonight. Check it out if you get the chance.
I'll be out of touch for a few days, because I am going to Groundhog Day.
Afterwards, having finally realized the one lifelong dream that was keeping me going, I might fall into a crippling depression which will last until Monday.
Legal Stuff: If you have questions about this Web site, why? You should spend your time questioning the moral nature of any god who would let Chris White exist. But anyhow ... copyright 2009, Chris White Sucks Inc.
It's probably the closest you can get to a dead president without the use of a crowbar. He's in a floor-level sarcophagus on the south side of the room, and you can walk right up to it. I'm guessing you could climb on the lid, start pounding it with your fists and scream "Why did you leave me" for a good 30 seconds before security could respond.
Lunging: Many strikes in fencing begin with the lunge. Extend your sword arm as far as you can without dislocating your shoulder. Now move your front foot forward violently, if possible faking some kind of karate kick to intimidate your opponent. Shout "Ha HA!" or "Have at thee!" or "Arroint thee, wench!" or something to that effect. Lunge your body forward, with your knee ending up over top of your foot. If your knee goes past your foot, your hamstring will snap in half instantly, then roll up like a window shade. During the lunge, your back foot should remain in position on the floor. Should you find your foot wandering, take a spare epee, stick your shoe to the floor and practice repeated lunges until you feel comfortable or you pass out from blood loss in your shoe. To recover from a lunge, simply shift your weight backward, although any respectable lunge should end in the death of your opponent, and require no recovery aside from improvised motions to escape spurts of blood. 
Ethical Dilemma: Can I Stab Someone in the Boob? Fencing ethicists have struggled with this question for centuries. In a classroom setting, it stands to reason that a man might be partnered with a woman when practicing. In these situations, is it right for a man to stab that woman in her boob? Under epee rules, the boob is a perfectly legal target, but would striking a woman there be interpreted as groping with a prosthetic aid? Or would a conscious effort to avoid the boobular region be taken as a patronizing or sexist slight against the female opponent? If you have a good answer for this, let me know before the next time I go fencing.
With this in mind, or maybe just because she hates me, Allyson has chosen for me: 1) "What a Feeling" by Irene Cara; and 2) "With Every Beat of My Heart" by Taylor Dane. Plus two songs to be named later. Anticipating her slight, I chose for her 1) "Fantasy" by Mariah Carey; and then because I felt bad about how cruel "Fantasy" was, 2) "Power of Love" by Huey Lewis. Plus two songs to be named later.
August 2009: Jefferson.
Fall 2009: comic interviews on the podcast. 
