Damn. Let me try that again.

My life is filled with, among other things, movie and video game quotes that nobody understands.

Moving on.

Contrary to what 90s grunge and Holden Caulfield will have you believe, there are delightful, goofy, happy things in the universe. One such thing is this:

The Cooper's Hill Cheese-Rolling and Wake

Yes, cheese rolling down a hill followed by men and women rolling down a hill after the cheese. Picture courtesy of Boston.com, AP Photo/Barry Batchelor/PA Wire, so back off.

See the rest of the images of people taking humorously horrible dirt biffs here:

http://www.boston.com/bigpicture/2009/05/coopers_hill_cheeserolling.html

After viewing these, I thought my life a tad improved, as it was an enjoyable personal discovery and an online adventure definitely worth a chuckle or two. Thusly, I planned to go about my days thinking back fondly on these frozen moments and most likely never stumbling upon this Cheese Rolling fiasco again.

Then THIS MORNING happened. The Maccabees, a UK band I heard once on WFNX's only decent radio show, a band who sadly never comes to the states, a band that now I am clearly only trumpeting to boost my own cred (if such a thing at 28 exists anymore), blasted an email out to their email list with an announcement of their new video, a DOCUMENTARY on the CHEESE ROLLING COMPETITION.  It's goofy, fun, heroic and best of all, puts actual motion to the absurdity one viewed above.

Strange connections. Happy Friday indeed.

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 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.

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.

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.