ham fisted theatrics

My site has gone fagtarded.

Like, limping along all pictureless and only half-loading. If you get to read this whole entry you'll be one of a lucky few.

Comment robots ravage my archives leaving ads for "free incest stories" and strange quotations. They come in ones or twos day by day on the same old entries, like layers of so much snow where promises of ringtones and horsefucking take the place of frozen water molecules. I have 25 megs of space on my server, which seems like it would be enough since my pictures are hosted elsewhere (we'll get to that later.) but I get about two hundred comments worth a day of this shit, and I'm constantly bucking up against that disk-space limit. To paraphrase a Making The Band 2 cast member: They fuckin' up my bloggin' now.

Jason was kind enough to outfit my baby with a blacklist program which keeps known spammers from leaving comments, and that helped a little. But updating the list with new pornobots is just as much work as deleting the comments, and I'm too lazy to do either one on the regular.

Also, Imagestation is being uberfickle. It may just be text for a while. Try to cope.

Last night I was sitting in a conversation pit at Gregor's retro 70's wifeswapping house on Long Island talking to Rina about blogging and that chapter from Heartbreaking Work about the hospital waiting room and Conan on the TV and writing things before you're done living them, and how she had a blog but she quit 'cause she was doing that and she was addicted to comments, and me mentioning this conversation in a blog entry about blogging is the biggest event in postmodernism since Murphy Lee released the song "hook" in which the hook was about how he doesn't need a hook on this beat. Sartre used to have wet dreams about stuff like that. He actually rose from his grave, marched down to the Postmodernism Shop (distinguished by the sign outside that reads "This Is Not The Postmodernism Shop") and told the girl working the counter to close it up, it's over. It's all been done. Especially the thing about how it's all been done.


In other everything-I-own-is-broken news, I came home the other night and remember nudging my headphones on the floor with my foot and knowing some how intuitively that I'd fucked with them. These are the big ol' clamshell concert-hall numbers I've had for a couple years and have hot-glued back together on several occassions. I put them on and sure enough, sound only comes from one ear. The wire that leads to it has come a little loose; if I hold it with my hand it works but that's about as tenable as it sounds. Somebody clearly just does not want me to listen to music. Rock n' roll is the work of the devil so by process of elimination I'm gonna go ahead and blame God.


Other things are happening:

Amy Poehler came to our show two weeks ago. She is hella cuter in person. She praised our energy and committment. I lit her cigarette. Laugh at me all you want for being a panting comedy fanboy but...I don't have an end to that sentence.

Me and Donald and Dominic wrote a half-hour TV pilot. It's called "Funhouse," it's about a fraternity at NYU (one of the two) who thinks they're legendary prankster iconoclasts on par with the Deltas from Animal House, but in reality no one notices, knows who they are, or cares all that much. It's a mockumentary in the vein of The Office. We're trying to work our "people who know people who know people" angle to get us a meeting to pitch it somewhere. Who knows.

Me and Donald and Dominic and some other Hammerkatz are auditioning for an MTV pilot on Thursday. Apparently it's a Boiling Points type show of some sort, with a lot of improv and probably prankery. My hatred of that show has been discussed elsewhere at length, but it does keep improvisors fed. I really hope we get it. A credit would be nice. Money would be nice.

Del Close Marathon's this weekend. If you are not already here you can get on a plane. 20 bucks, all the improv you can watch. Me and my boys and girl at six-thirty in the morning, being all tired/hung-over/still sort of drunk, being all "we need a suggestion." You know you don't want to miss that.