Carma

Hey there ‘Redheads… Before I begin this installment, I’d like to draw your attention to a blog a wrote roughly three years ago. I’ve italicized it, so your attention can’t help but be drawn to it…

This blog is for venting… Do not adjust your computer screens…

FUCK FUCK FUCKITY FUCKFUCKFUCK

My car was stolen today. Right in front of Stately Stern Manor. And if I wasn’t such a ball of sloth, it could’ve been avoided. Apparently, a guy had stolen another car… The engine started smoking, so he decided to dump that car. He did so in my parking lot, and my car was the next most available means of conveyance. FUCK.
I was inside all day, either watching football or playing it on PS2 (Go Skins in both mediums, btw). My parents are out of town for the week, on a vacation that was designed so they would be incommunicado and not have to deal with bullshit like this. If I had gotten off my ass to go feed their fish at an earlier point, this might never have happened… Some other poor shnook would’ve been out of luck on Hanukkah Eve. Or, I would’ve been in the vicinity of my car when this guy was trying to steal it. FUCK.
Luckily, aside from a couple CD’s (and if my insurance company is reading this: my golf clubs, my laptop, my plasma tv, and my bag of gold bullion), nothing terribly valuable was in the car. It’s just a big headache. FUCK.
The next entry will be funny and insightful… We now return you to your regularly scheduled whatever the hell you were doing…

So, apparently, one of my loyal readers really liked that blog, and decided to celebrate it’s third anniversary by staging a reenactment. Yep, my car was stolen…again. And things were going moderately well this week, too. I won a poker tournament, went to a fancy schmancy holiday party with a sundae bar, and got the high score on my iPod Tetris game. Now, this aggravation has brought all that semi-decent mojo to a grinding halt. Reduced to a pile of tinted glass shards on the pavement where my car used to be. That’d be almost poetic if it weren’t so aggravating. If it ends up playing out like it did three years ago, the cops’ll find it in SE DC with minor damage and with the abandoned spoils of a low rent crime spree inside. Here’s hoping.

But don’t cry for me, Argentina. I’m no charity case. Here’s a cause that everybody should get behind…speaking of theft…

Remember, for all of your ribald Hanukkah celebration needs, there’s a great show at the Birchmere this Sunday. The merry mensches,Good For The Jews, will be lighting things up and your friendly neighborhood bloggerino is opening for them. Click the links for tix and info.

See you there…

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AV Squad

Hey there, ‘Redheads… Happy Father’s Day to everyone out there…for all you bastards and orphans, Happy Sunday…sorry for rubbing it in. I gotta think of another blog gimmick for June, or else this month is going to fall woefully short of the standard set in May. Two mediocre entries in two weeks…I had 14 mediocre entries at this point last month. I bring good news with this fresh batch of banality. Wish me a mazel tov. I’m an uncle again. Mo got himself a little sister. Which is nice because I didn’t have to get dressed up to watch a winky get snipped again. Instead, there was a special naming ceremony for her a couple days after she popped out. So, when I found out she was born, she didn’t have a name yet. I called her Moesha. Her actual name is Riva Chaya. I might still call her Moesha. Here she is, for your cooing pleasure…




Can’t wait to start makin’ funny faces at her in person…

I was just watching Tiger Woods eke out a playoff at the US Open. A buddy of mine was marvelling at how much he gets paid just for his Nike sponsorship. I’m sure the figure is off, but he said, “50 million dollars to wear a hat.” For a tenth of that money, I’d sell out faster than bags of glitter at the Pride Parade (I need a better line for that joke, but that’ll do in a pinch).

Now, on to the titular portion of the blog (heh…titular). Feast your eyes and ears on the latest bits of twisted sketchery from the duo of Chris White and myself. Eyes first…here’s a video about the power of imagination…and rum. Enjoy my crappy acting…

And now you can close your eyes (to help stop the burning) and give a listen to this audio sketch that answers the famous hypothetical question about being stranded on a desert island. My acting is only slightly less crappy in…

Just so you know, if I was stranded on a desert island I would want to be with all of you…because you’re buoyant.

I just flipped channels to Comedy Central and one of the perpetual Mind of Mencia reruns is on. Have you seen the promos for this season of this douchebag’s show?

He’s pushing the boundaries…He’s shattering expectations…

The sketch he just did was a Scarface parody where his “little friend” was a midget. Way to go there, Carlos. The only thing you’re doing is lowering the common denominator. You’re not Dave Chappelle…you’re not even Dave Coulier. Safety scissors are edgier than you. Keep screaming those stereotypes real loud, ya posing putz. Sorry…that sounded petty. Correct, but petty. Seriously, America, demand better.

To be continued…

Blogado Gigante

Hey there ‘Redheads… I know, I know, I’ve grossly neglected you, my loyal fictional fanbase. Rest assured, your unwavering patience will be rewarded with a massive installment. Let me start off by wishing all of you mommies out there a happy belated Mother’s Day. A special shout out to three new mothers:

My sis, Lauren, mommy of my impossibly cute nephew, Mo…
My good friend, Alison, mommy of the equally adorable Hannah…
And to my left coast pal, Mary, mommy of dimple dynamo, Emma…

See, isn’t this installment off to a great start? If you didn’t smile, you’re more machine now than man…twisted and evil. Now, compose yourself while I get to all the backlogged nonsense. Smiling babies are only tip of this sensory sno-cone.

Let’s start with the most recent stuff and work backward. Last night I was out with my compadres Allyson and Chris. We assembled the dork brigade show our intellectual and trivial might with a couple rounds of Quizzo at a bar in Adams Morgan. Turns out, that bar wasn’t running trivia that night, so instead we decided to check out the potential freak show of Kostume Karaoke at Wonderland. Just like regular karaoke, but you can’t get on stage without removing your dignity and putting one of the wacky costumes they provide. We sat at the back of the bar and tipped back a few pints, while Migraine: The Musical got going. To be fair, a couple of the entrants were fine singers…others made William Hung sound like Josh Groban. I’m not one to judge. I need a permit to carry a tune. But, it wasn’t long before the three of us started curiously thumbing through the catalog of songs. Then came the bargaining…I’ll do it if you do it, and so forth…a self-esteem murder-suicide pact. While the two of them were waffling, I figured the worst that could happen was getting laughed at by strangers…which is what I get paid to do anyway. So, I marched up to the sign-in sheet, scribbled down my selection, and grabbed a viking helmet in anticipation. Then I went back and informed the two of them of their legal obligation to follow suit or be labeled pussies. This would mark my first time ever on a karaoke stage. For my song, I chose “Flowers on the Wall” by the Statler Bros. You may know it from the soundtrack to Pulp Fiction, for three reasons. 1) I was familiar with it…I know most of the words by heart, 2) it’s a whimsical tune, perfect for the occasion and, most importantly 3) it was 2 1/2 minutes long. Brevity, baby. Aside from the fact that vocally I have the range of a Daisy air rifle, I thought I did ok. Reports from the floor were positive, and the environment is one of overall encouragement. After I was done, Chris hit the stage in a puffy red, white, and blue top hat for his rendition of “What a Fool Believe” by the Doobie Bros…an ingenious choice, since most of the lyrics are pretty much unintelligible. He got the crowd on its feet with his boyish falsetto and acquitted himself nicely. It took a bit more nudging, but we finally got Allyson to give it a go, putting on a modest lei to sing George Michael’s “Monkey”. She also did well, mostly because she got to yell out “monkey” a bunch of times and “monkey” is a funny word. For the record, if we had stayed longer, my next song would’ve been “Land of Confusion” by Genesis.

Big thanks to John X and the fine folks at the Riot Act Comedy Club for a fun weekend of shows. I was joined by fellow local funny man, Sonny Fuller, opening for Ari Shafir. You may’ve seen Ari in Joe Rogan’s video crusade against Carlos Mencia. Those of you on Rogan’s side will enjoy this spot-on nugget (those of you on Mencia’s side can stop reading now)…
http://www.superdeluxe.com/static/swf/share_vidplayer.swf

On my walk from the metro to the club on Saturday, I overheard an interesting exchange while waiting for the light. Waiting next to me was a woman with her three young children, two boys about 7 and a girl of about 4. Crossing the street towards us, was a lady of, let’s say large carriage. Her steps could’ve been measured seismically. Little kids are a font of curiosity from which endless unfiltered questions flow. The little girl asks her mom, “Who is that?” The mom replies, “Why don’t you ask her.” The little girl adds, “Why is she so fat?” The mom judiciously replies, “She enjoyed alot of yummy food.” Let’s break this down. First of all, I love the logic the little girl is operating on. In her mind, this woman must be really important to be taking up so much space. In a world where grown-ups rule, this woman must be the queen. She meant no offense. The mother’s reply bothers me slightly. Sure, you want to sugar coat the answer, but don’t lie to the kid. Odds are this lady hasn’t enjoyed food in awhile, because that would involve chewing. I’m sure she didn’t enjoy eating her young. And let’s not limit it to just “yummy” food. Yes, a few sweets are sucked through the vortex every now and again, but this lady didn’t seem like her palate had discriminated against anything short of “edible” in quite some time. Yes, I’m a horrible person. Scroll back up to the baby pictures if it makes you feel better…I’ll wait.

The complaints among the dork populace regarding Spider-Man 3 are numerous. You’ve probably heard most of the gripes by now, but allow me to toss my week-late two cents in. Once again a potentially awesome flick is brought down by too many plot-lines and not enough decent narrative to pull them all together. This movie had at least four stories to tell and it didn’t do justice to any of them. They handled the Venom story atrociously. When the black suit starts to impose it’s dark will, for some reason it turns Peter Parker into the lead singer of Fallout Boy. He’s got bangs now…look out! If you want a hero facing down his dark side, then look no further than the gold standard of Superman 3, where after being exposed to tar-laced kryptonite, the man of steel is seen getting drunk and flicking beer nuts.

This looks like a shot for…

I was able to forgive the changes in the Eddie Brock character, but where was the hissing introduction of, “We are Venom…”? I’m nitpicking, but seriously, these are important dork issues. This could’ve been much better had they simply axed the Sandman and just gone with the revenge/redemption story of Harry Osborne and coupled it with the Venom story. To be honest, I’m not sure why expectations for this movie were so high. Aside from Return of the Jedi and Return of the King, more often than not, sci-fi threequels suck. Alien 3, awful. Blade: Trinity, shit. Star Trek 3, abysmal. So, the fact that this one was a let down from Spider-Man 2, is no big surprise. Here’s a fun little video to take your mind off things…

Before I sign off, here’s some more mashed up food for your iPod. Stick these all up in your ear holes…or something:
What I’ve Confused (Linkin Park vs. Genesis)
Puppet Rock (Queen vs. 5th Dimension)
Don’t Speak About the Unforgiven (No Doubt vs. Metallica)
Enjoy…

To be continued…