Me Olde

Hey there ‘Redheads… We’re on the back end of September, which seems like it’s only a week long. With time on an out of control rocket sled toward the future, I find myself reflecting on my life and a piece of it that I’ll never get back. That’s right, I just got done watching The Jay Leno Show. Wow, what a clunky pile of dreck that thing is. I realize it’s only in its second week, and it may still be looking for its comedy stride, but holy crap. It’s tough to find your stride with a charlie horse in one leg and polio in the other. His guest on tonight’s show was Pee Wee Herman. Nice to see Jay burnt through his celebrity Rolodex in the first week. They talked about when he got bit by the acting bug, and then he made Jay a salad. I wish I was kidding… I wish they were kidding… I almost euthanized my TV.

Speaking of finding your stride in the second week, howabout them Redskins, huh? They sputtered through another 60 minutes of football and narrowly beat the hapless Rams 9 to 7. And they were roundly booed by the home crowd. I can’t imagine why. It’s week two and your punter has more touchdowns than your starting running back. To the Redskins, the endzone is a mythical place, and the two members of the team that’ve crossed its magical threshold tell the tallest tales of the creatures that frolic there. I’m not one to boast about my athletic prowess but, through two weeks, I have comparable stats to Redskin wide receiver, Santana Moss. I only have 5 fewer catches, 41 fewer yards, the same number of touchdowns, and I haven’t fumbled. I’m expecting a contract offer from the team any time now. I’m no Cowboy fan either, but that monstrosity of a stadium that Jerry Jones built is pretty impressive. That place is so huge, the bathroom attendant is a Minotaur. After they lost to the Giants, I expected Jerry’s withered visage to show up on that massive jumbotron, give the thumbs down, and release the lions to eat Romo. By the way, Jerry Jones should never ever be in HD. He looks like he chose the wrong grail.

By the way, Happy 5770 to everybody. That’s right, Jews control show business and time travel. Wow, 5770…shit’s crazy. Anyone else think we’re way overdue for…

Keeping with the theme of lost time and wasted potential, it’s my birthday on Thursday. I’ll be 34…17 again…the 13th anniversary of my 21st birthday…the combined maturity of 17 two-year-olds. At some point this week, I’ll be plunging a candle into the blow hole of Fudgy the Whale. I’m not treating 34 like it’s old or anything. You’re only as old as you feel, so I’ve been 80 for a couple years now anyway. I got a small taste of life’s fragility earlier this week. I hit a bird with my car on my way to work. It just flew right out in front of me. What a way to start the morning. Just my luck. It didn’t have insurance and it didn’t speak English…

On the off chance any of you were thinking about buying me a birthday present, allow me to drop this subtle hint…

Huge show coming up this Saturday, in the DC Improv Comedy Lounge

Jason Weems
Steve Coltrain
Doug Powell
Erin Jackson
…and me.

Even if you’re sick of me, this show is gonna be awesome. Miss it at your peril. Click here for tix.

To be continued…

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I, XXXIII

Hey there ‘Redheads… Long time, no type. I’ve been suffering from low blog motivation for some reason. Luckily, another stunt month is quickly approaching…Blogtober. Try to contain yourselves, really. Some time has passed since the last installment, and a metric shit-ton of blog worthy stuff has happened. Most notably, I recently became divisible by eleven. I turned 33 last week and have just recently finished the whirlwind celebration. Unlike previous birthdays in my thirties, I don’t feel much older this time around. For 31 and 32 I expected to look in the mirror and see Lance Henrikson staring back at me. Not this time…it was just another day with cake. By the way, there needs to be some kind of federal regulation on the sugar content of birthday cake frosting. I nearly went into a diabetic coma from a single whiff of the stuff. The cake should’ve come with an epi-pen. I’m just saying, I’d like to enjoy my 33rd without risking my shot at the 34th, to stick a fork in it without having to stick one in me, to have my cake and not eat it too…ok, I’m done (it’s been a couple weeks…making sense is not a high priority). Speaking of super sweet, I got a call from my impossibly cute nephew, Mo, and he sang his nearly two-year-old version of Happy Birthday to me. That pretty much turned me into pudding for the rest of the day. So, I’m older. And so is this blog, by the way. The official blog-iversary was the 15th. I usually break out the digital confetti and break down how many of you very patient people give this rambling mess a looksee, but this time I’ll just say thank you for reading and hope you stick around for another year of poorly crafted procrastination. Onward and upward.

I have been busy these last couple of weeks in the comedy department, travelling to Harrisburg, Greensboro, Baltimore, and most recently, Youngstown. Big thanks to Dave, Tony, Crystal, and the rest of the fine staff at the Funny Farm. This was my third time working for them in their third different location. The previous two were located in hotels, but this new one is a more permanent comedy compound that is a converted Damon’s Steakhouse. Nice place. When I pulled into the parking lot, I didn’t know what my accommodations were going to be. The lovely Crystal informed me that the club rented a nearby apartment for the comics to stay. Groovy. I got the following directions to get there: Go around the building and turn left. Go past the trailer park and look for the house with the Winnebago in front and turn right. You’ll see a four-unit apartment building on your left. I say again, ga-roovy. I got there and met the headliner, Bill Scott. He informed me that the cable was out, so there wasn’t a functioning TV. Upon further inspection of the apartment, we also found that all of the towels left for up were damp and moldy. And there was a persistent funk coming from…somewhere. My first guess was the crawlspace that I found in my room. It appears we were stuck in the renter’s sequel to The Shining. Luckily, I had decided to bring my PS2 with me to use as a DVD player, so we weren’t completely lost. The only other source of entertainment was a wooden cabinet that slid open to reveal an 8-track/record player/stereo. The knob for volume was labelled “loudness”. We found a selection of polka cassettes for the 8-track and an Up With People record, which we immediately attempted to play backward to summon a denizen of the netherworld who could appreciate this place. After the show was done on Thursday night, Bill and I went to the all-night K-Mart to grab some supplies for the rest of the weekend…they were out of holy water, unfortunately. I did pick up a fresh towel and a cheap deck of cards and poker chips. Luckily, Bill was a fellow degenerate gambler, so we spent a large chunk of time playing heads up poker. We figured we had nothing to lose.
On Friday, Bill and I went to the local mall to kill some time. While were chowing down on some mediocre pizza from the off-brand Sbarro clone in the food court, Bill dropped some knowledge on me. He was enjoying a grape Fanta with his cheesy shingle and he asked, “Do you know the story behind Fanta?” I did not. Apparently, Fanta is the brand that Coca-cola came up with so they could continue selling soda to Germany during WWII. They didn’t want pictures of Nazis drinking all-American Coke, so Fanta was born. Our sick minds wondered what the ad campaigns must’ve been like. I came up with Fanta: The final solution for your thirst.
On Saturday, emboldened by my success playing poker against Bill, I tried to raise the stakes of my disappointment, by driving 45 minutes to nearby Chester, WV to check out the Mountaineer Casino. Unfortunately, the one tournament they had running in the poker room was a $235 buy-in, which was a smidge too rich for my blood. So, since I had come to play cards and lose money, I bought in for $100 in chips and sat down at a $1-$2 no limit table. I won one hand as was feeling pretty good, then I was dealt King-Jack and the flop came Ace-King-Jack…two pair. The turn was a five. Then the river was a Queen. So there was a potential straight on the board that I didn’t have and the guy to my left raises to $40. I had already called previous bets on the flop and turn, but he didn’t seem like he had the ten. I called. I turn over my King-Jack. He turns over Ace-Queen. I begin muttering to myself. I think I spent more time driving to the fucking casino than I did at the table. That was worth it. Luckily, I sold enough CD’s to offset that lapse in judgement. Fun bunch of shows in Youngstown and Bill was great to work with.

This week, Oct. 1st – 5th, I’ll be hosting the slate of shows at my favorite club, the DC Improv. After four weeks on the road, it’ll be nice to play roughly 20 minutes from Stately Stern Manor. I’ll be working with Jim Florentine for the second time in three weeks. He was fun to work with up in Baltimore, so this should be a good week. Come check us out.

I would be remiss if I didn’t mention the current political and financial climate that is currently swirling around us like the ghosts that seeped out of the ark at the end of Raiders (don’t look at it). Sarah Palin looks like she won a reality show to get on the Republican ticket. I caught part of her interview with Katie Couric. The phrase “moose in headlights” comes to mind. I do, however, think that John McCain is the best candidate to lead us through the impending depression…because he lived through the last one. I don’t understand the bailout. I have no head for money. I had all of my assets converted into skee ball tickets. I just want someone to put it in terms that I can understand…

Happy New-Jew Year to everybody. It’s 5769 and still no flying cars…come on people.

To be continued…

Blog #129

Hey there ‘Redheads… Welcome to November…only 53 procrastinating days left until 2008. I’d like my readers to rest assured that the Hollywood writers strike will have no adverse effect on the quality of this blog…it’ll be just as shitty as ever. I swung by my local 7-11 and rounded up a couple day laborers to pick up the slack. I hope the strike ends soon, though. I found this disturbing little tidbit in this morning’s USA Today

The clock has stopped on 24. Fox confirmed that the real-time thriller’s seventh season, which was to have run from January through May, will be delayed indefinitely. It is the first major casualty of the writers’ strike, in its third day Wednesday.

Get your shit together, Hollywood, before Keifer Sutherland gets hammered and starts torturing writers with a pair of pliers and a blowtorch. If it doesn’t get resolved soon, I’m here to offer the services of the writing team who brought you GUYS WATCHING 24. Pick our scabs.

Here’s another nugget of news that I found amusing…

Michael Jackson appears on the December 2007 of Ebony Magazine to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the world’s best-selling album, Thriller.

For the issue, the magazine will temporarily change its name to Irony. Really? Thriller is a great album, but Michael Jackson looks like the photo negative of an Ebony cover. Vincent Price has more color than Michael Jackson. He would look less out of place as the spokesman for Gap Kids.

‘Redheads, find yourself a piece of cake and a balloon and wish my impossibly cute nephew a happy birthday. He’s the big 0-1. Stand by for pictures from the par-tay…






I’ll give you some time to recover from that stampede of cute. Your senses are no doubt completely overloaded by this dimple dyna-mo. Since it was his 1st birthday, it took him a little while to realize that it was all for him. Once the presents got opened, I think it sunk in…MINE! I have to think that’s the predominant thought in a baby’s head anyway, but he seemed to noodle it through the he was even more special that day.

I plan on adopting Mo’s mentality in about a week, when I step off a plane and hit the strip in Las Vegas (I will NOT use the phrase “VEGAS BABY” at all…except for just then). I’ll be down there in support of my buddy, Chris White, who is taking part in the Las Vegas Comedy Festival. There will be much poker played. Hopefully, I won’t come home wearing a barrel. Can’t wait.

Tonight, I’m heading out to catch my friend’s band, Kid Goat, at the Quarry House Tavern. I’m excited, not only to see the band but because the Quarry House is right across the street from another place I’m eager to check out…Piratz Tavern. A pirate themed bar, with wench-themed waitresses. It’s Hooters with scurvy.

Finally, just in time for gas prices to get higher than a roadie for the Black Crowes, I’m hittin’ the road for a weekend of shows in the land of Dunder-Mifflin, Scranton, PA. I’ll be at .Wisecracker’s trying to force feed laughter to the Scrantonians. If you’re in the area, come say hi.

To be continued…

…And I Smell Like One Too

Hey there, ‘Redheads… Mustering up the motivation and finding worthwhile crap for this blog has been a tough task this month, but I’ve scrounged up some random things and dug deep in my couch cushions to bring you something that can quell your ADD for a couple minutes. Now if I can just keep mine at bay long enough to write the damn thing…so many shiny objects. Let’s start with this…I’m older. That’s right gang, I just turned 32. Thanks to everyone who sent along birthday wishes (and thanks to MySpace for the helpful nudging). I’ll be accepting gifts and pieces of cake shoved into envelopes here at Stately Stern Manor. I don’t ask for much on my birthday since I turned 30. Just to be in the company of good friends within two days of the birth date and that someone besides my family acknowledge it on some level…and cake. Gifts are never refused, but I haven’t actually wanted anything specific since high school. I’m pretty easy to shop for, though…

Luckily, 32 isn’t one of those birthdays that makes you feel like the guy who chose the wrong grail in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, but it is always nice to escape thoughts of impending oblivion, and what better way than to go back in time? The most reasonable facsimile, that doesn’t require slingshotting my Jeep around the Sun, is the Maryland Renaissance Festival. As per my aforementioned birthday specs, I went with my good friends Chris, Allyson, Becca, an Meagan. When I go to the Renn Fest, I go with a game plan: turkey leg for breakfast, chowder in a bread bowl for lunch, see a couple shows, throw a couple axes, guzzle a tankard of ale, and enjoy the parade of costumed freaks, dorks, and rednecks. We got there a little later than I like to, but I made a bee line for the turkey leg booth to get the day started right.

Mr Owl, how many licks does it take to get to the marrow center of a turkey leg? *CHOMP* The world may never know…

Nothing like gnawing on a roasted animal appendage to roll back the age odometer. A fun time was had by all. Things were going great until the end of the day, when I was reminded just how old I was. We were down by the castle wall rock climbing, watching Allyson dangle and sway on her safety line. The 16 year-old who was manning the station was trying to engage us in some playful renaissance banter. When one of his jokes fell flat, he actually said, “Jk”. He text talked to us…or talxted. I could feel liver spots bursting on my hands. I can understand saving time typing, but are those extra syllables really keeping you from living your life? Back in my day, we actually used whole words. I came to the conclusion that I could make a killing by opening a comedy club and calling it LOL.

I’ll leave you with some congratulations and one bit of sad news. First, a belated congrats to some of my fellow joke throwers who’ve scored some big time exposure. You may’ve seen comedy dynamo, Justin Schlegel, on your TV on Sundays as you refill your nacho cheese tub and watch your fantasy football studs snap their knee tendons. He’s starring in a series of commercials for Toyota. Here’s hoping he gets a set of floor mats.
Be sure to lock your radio dials to 98Rock after 7pm to hear the nasal dulcet tones of Joe Robinson’s new show, Irresponsible Radio. He’s on his way to becoming the King of Dundalk Media.
On to the sad news. A moment of silence for the loss of famed mime, Marcel Marceau. He had the only speaking part in Mel Brooks’ Silent Movie. His last words were…unexpected. Does anyone else find it mildly ironic that his final resting place will be in a box? The answers, my friend, are walking against the wind.

To be continued…