Death Blossom

Hey there ‘Redheads… Well, it appears Spring has finally sprung, and with it comes nature’s money shot, pollen. Usually, the only way pollen affects me begins and ends with it turning my car into a yellow canvas for people to write “WASH ME” on it. This time it appears global warming has brought on a mutated super strain of this crap which has reduced me to a sniffly, sneezy mess. Mother Nature is a yellow, powdery WHORE. My nasal passages are EN FUEGO and a Fantasia broomstick bucket brigade of boogers (alliteration, baby) has its hands full trying to douse the inferno. So, I’m writing this minus the sense of smell…if a joke has gone bad, I can’t tell. That being said, on to the blossom of bloggery

Congratulations to Aparna, Mike Way, and Jermaine Fowler for bringing the heat to an already sweltering DC Improv showcase the other night. Big ups also go to Hampton and Katie Riffey, who both gave fine showings as well. Jim Marsdale got robbed. It was swell to see the DC comedy community come out in force to support the participants. One conspicuous absence was Mr. Jon Mumma. He should’ve been there, if for no other reason than to beat back the advances Jim Marsdale was making toward his wife, Amy. I was also hoping to talk to him about some of the big upsets that have the going on in the UFC. Not the least of which was this gem…

That was Mirko CroCop getting o-fucking-bliterated. One kick to the head and he wilts like a hot house flower. Granted, a kick like that would send an average person’s head into the third row, but CroCop was supposed to be an unstoppable machine, a la the Terminator…or Sanjaya. Seeing him get crushed like that is like seeing the Globetrotters lose on free throws. Not bloody likely. Jim Marsdale got robbed.

For those of you itching for a Jared fix, you’ve got plenty of chances to see me at a venue near you. Thursday, I’ll be in Columbia, MD at the recently reborn Taglines with fellow merry-makers, Mark Matusof and Mike Shader. Friday, I’ll be back at the Arlington Drafthouse, hosting a night of sketch comedy with the Late Night Players. And on Saturday, I’ll be at Ned Devine’s in Sterling for their weekly comedy night. 3 chances to experience the magic…I’ll be pulling jokes out of my ass.

If you’re hankering for more blog meat, you’ll be happy to know that top men in the blog archives have unearthed an installment that got lost to technical difficulty until now. A glitch in blogger forced me to put it on MySpace, floundering in obscurity. And it’s a dandy…it recaps my 31st birthday weekend. So stick a candle in something and enjoy…

To be continued…

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The Dork Side

Hey there ‘Redheads… This week has been a doozy. While the mainstream media has been saturated by coverage of the Virginia Tech tragedy, hopefully this installment can provide some happy distraction. It sucks that it takes such a horrible event to shake us out of our infotainment daze and put things into perspective. Suddenly, Imus and Anna Nicole aren’t that important or significant, are they? Last week, a member of the Rutgers women’s basketball team was quoted as saying that she was “scarred for life” because she and her team were called a name. I’d like to hear her say that now. Anyway, on to the distraction…

A very big thank you to Chip, Pete, the crackerjack staff of the Baltimore Comedy Factory, and all of the Charm City folk for an amazing weekend. I had the pleasure of working with Canadian spitfire (emphasis on “spit”), Nikki Payne. You may remember her from the most recent season of Last Comic Standing. She was the gal with the lisp that made Sylvester the Cat sound like James Earl Jones. Not only was she very cool and very funny, but she did something on the Saturday early show that earned her some big time points in my book. We had some technical difficulties, to put it mildly, resulting in the mic completely cutting out about two minutes into her set. While the sound guy was manically scrambling around like Beaker in that Muppet Labs sketch where Bunson dips him in honey and covers him in fire ants (classic), Nikki was left on stage without any amplification…a precarious situation in a room that likes to talk back. But, the show must go on and so did she, making the absolute best out of an immensely crappy situation and giving the crowd 45 minutes of a capella hilarity. Much respect. After the sound was restored, the rest of the night went swimmingly. On the next show, I was approached by a young lady who was with a large birthday party that had 3 guys all celebrating their 30th. She wanted to know if I could, “make fun of them or work it into my act.” As the host, it’s part of my duties to be accommodating to these requests. It was mad easier by the fact that one of the guys was sporting a haircut that made him look like a cross between Kenny G and a wet labradoodle. Anywho, once the easy route was exhausted, I came up with a joke about turning 30, which I will share with you now…*ahem*…

30 is the point when you start to feel the age gap start to widen. You’re checking out the Playboy centerfold, you take a look at the birthdays and start doing math… “Let’s see, when I was in high school, she was…three.”

Well, they enjoyed it anyway…

I’d like to share my current obsession with you. Lightsabers. Wielding one…or making it look like I am. Apparently, it’s pretty easy to do. Check out what these Wannabe-Kenobis did…

Anyone else game? No? I find your lack of faith disturbing…

Well, if you’d prefer to watch me use farce instead of force, I recommend coming to the Arlington Drafthouse this weekend. I’ll be hosting shows on Friday and Saturday night with fellow DC funny man, Sean Gabbert and Paul F. Tompkins from Mr. Show, Tenacious D, and VH1’s Best Week Ever. We promise to joke if you promise to laugh.

To be continued…

A Good Day to Dye

Greetings from beyond the land of stale peeps, ‘Redheads… I hope everyone enjoyed their Easter Sunday…I certainly did. As a Jew without an alibi, I thought it best to take part in one of the more fun activities of the holiday…no, not looking for Jesus…dying eggs. I got together with my good pals, Chris and Allyson, for a hard boiled afternoon of…crayons and bunny stickers…oh, we know how to party. After a couple test eggs, we decided to attempt egg likenesses of ourselves…they’re not eggsact, but they turned out about as well as could be eggspected…I’ll stop…

Chris White with Chris Egg White

Allyson with Alleggson and one with a festive holiday message…

Me with my artistic impression of an egg and Jaregg Stern

After all of this high octane eggcitement (sorry), we decided to wind things down with a trip to the Uptown Theater to see Grindhouse.

Before I get into my review of the film, I’d like to eggspress (sorry) my disappointment with the American movie-going public. C’mon people. I know it was Easter weekend, and maybe you were looking for some more family friendly fare, but this is ridiculous. Grindhouse came in 4th at the box office behind the oafish Will Ferrell figure skating dreck, a Disney flick, and the insipid sequel to Are We There Yet? Really? You’re being offered a unique movie experience that, for once, is giving you plenty of bang for your ten bucks, and you opt for that crap? I thought you were better than that. Allow me to fill you in on what you’re missing.
This movie, or should I say movies, kicked ass. A more entertaining 3 1/2 hours you’ll be hard pressed to find. It’s a big fat celluloid guilty pleasure. The first half of this double heaping of delicious depravity is Robert Rodriguez’s Planet Terror. It has every hallmark of a great splatterfest. Every good guy is a bad ass, every bad guy gets what’s coming to him, and every mutated zombie explodes like a bag of blood pudding when the bullets start flying. It doesn’t get bogged down in over explanation of the hellish goings on, but it gives you just enough so you can let your disbelief go and enjoy the ride. It’s also great to see Michael Biehn found work. Two dismembered thumbs up.
After that, you get a trio of trailers for movies that damn well better get made. Here’s one of ’em…

Who’s hungry?

On to the second feature, Quentin Tarantino’s Death Proof. Where do I begin? This movie, about a sociopath who kills women with his car, has some great moments, and the payoff at the end is awesome, but Tarantino gives new meaning to the phrase “dialogue driven”. In the spirit of eggsploitation (sorry, really) movies, he takes things to a new level by exploiting the audience… Quentin, a car chase movie is about miles per hour, not words per minute. His group of young damsels do so much mindless yammering that you begin to root for their eventual automotive dismemberment. He also seems to have a strange obsession with his actresses’ feet…for the first 10 minutes, you’d think it was being directed by Dr. Scholls. Once the first batch of beauties is dispatched, we’re introduced to a new blah-blah sisterhood who also love the sound of Quentin’s voice and don’t have one thought that isn’t expressed out loud.
Death Proof, instead of being a love letter to the grindhouse movies that Tarantino grew up with, is actually just a love letter to Tarantino. The movie is chock full of references to his earlier work…mostly Kill Bill. The only thing missing was a Samuel L. Jackson cameo. If he’d just stop the ultra hip, self-referential ferris wheel for just a moment and get to the good stuff, this movie would’ve been a lot more fun. Kurt Russell, as the killer, Stuntman Mike, is the most compelling character in the flick. Like I mentioned before, the end is worth sitting through the lecture on how unhip you are. Two thumbs in your ears.

If you’re looking for laughter this weekend, might I suggest a trip up I-95 to check out the shows at the Baltimore Comedy Factory. I’ll be hosting the slate of shows with Pete Eibner and Nikki Payne. And be sure to check out the shows around town for the DC Comedy Fest. And go see Grindhouse, you won’t regret it.

To be continued…

Grindblog

Hey there ‘Redheads… Check out what damn well better be coming soon to a theater near you…

DEAD NOON

EL JARDINERO

BIG DEKE 6: UNFUCKWITHABLE

NIGHT OF THE LIVING JEWS

BLACK MANTIS

The balcony is closed.

To be continued…

Three Past Fool

Hey there ‘Redheads… I’m stuffed. I’ve spent the last couple of nights shoveling matzoh and brisket down my gullet and washing it down with Maneschevitz, Jewish Mad Dog 20/20. All in celebration of Passover (you’re welcome for the pyramids, by the way). Like other Jewish holidays, Passover is rich in song. Here’s one of my favorites…sing along, won’t you?

For the first night of Passover, I went up to Philly to visit my sister, her husband, and of course, my impossibly cute nephew, Mo. Brace yourselves as I crank the adorable knob up to 11.




The knob seems to be stuck…stop trying to tickle the screen.

Before I blog any further, I would be remiss if I did not mention the bitch slap given to Autism over the weekend at the Mobtown Theatre. A big thanks to Greg Hall and everybody involved with the Baltimore Comedy Festival for a great event. I had the pleasure of sharing the stage with the likes of Mike Aronin, Sonya King, Jon Mumma, and Doug Powell as we dropped a comedy elbow into the solar plexus of this mysterious disorder. The late show featured Jessica Paquin, Mike Way, Bird Knight, Kat Malone, Chris Doucette, Larry XL, and Mike Storck as Swanky Hilltopper III. Best line of the night, Mike Aronin closed the early show with, “Thanks for supporting Autism!”

On Sunday, I indulged in a guilty pleasure and checked out the spectacle that is WrestleMania 23. For those math challenged, it was the 20th anniversary of WrestleMania 3, when the WWF set the indoor attendance record at the Pontiac Silverdome. Well, Aretha Franklin sang America the Beautiful then, so they brought her back to sing it again this year. Oy vey. Don’t get me wrong, she can’t still belt out the tunes, but her belt had to have a few new holes punched in it. Sister has let herself go. It wouldn’tve surprised me in the slightest if she was hiding the Rancor in a cell beneath her piano bench. She looked like the Trash Heap from Fraggle Rock

D-O-U-G-H-N-U-T, someone bring a box to me…

Yes, I know wrestling is rigged. That doesn’t make the athletic derring-do any less exciting. For example…

Yes, that was a metal ladder they snapped in half. If someone would like to tell me how they faked that, I’d love to hear it.

On to one of the funnier news stories I found recently in the Washington Post

Criteria for Depression Are Too Broad, Researchers Say
Guidelines May Encompass Many Who Are Just Sad

Up to 25 percent of people in whom psychiatrists would currently diagnose depression may only be reacting normally to stressful events such as a divorce or losing a job, according to a new analysis that reexamined how the standard diagnostic criteria are used.

Apparently, signs of depression include not being happy, not knowing that you’re happy, and an inability to clap your hands. Until the criteria can be narrowed down, doctors are simply prescribing their patients to get over themselves.

Speaking of the Washington Post, I’d like to thank movie critic Stephen Hunter for crystallizing why I hate Will Ferrell with the fire of a thousand suns. I give you this excerpt from Hunter’s review of Blades of Glory: “The joke is that his machismo is mostly fantasy and his hyper-masculinity is all the more off-putting for being fraudulent.” This sentence describes every freaking character that Ferrell puts on screen…Ron Burgundy, Rick Bobby, Chazz from Wedding Crashers, as long as the bravado is thick and whatever he says is either boorish, loud, or stupid, he’s treated as this great comic actor because “he so said that”. Keep mugging it up, you putz. I’m not sure why he irks me so, but he and Jack Black can take a flying leap.

Got nothing to do this weekend? Go check out the happenings at the DC Improv. You can either see the very funny Brett Leake in the main showroom or enjoy a ridiculously intimate evening with Todd Glass in the new Comedy Lounge. Your comedy options abound. Choose wisely.

To be continued…