Title: Attention
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Really? You're going to give me another obstacle? The NaNoWriMo gods are not with this one.
Saturday, November 29, 2008
A good sign?
Ryan writes, quoteth Google docs:
Really? You're going to give me another obstacle? The NaNoWriMo gods are not with this one.
Really? You're going to give me another obstacle? The NaNoWriMo gods are not with this one.
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
Monday, November 24, 2008
Monday funday
The only way i'm going to finish this novel is if I write as much as possible at work without getting fired. Worst timing ever what with this failing economy and friends and family alike getting swiped by the lay off pendulum. I'm attempting to work better, which includes getting along with co-workers better. It's the latest in a series of begrudgingly accepted tasks (most of which have to do with either work or cleaning my house). Once in a while though Steve comes out with gems like "This is a pain in the Rumpus McDumpus", and things start looking plausible.
Another week!
Another week!
Friday, November 21, 2008
Why does it feel like a Monday?
Maybe it's because I'm exhausted and I'm not entirely sure why. Maybe it's because for the next 9+ days, there seems to be something happening that requires careful planning with several parties involved. Maybe it's because I know I'll have to be back here in two short days, over half of which I'll be sleeping through (if all goes well). Maybe it's because I have to be writing every moment of my life from now until November 30th to catch up on my novel. Or maybe it's because I'm Irish.
Happy Friday.........?
Happy Friday.........?
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
A city's ruined reputation
Now I like to torture myself just as much as the next hapless individual, and part of this passive-aggressive self-suffering comes in the form of travel emails. Once in a while I'll get these ones entitled "Deals and Steals" that detail four or five travel packages that go from one city to another and are usually never relevant. Today's edition though featured an amazing offer for a "weekend escape" from Memphis to BOSTON. Now these things all have images next to each blurb showcasing each destinations luxuries, adventures, or sites to behold. A trip to Denver? Climb a snow covered mountain side against the backdrop of a crystal blue sky. Love Vegas? Soak up the night with the greatest light spectacle of any city. Hitting up New Orleans? Enjoy the old southern charm and warm hospitality in the region's great mansions. Or maybe Houston's your thing. Witness the magnificence of the universe itself and man's enduring quest of discovery at NASA's Johnson Space Center! Boston you say? Have some tea:
Really? This is what happens in Boston? You sit at some bullshit coffeehouse in late afternoon and dip a tea bag in some water? And whose glasses are those? Arsenio Hall's? Why are they translucent? Is it 1989? And what in holy hell do you need silverware for? You're drinking tea, you jerk. Give me a break. I'm getting a headache just thinking about how boring this is.
This is all incredibly unimportant. I have to go write 5000 words. BYE.
Really? This is what happens in Boston? You sit at some bullshit coffeehouse in late afternoon and dip a tea bag in some water? And whose glasses are those? Arsenio Hall's? Why are they translucent? Is it 1989? And what in holy hell do you need silverware for? You're drinking tea, you jerk. Give me a break. I'm getting a headache just thinking about how boring this is.
This is all incredibly unimportant. I have to go write 5000 words. BYE.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
More unoriginal content
Hey.
I'm wishing a few things at the moment. They're all trivial, because honestly who needs anything deep and dramatic aside from emotional masochists?
Anyway, I wish I had come up with Garfield minus Garfield. Second, I wish I were Jim Davis and came up with Garfield, just so some other guy could come up with Garfield minus Garfield. I'm liking it almost as Calvin and Hobbes. The last is from the 13th, which is mildly baffling. Maybe the guy's on vacation. But really, this is one that I can't even picture that dumb orange cat being involved in in the first place. Maybe his ears are peeking above the window sill and he's making clever little quips about Jon's sorry state. Who cares. ERASE. But wait, what? He's standing in front of a window? That's comedy. But with a simple shift in interpretation, it turns to complete TRAGEDY: put Jon in front of a mirror for the first six frames and then consider the transition from frame six to seven a time jump, where in Jon actually then took the time to walk over to the window and just stands there, as if in light of his recent discoveries of a deteriorating body, he just can't bring himself to go outside. It's even more tragic when you put the last frame much later in the day, as if it were hours later and he still hasn't progressed at all, physically or mentally. Jon, how do I help you? What mistakes have you made in life that has made you this way? Why didn't you get a stupid cat at some point to make light of your situation enough for everyone including yourself to camouflage your manic depression as good natured silliness? More importantly, how do I not become you?
Well, so much for trivial.
I'm wishing a few things at the moment. They're all trivial, because honestly who needs anything deep and dramatic aside from emotional masochists?
Anyway, I wish I had come up with Garfield minus Garfield. Second, I wish I were Jim Davis and came up with Garfield, just so some other guy could come up with Garfield minus Garfield. I'm liking it almost as Calvin and Hobbes. The last is from the 13th, which is mildly baffling. Maybe the guy's on vacation. But really, this is one that I can't even picture that dumb orange cat being involved in in the first place. Maybe his ears are peeking above the window sill and he's making clever little quips about Jon's sorry state. Who cares. ERASE. But wait, what? He's standing in front of a window? That's comedy. But with a simple shift in interpretation, it turns to complete TRAGEDY: put Jon in front of a mirror for the first six frames and then consider the transition from frame six to seven a time jump, where in Jon actually then took the time to walk over to the window and just stands there, as if in light of his recent discoveries of a deteriorating body, he just can't bring himself to go outside. It's even more tragic when you put the last frame much later in the day, as if it were hours later and he still hasn't progressed at all, physically or mentally. Jon, how do I help you? What mistakes have you made in life that has made you this way? Why didn't you get a stupid cat at some point to make light of your situation enough for everyone including yourself to camouflage your manic depression as good natured silliness? More importantly, how do I not become you?
Well, so much for trivial.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Monday, November 10, 2008
I think I just caught a teen runaway!
Here I am working away for once, and out from the bushes emerges this young kid with a black hooded sweatshirt (hood extended, light blue jeans (the kind a kid's mom buys for him at k-mart) and a huge red backpack (again, mom's decision). Mind you i wasn't outside working in the bushes,that would kind of be great. I was sitting at my desk facing our serene pond-scape out the window.
So this kid's pretty shifty, looking behind him and all over the place. But here he is traipsing around a tiny pond next to this office building that from the packed parking lot clearly has people working in it. One guy was even getting out of his car as he walked by.
He goes around the length of the pond, and st this point I'm forced to stand up to see what he's doing on the other side of the building. He ends up getting hemmed in by the water, as there's a stream that separates the half he'd been walking. So the kid takes a giant leap over the thing and practically falls in. Actually he might have dipped a foot in there from what I could tell. So it's clear now that this kid's insane.
He heads directly over to a picnic table like he'd reserved it. He starts going through his bag and I don't know, jumping around with something in his hand. They were either matches or those paper bombs you toss at people's feet or cats and freak them out. He was surrounded by grass, so I don't know what the hell he was doing.
Then he zips up the bag and takes off again, this time underneath the effing building! So I lose sight of him, and as fast as possible head over to that side of the building. I have a choice of office to trespass into, so I pick Peter's cause he's cool. I got over to the window and he's like "What's going on?" all excited and shit. And I'm like "I just saw someone walking along the pond. He had a hooded sweatshirt and a backpack." And Peter's like "Oo, we got a hitcher!" And just then there were like a series of honks from somewhere, but I couldn't see where. Now our office is at located at the left thigh of the Route 2/I-95 crotch, so this kid might have been crazy enough to cross the highway.
My vantage point here was no longer ideal, so I headed downstairs, shirking all work responsibilities and went for a brief foot search for this kid. I came out of the emergency exit (this was a fucking emergency) but didn't see him, not around the pond, not in the parking lot, not careening across the highway, not even flying through the air after impact. Nothing. He was GONE!
This was around lunchtime, so his attendance had to have been missed somewhere. I know this kid probably has problems that he just can't bear to face anymore, but I was thinking about REPORTING his ass. Yeah? Get the fuzz down here, make a day of it?
Anyway, it was like the most exciting thing. I promise the ol' novel won't be a series of 'like's and 'so's, though who knows where my mental capacity will be come 40k+. If a day was ever a bitch, yesterday had her period on top of it.
15,000...tick tick tick....
So this kid's pretty shifty, looking behind him and all over the place. But here he is traipsing around a tiny pond next to this office building that from the packed parking lot clearly has people working in it. One guy was even getting out of his car as he walked by.
He goes around the length of the pond, and st this point I'm forced to stand up to see what he's doing on the other side of the building. He ends up getting hemmed in by the water, as there's a stream that separates the half he'd been walking. So the kid takes a giant leap over the thing and practically falls in. Actually he might have dipped a foot in there from what I could tell. So it's clear now that this kid's insane.
He heads directly over to a picnic table like he'd reserved it. He starts going through his bag and I don't know, jumping around with something in his hand. They were either matches or those paper bombs you toss at people's feet or cats and freak them out. He was surrounded by grass, so I don't know what the hell he was doing.
Then he zips up the bag and takes off again, this time underneath the effing building! So I lose sight of him, and as fast as possible head over to that side of the building. I have a choice of office to trespass into, so I pick Peter's cause he's cool. I got over to the window and he's like "What's going on?" all excited and shit. And I'm like "I just saw someone walking along the pond. He had a hooded sweatshirt and a backpack." And Peter's like "Oo, we got a hitcher!" And just then there were like a series of honks from somewhere, but I couldn't see where. Now our office is at located at the left thigh of the Route 2/I-95 crotch, so this kid might have been crazy enough to cross the highway.
My vantage point here was no longer ideal, so I headed downstairs, shirking all work responsibilities and went for a brief foot search for this kid. I came out of the emergency exit (this was a fucking emergency) but didn't see him, not around the pond, not in the parking lot, not careening across the highway, not even flying through the air after impact. Nothing. He was GONE!
This was around lunchtime, so his attendance had to have been missed somewhere. I know this kid probably has problems that he just can't bear to face anymore, but I was thinking about REPORTING his ass. Yeah? Get the fuzz down here, make a day of it?
Anyway, it was like the most exciting thing. I promise the ol' novel won't be a series of 'like's and 'so's, though who knows where my mental capacity will be come 40k+. If a day was ever a bitch, yesterday had her period on top of it.
15,000...tick tick tick....
Friday, November 7, 2008
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
An open letter addressed solely to Samuel Beam
Hey Sam, what's happening?
So first thing, love the new album. Just great. Can't say that I bought it, you know, with money, but I totally would have if I had any, right? Wouldn't we all? Anyway, love it.
So listen. I've got a project for you. There's this song of yours that I think would be perfect for a film based on a book that I'm writing right now. Resurrection Fern, you've heard it right? Great. So I was thinking if there was anyway you could maybe you know, rerecord it, maybe slow it down a little bit. Like a Such Great Heights type of thing. Keep the slide guitar, that's great, but maybe replace it with something a little less, what's the word, "in your face". But everything else is great, love the lyrics, the melody, it's beautiful. Can the shaker. Too groovy.
I'd say we're looking at a release date around...2032? So you've got plenty of time there Sammy.
So listen, here's my blog if you need any help with anything. Actually you know what? There is one other thing. I'd be happy to offer my services as backup vocals, yeah? I think that would work really well. I'll be around 50 then, so who knows, but let's make that happen.
Great, thanks Beamer. See you in Northampton you crazy motherfucker.
R.W.P.
So first thing, love the new album. Just great. Can't say that I bought it, you know, with money, but I totally would have if I had any, right? Wouldn't we all? Anyway, love it.
So listen. I've got a project for you. There's this song of yours that I think would be perfect for a film based on a book that I'm writing right now. Resurrection Fern, you've heard it right? Great. So I was thinking if there was anyway you could maybe you know, rerecord it, maybe slow it down a little bit. Like a Such Great Heights type of thing. Keep the slide guitar, that's great, but maybe replace it with something a little less, what's the word, "in your face". But everything else is great, love the lyrics, the melody, it's beautiful. Can the shaker. Too groovy.
I'd say we're looking at a release date around...2032? So you've got plenty of time there Sammy.
So listen, here's my blog if you need any help with anything. Actually you know what? There is one other thing. I'd be happy to offer my services as backup vocals, yeah? I think that would work really well. I'll be around 50 then, so who knows, but let's make that happen.
Great, thanks Beamer. See you in Northampton you crazy motherfucker.
R.W.P.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
8 bucks, 8 books
What better way to blow some cash at goodwill? I'll make this one (relatively) short and (unnaturally) sweet. I have wurk to do.
In the order I just piled them on my desk:
1. Digital Fortress by Dan Brown - I've read every thing else he's written so far. Completes the set!
2. Big Fish by Daniel Wallace - I wanted to live in the movie, so this should be fun. I'll probably love anything described as having "mythic proportions" and is "comic and poignant" (says the cover).
3. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner - A never read American classic. I read also now that Part 3 takes place on my birthday in 1928. Bonus.
4. Animal Farm by George Orwell - A review of how to write talking animals without being absurd. You'll see.
5. The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier - One of last years banned books. I had skimmed this as part of my first Mercury article, but not read it. It seemed at the very least worth the dollar.
6. Tales of Mystery and Terror by Edgar Allen Poe - A little late for the season but wtf. I've read a few of these but not all. Scary times.
7. The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean - I fell hard for Adaptation so I think I'll enjoy this. Sold again on the jacket: "A lesson in the dark, dangerous, sometimes hilarious nature of obsession."
8. Running with Scissors by Augusten Borroughs - During my passing out twenty minutes into movies phase, I passed out twenty minutes into this movie. What I did see was absurd and great. Later on strangely, my Starbucks cup had an Augusten Borroughs quote on it. Weird.
No fruit resulted from an extensive search for more Tom Robbins or for Interview with the Vampire. They seemed to have every other Anne Rice novel though. Ah well, next time.
Now back to...whatever this guy's name is. I haven't named him yet.
In the order I just piled them on my desk:
1. Digital Fortress by Dan Brown - I've read every thing else he's written so far. Completes the set!
2. Big Fish by Daniel Wallace - I wanted to live in the movie, so this should be fun. I'll probably love anything described as having "mythic proportions" and is "comic and poignant" (says the cover).
3. The Sound and the Fury by William Faulkner - A never read American classic. I read also now that Part 3 takes place on my birthday in 1928. Bonus.
4. Animal Farm by George Orwell - A review of how to write talking animals without being absurd. You'll see.
5. The Chocolate War by Robert Cormier - One of last years banned books. I had skimmed this as part of my first Mercury article, but not read it. It seemed at the very least worth the dollar.
6. Tales of Mystery and Terror by Edgar Allen Poe - A little late for the season but wtf. I've read a few of these but not all. Scary times.
7. The Orchid Thief by Susan Orlean - I fell hard for Adaptation so I think I'll enjoy this. Sold again on the jacket: "A lesson in the dark, dangerous, sometimes hilarious nature of obsession."
8. Running with Scissors by Augusten Borroughs - During my passing out twenty minutes into movies phase, I passed out twenty minutes into this movie. What I did see was absurd and great. Later on strangely, my Starbucks cup had an Augusten Borroughs quote on it. Weird.
No fruit resulted from an extensive search for more Tom Robbins or for Interview with the Vampire. They seemed to have every other Anne Rice novel though. Ah well, next time.
Now back to...whatever this guy's name is. I haven't named him yet.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Ah, to be 24 and bold again
Ok, I know this is out of hand, and I have now officially shattered my monthly posting record (at least as far as this blog is concerned), but this caught me...actually about twenty minutes ago.
I've done little work today. Not a surprise. A large part of my day has been spent on blogger. That experience includes resting my eyeballs on their cute little dashboard, the central artery for blogger extraordinaires. Now anyone who's known me for at least a few years also knows that I've had many online homes. This is the latest. But the predecessor of english however also lives (and breathes) on blogger.
Until now I've just kind of ignored it. I remember why I had moved away from it; I hated the title. It showed up in a google search, and at some point it seemed vulgar to have yourself directly connected to a blog with "shit" in the title. But by some possession unknown to me, I started reading some of the posts again and it's kind of mindblowing. I started it in September 2005. I was living with my girlfriend for the first time in Winter Hill and the Tribe Mainstage was just starting out. Just from reading it it's unbelievable how different things were. E.g. the second post details one of my first visits to Improv Asylum and the glitz and glamor and mystery of it all. And all the entries seem lighter, funner, as if I had much less weight on my shoulders only three years ago. It's an interesting thought, if not mildly upsetting.
If you'd like a look, it's here. Me, I'll be spending my weekend reading about the wonder years.
I've done little work today. Not a surprise. A large part of my day has been spent on blogger. That experience includes resting my eyeballs on their cute little dashboard, the central artery for blogger extraordinaires. Now anyone who's known me for at least a few years also knows that I've had many online homes. This is the latest. But the predecessor of english however also lives (and breathes) on blogger.
Until now I've just kind of ignored it. I remember why I had moved away from it; I hated the title. It showed up in a google search, and at some point it seemed vulgar to have yourself directly connected to a blog with "shit" in the title. But by some possession unknown to me, I started reading some of the posts again and it's kind of mindblowing. I started it in September 2005. I was living with my girlfriend for the first time in Winter Hill and the Tribe Mainstage was just starting out. Just from reading it it's unbelievable how different things were. E.g. the second post details one of my first visits to Improv Asylum and the glitz and glamor and mystery of it all. And all the entries seem lighter, funner, as if I had much less weight on my shoulders only three years ago. It's an interesting thought, if not mildly upsetting.
If you'd like a look, it's here. Me, I'll be spending my weekend reading about the wonder years.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
BREAKING NEWS: 40+ Year Old Divorced Coworkers Flirt, Headphones Firmly Implanted In Ears
It's been a busy week for R. Petti now that he's a one man tech support show at his Lexington based small business employer. Phones ring, pagers buzz and requests for favors and "critical issues" seem to surface out of nowhere. But through it all, he keeps an even head. After all, the breakneck pace of computer networking support requires a clarity and sense of urgency not seen in many disillusioned twenty-somethings.
But occasionally, something hits home for our IT hero. Some days it's a missing lunch or an inappropriate ramble from a conservative coworker or yes, even a simple question. Today though it takes a different form: flirting amongst the senior (read: elderly) ranks.
And these are only the beginning stages. A recent new hire has quietly been exposed as a divorcee, which in turn proves to be a titillating opportunity for other males of the species that find themselves in the same life situation.
The following takes place through a cubicle wall, requiring volume levels grander than those heard in a typical one-on-one (God forbid) conversation.
The male arrives, fumbling with bags, jackets, bumbling with chairs and such, causing a general disturbance. He is shushed by the female. This is dovetailed with an immediate giggle to signify it was all in jest.
"Did you miss me?" he prods.
"I was crying all morning," she replies. Wretching can be heard in the distance.
It was at this point our hero calmly placed his trembling earbuds in their destined home. Thusly the terrifying back and forth continued, but was glazed over with the sweet crooning tones of Sam Beam, instantly causing a calming of the senses and a tapping of the feet.
Petti lives to see another support ticket.
But occasionally, something hits home for our IT hero. Some days it's a missing lunch or an inappropriate ramble from a conservative coworker or yes, even a simple question. Today though it takes a different form: flirting amongst the senior (read: elderly) ranks.
And these are only the beginning stages. A recent new hire has quietly been exposed as a divorcee, which in turn proves to be a titillating opportunity for other males of the species that find themselves in the same life situation.
The following takes place through a cubicle wall, requiring volume levels grander than those heard in a typical one-on-one (God forbid) conversation.
The male arrives, fumbling with bags, jackets, bumbling with chairs and such, causing a general disturbance. He is shushed by the female. This is dovetailed with an immediate giggle to signify it was all in jest.
"Did you miss me?" he prods.
"I was crying all morning," she replies. Wretching can be heard in the distance.
It was at this point our hero calmly placed his trembling earbuds in their destined home. Thusly the terrifying back and forth continued, but was glazed over with the sweet crooning tones of Sam Beam, instantly causing a calming of the senses and a tapping of the feet.
Petti lives to see another support ticket.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Doin' it, like LL
Now that I think about it, it's been almost two full weeks since I've done any improv. I'm planning on going to the Asylum house teams show tonight. But assuming I'm asked to jump into the lottery (if I'm not then message received, over and out) this will be my first time in weeks doing improv.
I wish there was a better way to say that without the "doing". Doing improv. It sounds gross. Like I'm dipping something in it.
At any rate, I'll be doing improv tonight. I hope I'm not overrun by the house teamers as I hear this round is quite clever. So consequently I'll be on my guard all night, which always makes for a great scene. Come see me flounder and begin my improv recovery.
Geesh.
I wish there was a better way to say that without the "doing". Doing improv. It sounds gross. Like I'm dipping something in it.
At any rate, I'll be doing improv tonight. I hope I'm not overrun by the house teamers as I hear this round is quite clever. So consequently I'll be on my guard all night, which always makes for a great scene. Come see me flounder and begin my improv recovery.
Geesh.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Are you literate? Keep reading!
I already hate how dark it is. Next week will be even worse. Somehow one extra hour's sleep doesn't seem like adequate compensation for an enitre season of darkness. Right now it's ten to five and every car streaming by on the Route 2 on ramp can distinctly see my every move, that is if they turn their heads slightly to the left. And if they're as distracted a driver as I am they surely will. The prospect of peering into a lit office window is something a lot of people can't pass up. What if there's an AFFAIR happening right before my eyes? Or a party? Or BOTH? Of course as I mentioned, they'd be bombing up the Route 2 westbound ramp, so a slight turn of the head could mean free catastrophy show for Ryan, which wouldn't be so bad so long as no one was maimed or burned or launched. Though the pond might provide an adequate landing pad for each case. My point was that the day grows dark, with or without ominous cloud cover. Not only that but today's freak wind gusts seem to have stripped a good many of the trees half naked. This does not bode well. If I thought I was unproductive this summer, I can't imagine what sloth will over take me in the oncoming sleepy food filled months. Time to research possible medical study participation opportunities.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
RP: hipster braggart or musical philanthropist?
It's not the tragic death of a family member, or even anyone I know, or even a death at all. But it sure as hell feels like it.
So yesterday (or maybe Tuesday, they all blend together lately) I had my Pandora making it happen so I could drown out the pathetic environment I work in. Pretty much like any other day. On a whim I switched from Patrick Dunn radio, the station I'd been listening to for weeks, to my Dance Rock station, inspired by such jewels as The Radio Dept., M83 and Fujiya & Miyagi, and on came this song from an 80s compilation by a group called Kitty Hawk. I was so intrigued I began researching the group (Pandora offered no help). Well I was lead in about nine different directions. On top of the flight nostalgia, North Carolina travel sites and bits about the Navy ship, there's apparently three different bands with the name Kitty Hawk. An 80s group, a more recent 4-piece folk group out New York and from what I can tell a couple of dudes from DC that can play about 267 instruments each. I gathered I had initially been inspired by the 80s group, but my hunt led me to the Myspace page of the latter.
I don't know what happened, but the second I heard what their little player was offering I knew I was going to love it. Luckily some were listed as downloadable and I expanded my search to find other material by the same guys. They have a web page, but aside from that their existence is nil. And to boot, from context clues on their myspace I got the feeling these guys had just broken up less than a month ago. Even without that information their music was heartbreaking enough, but to listen to it and think that these songs somehow never took off with enough people to make the effort worth it, it just sucks.
I thought of sitting on this for a while, but every time I loop through the eight songs I managed to find, I get the itch to tell someone about it. Kitty Hawk is now easily one of my favorite bands. And as noted previously I've only heard 8 songs. It's as if Great Lake Swimmers called up Pinkerton and asked if they could meet up, and Pinkerton was like "I don't know, Rivers' new album just came out, I'm supposed to stay in," and GLS was all like "Cmon, you're beautiful," so she did and they watched some weird independent movie that neither of them cared about and they didn't even touch the popcorn, they were both too concerned with like GLS' smooth minstrel fingers touching Pinkerton's butterfly tattoo or some shit but finally they both broke down and fucked and had a musical baby, and they named that baby fucking Kitty Hawk. Listen to them. I'll make you a CD later.
R. Petti signing off for the weekend, or possibly longer.
http://www.myspace.com/kittyhawkrock
kittyhawkrock.com
So yesterday (or maybe Tuesday, they all blend together lately) I had my Pandora making it happen so I could drown out the pathetic environment I work in. Pretty much like any other day. On a whim I switched from Patrick Dunn radio, the station I'd been listening to for weeks, to my Dance Rock station, inspired by such jewels as The Radio Dept., M83 and Fujiya & Miyagi, and on came this song from an 80s compilation by a group called Kitty Hawk. I was so intrigued I began researching the group (Pandora offered no help). Well I was lead in about nine different directions. On top of the flight nostalgia, North Carolina travel sites and bits about the Navy ship, there's apparently three different bands with the name Kitty Hawk. An 80s group, a more recent 4-piece folk group out New York and from what I can tell a couple of dudes from DC that can play about 267 instruments each. I gathered I had initially been inspired by the 80s group, but my hunt led me to the Myspace page of the latter.
I don't know what happened, but the second I heard what their little player was offering I knew I was going to love it. Luckily some were listed as downloadable and I expanded my search to find other material by the same guys. They have a web page, but aside from that their existence is nil. And to boot, from context clues on their myspace I got the feeling these guys had just broken up less than a month ago. Even without that information their music was heartbreaking enough, but to listen to it and think that these songs somehow never took off with enough people to make the effort worth it, it just sucks.
I thought of sitting on this for a while, but every time I loop through the eight songs I managed to find, I get the itch to tell someone about it. Kitty Hawk is now easily one of my favorite bands. And as noted previously I've only heard 8 songs. It's as if Great Lake Swimmers called up Pinkerton and asked if they could meet up, and Pinkerton was like "I don't know, Rivers' new album just came out, I'm supposed to stay in," and GLS was all like "Cmon, you're beautiful," so she did and they watched some weird independent movie that neither of them cared about and they didn't even touch the popcorn, they were both too concerned with like GLS' smooth minstrel fingers touching Pinkerton's butterfly tattoo or some shit but finally they both broke down and fucked and had a musical baby, and they named that baby fucking Kitty Hawk. Listen to them. I'll make you a CD later.
R. Petti signing off for the weekend, or possibly longer.
http://www.myspace.com/kittyhawkrock
kittyhawkrock.com
Thursday, September 11, 2008
3 things. 3 things, 3 things, 3 things.
ONE
No matter what my life situation, this will always crack me up. Good thing I made it.
TWO
This is my new least favorite quote from work:
"It was so cold I almost had to turn on my heated steering wheel."
THREE
And, if you haven't seen United 93, you should watch it however difficult. Especially today. That is if all of the news stations' simultaneous replays don't make you queasy enough.
God bless, I guess.
No matter what my life situation, this will always crack me up. Good thing I made it.
TWO
This is my new least favorite quote from work:
"It was so cold I almost had to turn on my heated steering wheel."
THREE
And, if you haven't seen United 93, you should watch it however difficult. Especially today. That is if all of the news stations' simultaneous replays don't make you queasy enough.
God bless, I guess.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Ryan is 80% water, but 78365% UNHEALTHY.
There was a time when I got up early in the morning and pounded the shit out of myself. There was a time when protein and fiber were a major concern for me. There was a time when I'd hydrate so much I'd need to make at least 12 trips to the office lavatory. There was a time when I drank, yes, but seemingly not nearly as much as needed to keep pace with the world's best and brightest alcoholics. There was a time like that, but that time has past.
I'm coming off of five straight nights of drunken foolishness. I count last night only because I managed to kill three Liteskies with dinner alone, though debauchery was only truly present on the preceding four. On top off this my diet this weekend consisted of mainly things of the color orange, and let me assure you there wasn't a single carrot in the bunch. And yesterday I slept for about 12 hours spaced out over three different "sessions".
There's a strange tiredness about me today that's wholly unnatural. I'm having trouble pinpointing certain words. And I'm working...well. It seems as if up to now I've manage to kill every available expendable brain cell and am now moving into light stroke territory.
So with any luck, I'll be on disability by November. See you in hell!
I'm coming off of five straight nights of drunken foolishness. I count last night only because I managed to kill three Liteskies with dinner alone, though debauchery was only truly present on the preceding four. On top off this my diet this weekend consisted of mainly things of the color orange, and let me assure you there wasn't a single carrot in the bunch. And yesterday I slept for about 12 hours spaced out over three different "sessions".
There's a strange tiredness about me today that's wholly unnatural. I'm having trouble pinpointing certain words. And I'm working...well. It seems as if up to now I've manage to kill every available expendable brain cell and am now moving into light stroke territory.
So with any luck, I'll be on disability by November. See you in hell!
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Ryan's from the early twenty aughts
I'm usually late to the game on a lot of of things. Now depending what you read into that, it could be a pretty loaded statement. But here in the public domain, I'll limit it to the arena of, yes you guessed it, TECHNOLOGY!
I got my first iPod only a few months ago, and even that was only the cheapo 1GB iPod shuffle. It's perfect for running when you're too busy worrying about breathing and that growing pain in your planter's foot to be able to pick a song specifically. When you're meandering around Central Square however, and you absolutely NEED to hear the entirety of The Bends, that's when it falls apart. But that's just the iPod situation. I've had hand me down TVs since I was first allowed one in my own room as a tween. Needless to say my currect model is clumsy, not flat, and sub-low definition. I only got a DVR last year and that only came after pondering the possibility of one for the previous three. Its current state now is much like that of a useless power sucking paper weight, as my account has been closed for months due to lack of interest. My desktop computer is over six years old. It was in such horrendous shape, that an old unneeded lab machine at work was donated to my cause as a replacement and it's twice as fast. I'm a packrat, and as packrats go I'm not a very good one. I have closets full of wires with nothing to attach to them. I have devices stacked inside ziploc bags sealed inside giant rubbermaids that I couldn't sell on ebay if I tried. I have old X-files videos, even though I own every $130 season on DVD that's been released since. Its terrible.
My point was this. I've been on a CD burning spree for the past week and a half, and I just discovered this burning program that let's you overlap tracks, a la iTune's crossfade. I'm not sure how long this particular media miracle has been available, but knowing my delayed reaction to life in general, probably a few years at least. Up until now, if I was feeling like a maniac, I'd try editing myself to try for that perfect fit and it was always a pain. But now it's simple!
So look out, because you may at any point in the near future receive a mix CD from me that may be impossible to listen to on shuffle. And if anyone wants a continuous 23-track CD of Arcade Fire's Keep the Car Running, I'VE GOT IT.
People still listen to CDs right?
Yes I love technologyWho still quotes Napoleon Dynamite? Me baby, me. Allow me to elucidate.
But not as much as you, you see
But I still love technology
Always and forever
--Kip, Napoleon Dynamite, 2004
I got my first iPod only a few months ago, and even that was only the cheapo 1GB iPod shuffle. It's perfect for running when you're too busy worrying about breathing and that growing pain in your planter's foot to be able to pick a song specifically. When you're meandering around Central Square however, and you absolutely NEED to hear the entirety of The Bends, that's when it falls apart. But that's just the iPod situation. I've had hand me down TVs since I was first allowed one in my own room as a tween. Needless to say my currect model is clumsy, not flat, and sub-low definition. I only got a DVR last year and that only came after pondering the possibility of one for the previous three. Its current state now is much like that of a useless power sucking paper weight, as my account has been closed for months due to lack of interest. My desktop computer is over six years old. It was in such horrendous shape, that an old unneeded lab machine at work was donated to my cause as a replacement and it's twice as fast. I'm a packrat, and as packrats go I'm not a very good one. I have closets full of wires with nothing to attach to them. I have devices stacked inside ziploc bags sealed inside giant rubbermaids that I couldn't sell on ebay if I tried. I have old X-files videos, even though I own every $130 season on DVD that's been released since. Its terrible.
My point was this. I've been on a CD burning spree for the past week and a half, and I just discovered this burning program that let's you overlap tracks, a la iTune's crossfade. I'm not sure how long this particular media miracle has been available, but knowing my delayed reaction to life in general, probably a few years at least. Up until now, if I was feeling like a maniac, I'd try editing myself to try for that perfect fit and it was always a pain. But now it's simple!
So look out, because you may at any point in the near future receive a mix CD from me that may be impossible to listen to on shuffle. And if anyone wants a continuous 23-track CD of Arcade Fire's Keep the Car Running, I'VE GOT IT.
People still listen to CDs right?
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Stalling for Dimes
I'd never been so happy to be at a Roxbury gas station. In one fell swoop, I released all the pressures of the entire day from my lungs, popped the cap and turned to face the familiar concrete island.
Press here for credit. Press here for debit.
Debit please, thank you!
Now the next step would have been to reach for my wallet which, since my having entered the working world, has taken up residence in my back left pocket. And reach for it I did, only to find to my soul-sinking surprise that it wasn't currently at home. Its whereabouts wasn't an immediate concern, as it probably should have been. My main concern lay in two areas:
1) I just pulled into a gas station and am about to leave again without having performed any sort of transaction. That's embarrassing.
2) I may in fact not make it home on what fumes I had left in the 'ol g-tank (hollow clang).
You see, I was completely devoid of any fuel at this point. It had been my intention to swing by the local Shell during my lunch break earlier. But that idea somehow got lost in whatever activity I had been engaged in at the time, work or not. And if you know me, it was most likely not. Even upon reuniting with my vehicle for the commute home, I saw the gauge E-ing at me. And within the fifteen minutes it takes for me to pass a station on the way, I had completely forgotten about it. It was only until the Vibe she sputtered a bit more than usual on the pickup did I remember. "Oh fuck," I believe was my response to no one. The rest of the ride to fabulous Roxbury consisted mainly off easing on and off the gas, staying under 25 when possible and a racing heart at each worsening enginey burp. Miraculously, she lasted until I could sidle off at Exit 18 and float into the Mobile-McDonalds complex.
But let's get something straight: this whole situation isn't completely my fault. There's no audio cue in the Vibarino signaling "I'm about to lose my shit because my straw is gurgling". Just a quiet yellow light and a defeated looking gauge meter. My last car, the trusty Cavalier (apply named Cavalier), let you KNOW. You'd get all that was mentioned previously with a pulse-increasing DONG to boot. And God help you if you tried squeezing out a Cleveland Steamer from the Cav's tank, because unlike my current transport, it would just flat out give up. Like dead-stall-on-the-highway-you'd-better-pull-into-this-uphill-off-ramp-immediately-with-no-power-steering-and-manage-to-stay-out-of-the-way-of-everyone-who-now-thinks-you're-an-asshole give up.
Even despite the warning system seemingly designed by the national weather service though, I must have run out of gas in that car at least five times. It was just the finality of it. Driving along then suddenly BOOM! I'm all done. See, I'd always try squeezing out just a little more than I should have. Sometimes after a stall I could get her started again. Other times she wasn't having it. I even started carting around a few silly red gas cans in the back officially making running out of gas seem like more of an occurrence than food shopping to the unknowing passerby. But since then I done shot that horse.
I know, it's idiotic. And I realize that as an independent adult my basic responsibilities are to pay the bills, clean up after myself, and make sure I don't run out of frigging gas. It's a retarded thing. But then again, my life has been fraught with retarded things.
And so, we join our hero back in Roxbury, if there ever was one in such a place. I slipped back into the Vibe, wide-eyed and mulling over options with a panic I'm all too conversant with. There weren't many. In fact there was just one: drive home with fingers crossed.
Oh, Vibe. She was going to be so pissed at me and she didn't even know it yet.
"Oh, a gas station! Great, I'll just take a rest while he puts in the usual 20 bucks...All right, ready to roll! Hey what the--hey you forgot--I'm still EMPTY you moron! Oh nooooo!"
That's what I imagined going through my car's mind as we pulled away from her oasis. It's a problem when your own car thinks you're a moron. Or really when you're anthropomorphizing your own car and making it call you a moron.
Regardless, I sat hunched over the wheel, analyzing every shift and bump I took for the next fifteen minutes. Sitting at red lights was complete torture, as it was unclear if the next acceleration would be her last. Occasionally she'd doze off, but then find a surge from somewhere in the depths and lurch ahead steadily for another few minutes. I coasted around turns, took full advantage of downhills and climbed the ups with upsetting slowness. I was that driver with a parade of other drivers behind him all thinking, "What is this, a PARADE!?"
I came to one last uphill battle. After that it was all on the down. I was maybe several hundred yards to home when I decided it was in my best interest to break the law and turn down a one-way. It's fine, I live here. There's never anyone driving down this street. Well, except this guy.
Hi, thanks, sorry.
All in the face of an obvious "What the hell are you doing, idiot!" greeting through the glass. She coughed once more turning onto Plain Street, finally passing out as I turned the key to off. I sat momentarily, fully amazed at both my stupidity and my gray girl of a hatchback.
Without a wallet to my name, I now had to scour the house for at least nine dollars. Easier said than done, because I failed to find more than several quarters. Cut to a few hours later. I had managed a meal fit for a court jester and some other bullshit in the meantime, but I knew my window of oil opportunity was closing. I resorted to pulling out the step stool and reaching for one of those Don't-You-Dare-Use-This credit cards. A justifiable emergency, yes?
Starting her back up was a thrill in itself. She rolled over about sixteen times before finally catching. And with a renewed sense of uncertainty, we puttered down the street and around the corner. Once she wholly died on me. I flashed back to Cavalier momentarily, having to fight unfamiliar resistance to turn her to the side of the road. She started again, but I considered it her last warning shot. Stopped at the longest light in the neighborhood, the beacon of Gondor lay just tens of yards away still lit and serving motorists at quarter to eleven. As if she herself saw the glowing yellow hope just ahead, my Vibe she held, and upon the eagerly anticipated switch from red to green, let me ease her across the three lanes of empty traffic. Pulling underneath the steel canopy, Amex in hand, I'm pretty sure I had a dumb smirk on my face, leaving the guy at the pump across from me wondering why in hell I was so happy about paying for gas.
Press here for credit.
I read no further. Swiping a credit card never felt more relieving. And with that, and seemingly all the gasoline in the world to burn, we raced up the highway ramp toward the city we'd driven through a hundred times before.
As for today, my wallet is still no where to be found. And I'm kind of ok with it. For now.
Press here for credit. Press here for debit.
Debit please, thank you!
Now the next step would have been to reach for my wallet which, since my having entered the working world, has taken up residence in my back left pocket. And reach for it I did, only to find to my soul-sinking surprise that it wasn't currently at home. Its whereabouts wasn't an immediate concern, as it probably should have been. My main concern lay in two areas:
1) I just pulled into a gas station and am about to leave again without having performed any sort of transaction. That's embarrassing.
2) I may in fact not make it home on what fumes I had left in the 'ol g-tank (hollow clang).
You see, I was completely devoid of any fuel at this point. It had been my intention to swing by the local Shell during my lunch break earlier. But that idea somehow got lost in whatever activity I had been engaged in at the time, work or not. And if you know me, it was most likely not. Even upon reuniting with my vehicle for the commute home, I saw the gauge E-ing at me. And within the fifteen minutes it takes for me to pass a station on the way, I had completely forgotten about it. It was only until the Vibe she sputtered a bit more than usual on the pickup did I remember. "Oh fuck," I believe was my response to no one. The rest of the ride to fabulous Roxbury consisted mainly off easing on and off the gas, staying under 25 when possible and a racing heart at each worsening enginey burp. Miraculously, she lasted until I could sidle off at Exit 18 and float into the Mobile-McDonalds complex.
But let's get something straight: this whole situation isn't completely my fault. There's no audio cue in the Vibarino signaling "I'm about to lose my shit because my straw is gurgling". Just a quiet yellow light and a defeated looking gauge meter. My last car, the trusty Cavalier (apply named Cavalier), let you KNOW. You'd get all that was mentioned previously with a pulse-increasing DONG to boot. And God help you if you tried squeezing out a Cleveland Steamer from the Cav's tank, because unlike my current transport, it would just flat out give up. Like dead-stall-on-the-highway-you'd-better-pull-into-this-uphill-off-ramp-immediately-with-no-power-steering-and-manage-to-stay-out-of-the-way-of-everyone-who-now-thinks-you're-an-asshole give up.
Even despite the warning system seemingly designed by the national weather service though, I must have run out of gas in that car at least five times. It was just the finality of it. Driving along then suddenly BOOM! I'm all done. See, I'd always try squeezing out just a little more than I should have. Sometimes after a stall I could get her started again. Other times she wasn't having it. I even started carting around a few silly red gas cans in the back officially making running out of gas seem like more of an occurrence than food shopping to the unknowing passerby. But since then I done shot that horse.
I know, it's idiotic. And I realize that as an independent adult my basic responsibilities are to pay the bills, clean up after myself, and make sure I don't run out of frigging gas. It's a retarded thing. But then again, my life has been fraught with retarded things.
And so, we join our hero back in Roxbury, if there ever was one in such a place. I slipped back into the Vibe, wide-eyed and mulling over options with a panic I'm all too conversant with. There weren't many. In fact there was just one: drive home with fingers crossed.
Oh, Vibe. She was going to be so pissed at me and she didn't even know it yet.
"Oh, a gas station! Great, I'll just take a rest while he puts in the usual 20 bucks...All right, ready to roll! Hey what the--hey you forgot--I'm still EMPTY you moron! Oh nooooo!"
That's what I imagined going through my car's mind as we pulled away from her oasis. It's a problem when your own car thinks you're a moron. Or really when you're anthropomorphizing your own car and making it call you a moron.
Regardless, I sat hunched over the wheel, analyzing every shift and bump I took for the next fifteen minutes. Sitting at red lights was complete torture, as it was unclear if the next acceleration would be her last. Occasionally she'd doze off, but then find a surge from somewhere in the depths and lurch ahead steadily for another few minutes. I coasted around turns, took full advantage of downhills and climbed the ups with upsetting slowness. I was that driver with a parade of other drivers behind him all thinking, "What is this, a PARADE!?"
I came to one last uphill battle. After that it was all on the down. I was maybe several hundred yards to home when I decided it was in my best interest to break the law and turn down a one-way. It's fine, I live here. There's never anyone driving down this street. Well, except this guy.
Hi, thanks, sorry.
All in the face of an obvious "What the hell are you doing, idiot!" greeting through the glass. She coughed once more turning onto Plain Street, finally passing out as I turned the key to off. I sat momentarily, fully amazed at both my stupidity and my gray girl of a hatchback.
Without a wallet to my name, I now had to scour the house for at least nine dollars. Easier said than done, because I failed to find more than several quarters. Cut to a few hours later. I had managed a meal fit for a court jester and some other bullshit in the meantime, but I knew my window of oil opportunity was closing. I resorted to pulling out the step stool and reaching for one of those Don't-You-Dare-Use-This credit cards. A justifiable emergency, yes?
Starting her back up was a thrill in itself. She rolled over about sixteen times before finally catching. And with a renewed sense of uncertainty, we puttered down the street and around the corner. Once she wholly died on me. I flashed back to Cavalier momentarily, having to fight unfamiliar resistance to turn her to the side of the road. She started again, but I considered it her last warning shot. Stopped at the longest light in the neighborhood, the beacon of Gondor lay just tens of yards away still lit and serving motorists at quarter to eleven. As if she herself saw the glowing yellow hope just ahead, my Vibe she held, and upon the eagerly anticipated switch from red to green, let me ease her across the three lanes of empty traffic. Pulling underneath the steel canopy, Amex in hand, I'm pretty sure I had a dumb smirk on my face, leaving the guy at the pump across from me wondering why in hell I was so happy about paying for gas.
Press here for credit.
I read no further. Swiping a credit card never felt more relieving. And with that, and seemingly all the gasoline in the world to burn, we raced up the highway ramp toward the city we'd driven through a hundred times before.
As for today, my wallet is still no where to be found. And I'm kind of ok with it. For now.
Monday, August 25, 2008
I Know Exactly Where I'm Going in Boston
Hi.
I have a show this week. Two in fact. These facts in themselves aren't so mindblowing. But what lies beneath them is slightly on the intriguing side, if not a bit on the dramatic.
Wednesday is our first NXT show without having rehearsed the night before. So we'll see how that goes. Again though, your mind is still in tact. But on top of that this was supposed to be our last Lost in Boston show, and quite possibly our last show with this particular cast. The big idea was to have an all out NXT blowout of complete lawlessness, wherein all nine of us would share in the last show's lineup. Then word came down from the big house that we were extending the run another week into September and The Pandemonium Show got moved to the 3rd.
So in short, this Wednesday marks the last Lost in Boston show at the Asylum that won't be entirely overrun by castmembers vying for their last scraps of stage time before everyone's fired. So come September 3rd, instead of six people on stage at once reading Lines from a Hat, there will quite possibly be nine. I wouldn't be surprised if there were ten or eleven somehow.
At any rate, come see both shows. Compare and contrast. They'll both be pretty great.
Oh and Bastards is Bastards. 100% improv this week. It's so much improv, you probably can't even handle it. That's a challenge, McFly. Are you in or out?
Now let's hear the right answer.
I have a show this week. Two in fact. These facts in themselves aren't so mindblowing. But what lies beneath them is slightly on the intriguing side, if not a bit on the dramatic.
Wednesday is our first NXT show without having rehearsed the night before. So we'll see how that goes. Again though, your mind is still in tact. But on top of that this was supposed to be our last Lost in Boston show, and quite possibly our last show with this particular cast. The big idea was to have an all out NXT blowout of complete lawlessness, wherein all nine of us would share in the last show's lineup. Then word came down from the big house that we were extending the run another week into September and The Pandemonium Show got moved to the 3rd.
So in short, this Wednesday marks the last Lost in Boston show at the Asylum that won't be entirely overrun by castmembers vying for their last scraps of stage time before everyone's fired. So come September 3rd, instead of six people on stage at once reading Lines from a Hat, there will quite possibly be nine. I wouldn't be surprised if there were ten or eleven somehow.
At any rate, come see both shows. Compare and contrast. They'll both be pretty great.
Oh and Bastards is Bastards. 100% improv this week. It's so much improv, you probably can't even handle it. That's a challenge, McFly. Are you in or out?
Now let's hear the right answer.
Saturday, August 16, 2008
Champions
Right now there is a group of women running a marathon in China. I'm eating a frozen pizza and killing a Miller Lite. Who wins?
Me.
Me.
Traffic and Delerium
It was a Friday where strange things seemed to align. You end up doing things you don't normally do and seeing people you don't normally see. You roll out of bed at 8:30. You listen to Keep the Car Running eleven times in a row. You get to work on time. You work--well. You're lunch is paid for. Your afternoon is quiet but welcome. Wet. It's a two hour ride home instead of one. There's a bus broken down in the HOV lane. Now those occupants are hanging out of windows, tailgating, chatting. Can you believe this weather? Can you believe this backup? Can you? A child displays a clever homemade sign as you pass: Help Our Vehicle. Careful kid, you're distracting other drivers. Like that guy whose fender is now resting on the asphalt. He passed you ten minutes ago. You knew he'd end up like this too. If only he saw you shaking your head as he blew by. That Jeep with the Block Island sticker resembling chipped paint keeps showing up in front of you despite your thinking that you're crawling faster than the average commuter. Don't miss your exit, it'll be another twenty minutes to get home. Now what's for dinner? The same thing you had for lunch; it's still heavy in your stomach. One of several daily mistakes. You're list of essential nightly accomplishments shrinks to one. You've been meaning to see Invasion of the Body Snatchers anyway. Except now afterward you're very suspicious of everyone. Second commute. No I'm no staying. It's two o'clock? Perfect. Now put on a buzzing breathy song to pass out to just for the hell of it. Don't worry, you'll take the headphones off in your sleep. But only once your dreams of a slow apocalypse are too much to handle. Good night, can you believe it?
Friday, August 15, 2008
Life Lesson # 6471892
If anyone's ever thought about horfing on reduced fat pringles, m&ms, something called munchies that was inconspicuously spicy, gummi bears, a toblerone, white cheddar cheez-its and Sam Summer, all while staying out until 2 playing cranium on a Thursday night, STOP. It's a bad idea.
Unless Evan Kaufman is leaving the east coast. Then it's a GREAT idea. I just can't believe it took that long for the eight of us to get back together.
Unless Evan Kaufman is leaving the east coast. Then it's a GREAT idea. I just can't believe it took that long for the eight of us to get back together.
Monday, July 21, 2008
STORMS.
I'm tempted to open my Majong Tiles game back up, but the potential for catching a super-badass lightning bolt is just too great. I've even forgotten to process the pretzel rod I pulled out a minute ago and am now simply feeding into my mouth as if I were a cartoon rabbit chattering away on a full sized carrot. It reeks of banana, but that's the fault of the rotten banana held prisoner in the same drawer said rod once occupied, which in turn is the fault of me. Bananas are a good idea in theory, the problem is you have to eat them or else you run the risk of flavoring everything else in your snack drawer.
Now it's raining torrentially. If there's anything five years at this place has gotten me, it's a steady pay raise and a front row window seat to awesome shit like this. Granted I hate talking about it, but sometimes the weather blows my mind. Like right now. This is storm number 7583627 this summer and, like Sean Paul says, I'm still in love with them. This morning I heard on NPR about 6 people in Dorchester getting struck by lightning yesterday. You figure any story about Dorchester involves someone getting fucked, but not by NATURE. They were ok, but then those tricksters at NPR followed that teaser up with a "young couple" getting hit this weekend in Maine and DYING. I was in Maine this weekend. I was in like 68 t-storms while there. I am young. If I weren't alive, I would have thought that NPR was talking about me...DEAD. That's the power of the effing weather.
Not only that, Mainers make thunderstorms in Maine EXTRA fun. Every time there's a t-storm warning or watch they interrupt EVERY CHANNEL with the emergency broadcast system, complete with that awful chirping noise that Massachusetts only doles out for Amber alerts. Missing kid? Fuck that. The sky is RUMBLING! The first time we heard it we figured we should call our loved ones cause that was it. But it was just a thunderstorm watch, not even a warning, a watch. We did catch a tornado warning once, but by then we realize the system was full of shit. The combination though of hugely annoying and alarming television messages and the Neverending Story/Donnie Darko style skies made for arguably the best part of the trip.
FIN
Now it's raining torrentially. If there's anything five years at this place has gotten me, it's a steady pay raise and a front row window seat to awesome shit like this. Granted I hate talking about it, but sometimes the weather blows my mind. Like right now. This is storm number 7583627 this summer and, like Sean Paul says, I'm still in love with them. This morning I heard on NPR about 6 people in Dorchester getting struck by lightning yesterday. You figure any story about Dorchester involves someone getting fucked, but not by NATURE. They were ok, but then those tricksters at NPR followed that teaser up with a "young couple" getting hit this weekend in Maine and DYING. I was in Maine this weekend. I was in like 68 t-storms while there. I am young. If I weren't alive, I would have thought that NPR was talking about me...DEAD. That's the power of the effing weather.
Not only that, Mainers make thunderstorms in Maine EXTRA fun. Every time there's a t-storm warning or watch they interrupt EVERY CHANNEL with the emergency broadcast system, complete with that awful chirping noise that Massachusetts only doles out for Amber alerts. Missing kid? Fuck that. The sky is RUMBLING! The first time we heard it we figured we should call our loved ones cause that was it. But it was just a thunderstorm watch, not even a warning, a watch. We did catch a tornado warning once, but by then we realize the system was full of shit. The combination though of hugely annoying and alarming television messages and the Neverending Story/Donnie Darko style skies made for arguably the best part of the trip.
FIN
Friday, May 2, 2008
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
I haven't worked a day this hard since I was shoveling holes for trees at that golf course one summer at like 5 in the morning.
So yesterday we had a marathon NXT rehearsal where we learned for the first time our closer that has some of the most mind-bending and not so much complicated but constantly changing dance moves ever. That wouldn't be such a big deal except that our FIRST SHOW IS TONIGHT! Lucky for me, 
I'm not in the lineup tonight and just get to watch the seasoned NXT (extra salt) bang out tonight's premiere. I think by the time we got to the second kick-ball-change we were all sweating. Tucker even ended up in his undershirt. And it was a sight to behold. It was intense (not tucker in his undergarments, the dancing), not the most intense thing ever, but intense. I know this because the long distance runner of the group was sore. And Misch collapsed at one point. And Tony walked out. And Brian cried. And Rheri swore like a sailor.
A good amount of that is not true.
And as an I-just-found-out-about-it-yesterday bonus, it's Hankamania's belated today, so we'll be sticking around for the house teams at 10.
Tough Thursday? YES.
I'm not in the lineup tonight and just get to watch the seasoned NXT (extra salt) bang out tonight's premiere. I think by the time we got to the second kick-ball-change we were all sweating. Tucker even ended up in his undershirt. And it was a sight to behold. It was intense (not tucker in his undergarments, the dancing), not the most intense thing ever, but intense. I know this because the long distance runner of the group was sore. And Misch collapsed at one point. And Tony walked out. And Brian cried. And Rheri swore like a sailor.A good amount of that is not true.
And as an I-just-found-out-about-it-yesterday bonus, it's Hankamania's belated today, so we'll be sticking around for the house teams at 10.
Tough Thursday? YES.
Friday, April 18, 2008
There's something living in my water bottle.
I'm not sure when it decided to move in. I don't remember it signing a lease or anything. I actually don't even remember it being in there this morning when I filled it. It resembles something like a jellyfish, or as if the bottle is sitting on top of a tiny plastic bag. And for being completely absent as of 10am, it is impossibly huge. Either somebody's playing a prank on me or I've created some weird ecosystem inside my Camelbak. I will now attempt amateur phone photography.
The worst part of it all is that I've been drinking from this bottle all day. ALL DAY. As a result, I fully expect to be out of commission for the foreseeable future with anything from a minor headache to violent, raging nausea. On the other hand, let's hope this newly found anomaly is some sort of life-giving organism fated to provide its drinker everlasting life and love. Though, methinks the latter is less than likely given this thing looks more like the fin rot from a beta fish.
Regardless of my fate, thank you for being a friend.
The worst part of it all is that I've been drinking from this bottle all day. ALL DAY. As a result, I fully expect to be out of commission for the foreseeable future with anything from a minor headache to violent, raging nausea. On the other hand, let's hope this newly found anomaly is some sort of life-giving organism fated to provide its drinker everlasting life and love. Though, methinks the latter is less than likely given this thing looks more like the fin rot from a beta fish.
Regardless of my fate, thank you for being a friend.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
A few things
What's a boy to do with 1859 messages in his inbox? While it's no comparison some 30000+ inboxes I've seen, it's still a decent sized quagmire of old useless information. ARCHIVE ALL!
I've recently just seen The Baxter and confirmed that Michelle Williams is the cutest thing on earth.
There's this duck outside who's been squawking for like half an hour. Finally his mate landed and he stopped. Now he looks all proud and protective. Sometimes shit like that blows my mind.
I realized yesterday that our first NXT show is next week. That pretty much scares the shit out of me.
I've recently just seen The Baxter and confirmed that Michelle Williams is the cutest thing on earth.
There's this duck outside who's been squawking for like half an hour. Finally his mate landed and he stopped. Now he looks all proud and protective. Sometimes shit like that blows my mind.
I realized yesterday that our first NXT show is next week. That pretty much scares the shit out of me.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Jellybelly3 is broken.
There’s a story there, just in the name itself, but the short of it is this: Jellybelly is the name of my computer, third iteration. And isn’t that the way. It was a cliché right out of the gate for these computing machines to screw up royally. In what seems to be a C-story line for my life, these machines are constantly lagging behind. Words are typed and a noticeable ten seconds pass before they show up. If this were 1900 house, would my hand flit across the paper with the inky words piling in a few inches behind? Maybe if my pen didn’t work correctly. So it all comes back to technology. Pen = computer. Both can stop working correctly. Maybe in the future our thoughts will be linked wirelessly to some sort of device that records them in real-time like 24. Of course, there I threw a device into the mix, so likely at some point it will break and probably send your thoughts careening into moon space (because by then we’ll be living on the moon) or worse send them across moon-town to the very device whose owner you were thinking about. There you go, my hypothetical situation proves that technology is a dangerous mistress. Pen broken? Grab another one. Ink well empty? Go squeeze some more flowers. Computer broken? Spend your RENT MONEY and get another one. Streaming thought device broken? EXTREME MORTIFICATION. So not only is technology dangerous, but it’s embarrassing.
And apparently sickly. Out of nowhere my hard drive crinkles like gravel trying to expel some information to something else asking for it. I don’t even know why, but it’s my computer, so I must have requested this transfer? Such activity usually signals an ETD (electronically transmitted disease) of some kind. If it weren’t for losers sitting in these abstract rooms full of wires and grates and rotten pizza boxes and sweaty nerds called the Internet, then our digital pastime wouldn’t have to be so secure, and we wouldn’t have iterations of the same piece of software making it increasingly impossible for everyone including lonely old innocent Online Shopper Man to do anything. My CPU usage is consistently set at 10%, sometimes jumping to 40. My 1900 pens usage is of course unknown to me and only comes to a catharsis when it will write ghost words on my parchment. My thought streaming device’s usage would be wholly unknown to me because by then the software will be so secure that you won’t even be able to change the exciting default colors it shipped with. But when you start seeing someone else’s thoughts across town barrel through your own, you’ll know something’s wrong. At least it’s nice to know someone’s thinking about you.
Yet despite all these technological shortcomings throughout history and beyond, the speed at which we attempt to get the job done is ever increasing. Letters delivered by the pony express, email allowed through by all of the various filters and flaming brick walls in the Internet room, thoughts delivered via our jacked-in, logged on, hacked up, hooked on brain-o-chips. Communication will always progress I suppose, but how much faster could it get? We’d hear something before someone thinks of it themselves? Then where would we be? We’d die before we were born.
And for all the screw ups it makes, your smug little thinking screen has no problem pointing out your dumb human mistakes. For my money, there’s nothing less grating than a jagged colored line underlining your once great idea, forever branding it a mistake. Or at least until you have the initiative or attention to change the cause. Your beautiful thoughts and feelings have been instantaneously judged and characterized and wrought over and corrected. Instant grading. You could shut off the feature, but then how will you know if you’re laying your mistakes bare for all to see? Not only is technology embarrassing but it also warns you of IMPENDING embarrassment. Thanks, Jellybelly3, but no thanks!
Then there are the corrections that don’t even need idiot human input to make: the auto-corrections. It’s the equivalent of a piece of plastic and metal saying, “Oh, clearly you meant this instead. Continue. I’ll take care of it.” It’s the benign beginning stages of artificial intelligence.
Perhaps though if you had learned to type correctly in the ninth grade you could have avoided these squiggly lines and automatic letter swaps entirely. Five seconds eyes on the keyboard, two seconds on the screen. Only use your pointer finger and middle finger. Once in a while throw in a pinky. It’s as fast as anyone else mind you, just a little less streamlined. Like how I snap or drum my fingers backwards. Little quirks that make a person less than perfect that some piece of computing power wishes it could get its non-hands on and underline like crazy. What the hell is this jagged green line doing under my fingers while I’m dancing? Oh shit, I’m snapping wrong and now everyone knows it. EMBARRASSING! Thanks, Jellybelly27, but no thanks!
It’s only a matter of time though when technology becomes an unrecognizable part of ourselves. I'm only now considering getting back to the ol’ fashioned land line for your house lifestyle, if anything just to be able to step away from having what amounts to a tracking device on your person at all times. Can technology progress so much that things begin to backtrack, like some sort of crumbling economy? Or is it the lone beast of an exception in nature that will just keep swelling and dominating? These are questions that seemingly only Hollywood can butcher.
As for me, I’m consistently five years behind electronic trends as it is. So by that estimate, I should have an iPod around 2011, and in two years possibly upgrade to Jellybelly4. That is of course if number 3 doesn’t kill me first.
And apparently sickly. Out of nowhere my hard drive crinkles like gravel trying to expel some information to something else asking for it. I don’t even know why, but it’s my computer, so I must have requested this transfer? Such activity usually signals an ETD (electronically transmitted disease) of some kind. If it weren’t for losers sitting in these abstract rooms full of wires and grates and rotten pizza boxes and sweaty nerds called the Internet, then our digital pastime wouldn’t have to be so secure, and we wouldn’t have iterations of the same piece of software making it increasingly impossible for everyone including lonely old innocent Online Shopper Man to do anything. My CPU usage is consistently set at 10%, sometimes jumping to 40. My 1900 pens usage is of course unknown to me and only comes to a catharsis when it will write ghost words on my parchment. My thought streaming device’s usage would be wholly unknown to me because by then the software will be so secure that you won’t even be able to change the exciting default colors it shipped with. But when you start seeing someone else’s thoughts across town barrel through your own, you’ll know something’s wrong. At least it’s nice to know someone’s thinking about you.
Yet despite all these technological shortcomings throughout history and beyond, the speed at which we attempt to get the job done is ever increasing. Letters delivered by the pony express, email allowed through by all of the various filters and flaming brick walls in the Internet room, thoughts delivered via our jacked-in, logged on, hacked up, hooked on brain-o-chips. Communication will always progress I suppose, but how much faster could it get? We’d hear something before someone thinks of it themselves? Then where would we be? We’d die before we were born.
And for all the screw ups it makes, your smug little thinking screen has no problem pointing out your dumb human mistakes. For my money, there’s nothing less grating than a jagged colored line underlining your once great idea, forever branding it a mistake. Or at least until you have the initiative or attention to change the cause. Your beautiful thoughts and feelings have been instantaneously judged and characterized and wrought over and corrected. Instant grading. You could shut off the feature, but then how will you know if you’re laying your mistakes bare for all to see? Not only is technology embarrassing but it also warns you of IMPENDING embarrassment. Thanks, Jellybelly3, but no thanks!
Then there are the corrections that don’t even need idiot human input to make: the auto-corrections. It’s the equivalent of a piece of plastic and metal saying, “Oh, clearly you meant this instead. Continue. I’ll take care of it.” It’s the benign beginning stages of artificial intelligence.
Perhaps though if you had learned to type correctly in the ninth grade you could have avoided these squiggly lines and automatic letter swaps entirely. Five seconds eyes on the keyboard, two seconds on the screen. Only use your pointer finger and middle finger. Once in a while throw in a pinky. It’s as fast as anyone else mind you, just a little less streamlined. Like how I snap or drum my fingers backwards. Little quirks that make a person less than perfect that some piece of computing power wishes it could get its non-hands on and underline like crazy. What the hell is this jagged green line doing under my fingers while I’m dancing? Oh shit, I’m snapping wrong and now everyone knows it. EMBARRASSING! Thanks, Jellybelly27, but no thanks!
It’s only a matter of time though when technology becomes an unrecognizable part of ourselves. I'm only now considering getting back to the ol’ fashioned land line for your house lifestyle, if anything just to be able to step away from having what amounts to a tracking device on your person at all times. Can technology progress so much that things begin to backtrack, like some sort of crumbling economy? Or is it the lone beast of an exception in nature that will just keep swelling and dominating? These are questions that seemingly only Hollywood can butcher.
As for me, I’m consistently five years behind electronic trends as it is. So by that estimate, I should have an iPod around 2011, and in two years possibly upgrade to Jellybelly4. That is of course if number 3 doesn’t kill me first.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Meet Patran Fretti
A simple fact exists: There ain't room enough in this town for more than one awkward goggly-eyed black-framed glasses wearing dork of an actor. My proof is in this pudding: Every audition I show up to P. French is already there, and neither of us end up getting the part. Once we were dressed exactly the same. Granted it was St. Patrick's Day, but it's not my fault my green shirt is one of my top three shirts. Today it was the new Ricky Gervais movie. Not three minutes after I sit to wait in a relatviely empty hallway (save a strange man named Joel armed with a barrage of questions) Mr. French waltzes out and has seemingly wrapped the thing up. Today we weren't dressed alike per se, but what with my previous note regarding the glasses and the eyes and the proximity of our audition times, we may as well have been. I walked out of there confident in my performance of the one line, but I couldn't rid myself of the nagging sensation that it's signifgance was tainted simply by the fact that "I" had just auditioned for the same role. This cannot be.
My solution is this: I declare an all out war on Patrick French. Pick your sides now. Because when this boulder gets rolling, it'll take down anyone not already attached.
It's been a long time coming too. Ever since Two Rooms when we'd compete for the most pathetic joke ever, we'd give eachother dagger-eyes and verbal slaps. And even now during Roshomon rehearsals with the knee touching and the head shaking and the middle fingers. Ever since we were BORN and felt the shudder of the other. I'll concentrate on taking acting classes, getting updated headshots and honing my craft later. Right now, I need to obliterate my lone competition!
My solution is this: I declare an all out war on Patrick French. Pick your sides now. Because when this boulder gets rolling, it'll take down anyone not already attached.
It's been a long time coming too. Ever since Two Rooms when we'd compete for the most pathetic joke ever, we'd give eachother dagger-eyes and verbal slaps. And even now during Roshomon rehearsals with the knee touching and the head shaking and the middle fingers. Ever since we were BORN and felt the shudder of the other. I'll concentrate on taking acting classes, getting updated headshots and honing my craft later. Right now, I need to obliterate my lone competition!
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
My Job Is Pulling My Hair Out...Literally
The fourty-five minute drive to Lexington is totally worth it. Especially when twenty minutes after I arrive, 
I'm handed a phone headset to wear to cut down on speaker usage disturbing those working within three feet of me. I've officially entered the world of the phone operator.
It took a good half an hour to setup myself. And even after that it didn't work. I got one of the Voice engineers to come over and tell me I needed to push the "Headset" button. Brilliant.
After that, the day proved trying. The thing is comfortable enough, but only after swapping out the hang-on-your-ear hard-as-nails configuration. From then on, I experience several things you'd expect to see in an hysterical montage of workplace buffoonery: the headset ripping my glasses off, a mess of confusing wires, hitting the wrong buttons and swearing at customers, cutting back to me entangled in the previous chaotic mess of wires, hitting things, hitting people, writhing on the floor screaming amidst a wire cocoon. Then I saw it: the headset hanging on its out of place holster, and a single hair alighted atop it, follicle and all.
Twenty-seven isn't that old is it? Time to go!
I'm handed a phone headset to wear to cut down on speaker usage disturbing those working within three feet of me. I've officially entered the world of the phone operator.It took a good half an hour to setup myself. And even after that it didn't work. I got one of the Voice engineers to come over and tell me I needed to push the "Headset" button. Brilliant.
After that, the day proved trying. The thing is comfortable enough, but only after swapping out the hang-on-your-ear hard-as-nails configuration. From then on, I experience several things you'd expect to see in an hysterical montage of workplace buffoonery: the headset ripping my glasses off, a mess of confusing wires, hitting the wrong buttons and swearing at customers, cutting back to me entangled in the previous chaotic mess of wires, hitting things, hitting people, writhing on the floor screaming amidst a wire cocoon. Then I saw it: the headset hanging on its out of place holster, and a single hair alighted atop it, follicle and all.
Twenty-seven isn't that old is it? Time to go!
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Buffa-low
I hesitated at the fifth chicken finger. It was huge. And orange. But it's what I've come to expect from Windy City's signature menu item. I also expected it to be so delicious, which was the very reason why I was so conflicted at that moment. How fat do I want to be today? Just a little fat? Or extraordinarily fat? It wasn't a matter of space. Number five would fit with room to spare into the TakeAlong tupperware I had picked out especial. And it wasn't a matter of stomach girth. If the past week and a half had taught me anything, it's that R.P. McMurphy can suck down pounds of food in one sitting if provoked by people or special events or a varying degree of depression. It all came down to whether or not I wanted to experience a regrettable afternoon.
I decided to go the road less fat, and placed the fifth glowing finger back in it's glistening orange tub. And the tub went back into the refrigerator, wedged in between several other engorging items left over from a birthday week feeding frenzy. The lid snapped tight, the container placed in the lunch bag, and it was done. As if attempting to hide all indiscretion to my diet, I quickly piled on fare like an apple, a banana, CARROT STICKS, a Kellogg's breakfast bar.
"Did he notice? ...I don't think so. Let's just zip this up slowly."
I knew it wouldn't be long however until I was face to face again with the fowl offenders: dipped, battered, buttered, lathered, coated, breaded, fried, SERVED. The mouth watered at the thought, like Homer Simpson deprived of...well, anything. It's silly to think of, but the man tells an honest tale.
Lunch came and went with a mixed amount of fanfare. Almost always someone points out the use of the toaster oven. From my experience, most office lunches tend to be fridge-direct or, at their most complex, microwaved into another state entirely. But buffalo tenders cause a ruckus, or however much of a ruckus can be kicked up in a business setting. Beyond the use of the mostly still kitchen appliance, the pungency of the buffalo permeates the entire office space. And like gophers coworkers would emerge and inquire. I made myself scarce to avoid such situations. The items in question were taken back to my cube-space and inhaled outright quicker than the reheating. My innards put up little fuss, and thankfully so.
Who can tell though what would have transpired with an additional meaty portion thrown down the hatch? My top three guesses were pain, guilt and retribution. With the day's foody drama behind me, what lay before me now was the greasy tub which I knew occupied a substantial portion of refrigerator real estate at home. My silent hope was that they would magically disappear. Because the next time we met, and we would meet again, I may not have that same hesitation.
I decided to go the road less fat, and placed the fifth glowing finger back in it's glistening orange tub. And the tub went back into the refrigerator, wedged in between several other engorging items left over from a birthday week feeding frenzy. The lid snapped tight, the container placed in the lunch bag, and it was done. As if attempting to hide all indiscretion to my diet, I quickly piled on fare like an apple, a banana, CARROT STICKS, a Kellogg's breakfast bar.
"Did he notice? ...I don't think so. Let's just zip this up slowly."
I knew it wouldn't be long however until I was face to face again with the fowl offenders: dipped, battered, buttered, lathered, coated, breaded, fried, SERVED. The mouth watered at the thought, like Homer Simpson deprived of...well, anything. It's silly to think of, but the man tells an honest tale.
Lunch came and went with a mixed amount of fanfare. Almost always someone points out the use of the toaster oven. From my experience, most office lunches tend to be fridge-direct or, at their most complex, microwaved into another state entirely. But buffalo tenders cause a ruckus, or however much of a ruckus can be kicked up in a business setting. Beyond the use of the mostly still kitchen appliance, the pungency of the buffalo permeates the entire office space. And like gophers coworkers would emerge and inquire. I made myself scarce to avoid such situations. The items in question were taken back to my cube-space and inhaled outright quicker than the reheating. My innards put up little fuss, and thankfully so.
Who can tell though what would have transpired with an additional meaty portion thrown down the hatch? My top three guesses were pain, guilt and retribution. With the day's foody drama behind me, what lay before me now was the greasy tub which I knew occupied a substantial portion of refrigerator real estate at home. My silent hope was that they would magically disappear. Because the next time we met, and we would meet again, I may not have that same hesitation.
Monday, March 17, 2008
Question:
It is possible to drink an effing soda without slurping it everytime, right? Right?? I'm just asking.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
I'm actually seven years old.
So this happened yesterday:
A bunch of dudes went to fucking SPACE. Of course nowadays it's a sidebar to some scummy governor (scuvernor) getting some lipstick on his dipstick, and it's just as worn out to mention how space travel isn't really news to anybody anymore. But it's fucking SPACE. It's so intense I feel that to do space justice, it needs to be preceeded with an uncomfy F-BOMB.
In case you don't know, and if you don't you will never ever ever know me, I'm an avid fan of space. But despite my superfandom of the final fronteir, I fear I may never be able to travel there. The train left on the astronaut track somewhere around the time I was flunking Computer Graphics. And if space travel ever does become privatized in my lifetime, chances are I won't have the funds to do it. My only shot is maybe to take up the Carl Sagan cross, and just write about crazy space shit.
At any rate my unfounded love for it, like space itself, is unreasonably huge.
A bunch of dudes went to fucking SPACE. Of course nowadays it's a sidebar to some scummy governor (scuvernor) getting some lipstick on his dipstick, and it's just as worn out to mention how space travel isn't really news to anybody anymore. But it's fucking SPACE. It's so intense I feel that to do space justice, it needs to be preceeded with an uncomfy F-BOMB.
In case you don't know, and if you don't you will never ever ever know me, I'm an avid fan of space. But despite my superfandom of the final fronteir, I fear I may never be able to travel there. The train left on the astronaut track somewhere around the time I was flunking Computer Graphics. And if space travel ever does become privatized in my lifetime, chances are I won't have the funds to do it. My only shot is maybe to take up the Carl Sagan cross, and just write about crazy space shit.
At any rate my unfounded love for it, like space itself, is unreasonably huge.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Bastards Bonanza
It's Beer Thursday day in my office. And since I'm going right to IB after this, I thought I'd indulge for once. I still can't chum around in the kitchenette with the rest of these bloaks though. It just doesn't work. Especially after they consistantly call a girl on tv who's just been reported murdered as hot.
So that may in fact make me an alcoholic, as I'm sitting here alone at my desk drinking a bud light.
Let's leave that for now. Presently I find myself in Bastards limbo. Last night at the Asylum was one of the funnest shows I've done in a long time, and tonight promises to be no different. And both for completely different reasons. We had all six Bastards founders on stage last night, a combo which is as rewarding as it is rare. Hopefully that will change in the near future...the rare part. But tonight is shaping up to be almost just as tops, if anything simply for the fact that we'll be in an entirely new place. And one that we'll be in every week. After about a month of not performing, this week has sort of been a reminder why I'm doing dumb shit like this. It always seems absurd when you try to explain it to somebody, and they almost always instantly judge you and take the higher ground. Maybe it's my delivery. But I'd like to think that they just don't get it.
So that may in fact make me an alcoholic, as I'm sitting here alone at my desk drinking a bud light.
Let's leave that for now. Presently I find myself in Bastards limbo. Last night at the Asylum was one of the funnest shows I've done in a long time, and tonight promises to be no different. And both for completely different reasons. We had all six Bastards founders on stage last night, a combo which is as rewarding as it is rare. Hopefully that will change in the near future...the rare part. But tonight is shaping up to be almost just as tops, if anything simply for the fact that we'll be in an entirely new place. And one that we'll be in every week. After about a month of not performing, this week has sort of been a reminder why I'm doing dumb shit like this. It always seems absurd when you try to explain it to somebody, and they almost always instantly judge you and take the higher ground. Maybe it's my delivery. But I'd like to think that they just don't get it.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
It's a B-tarded Wednesday
So if you're reading this, you've probably already read Erin's blog and thus probably already know that there's a Bastards Inc. show tonight at Improv Asylum. So...you'd better be going.
But there's there's a Bastards Inc. show tonight at Improv Asylum. A full hour and a half of Bastards creamy comedy sprinkled with stand-up and who knows what else jimmies. Plus the Bastards family is fully reunited!!
BASTARDS: ALL IN
But there's there's a Bastards Inc. show tonight at Improv Asylum. A full hour and a half of Bastards creamy comedy sprinkled with stand-up and who knows what else jimmies. Plus the Bastards family is fully reunited!!
BASTARDS: ALL IN
Friday, February 29, 2008
Where's my giant looney tunes gangsta t-shirt?
Right now I'm completely stuck in 1996. I blasting Silverchair, stuffing my face and tuning out everyone around me and not even GIVING a shit. Granted some things are different, like I'm at work and I have headphones in so as not to disturb my coworkers with my rock...and I'm eating an apple instead of a hot pocket.
Man.
----
UPDATE:What's weird about this post? I hadn't even watched the latest LOST yet. That, and Donnie Darko is randomly on-demand now. WTF is happening?
Hello? Is there anybody in there?
I'm proud to say that this posting was brought to you by my mobile
phone and Gmail. So in case I witness a murder or can't keep my drunk
quiet or find a quarter, i don't have to get to a computer to be an
asshole. I can do it right from...well in this case, my office...where
I'm surrounded by literally nine computers. What a maroon.
phone and Gmail. So in case I witness a murder or can't keep my drunk
quiet or find a quarter, i don't have to get to a computer to be an
asshole. I can do it right from...well in this case, my office...where
I'm surrounded by literally nine computers. What a maroon.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
C/O Bohara
This is my favorite thing today, and the way things are going, probably this week.
http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com
My favorite is evil Jon after he's notified of the restraining order.
I wondered if this would work with Calvin and Hobbes but then realized it already is that way. Anyway, funny.
http://garfieldminusgarfield.tumblr.com
My favorite is evil Jon after he's notified of the restraining order.
I wondered if this would work with Calvin and Hobbes but then realized it already is that way. Anyway, funny.
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Re: Vamp
It's only been four days and I'm already unhealthily obsessed with this blog. So sorry it's hard to read now. I constantly sacrifice function for style. Here's a tip: highlight.
Hi, Joe!
Hi, Joe!
Little gray horror
No deal, Freddie. No deal.
At any rate, my cat's fixed and it only took five years. Of course we still have yet to put the cosmo cone around her neck because we enjoy our faces and would like to keep them from being eaten off. Here's hoping the little monster lightens up a bit, cause dammit if she isn't milking this post-surgery trauma thing.
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