I wish that when you put the term "Google" into Google, it would freak out and irreparably break the Internet. It doesn't. Not so much as an incredulous head-cock, it just points at itself.
I guess what I'm saying is I want my search engines to have a little more sass, be a little less user friendly, and have a pop-up window reading That is a dumb thing to put in me!
And you guys want me to write more why?
I spent this week mopping fake blood and confetti off the stage at UCB. Me and some Hammerkatz boy-os were stagehands for their annual Halloween spectacular, "Killgore: The Musical." It was insanely tiring and I don't want to see the inside of the place for another week or so if I can avoid it, but it was also a great time. You know you lead a good life when you are put in a situation in which you must think the thought, "I should run backstage real quick for some pizza and another beer so I can get back in the house in time to watch the hooker's heart explode," or when somebody goes home after the first dress rehearsal and puts your name in a spreadsheet next to the direction "CLEAN UP AFTERBIRTH!"
Matt Walsh directed the show. He knows our names now. I made him laugh. I'd be lying if I undersold how exciting that is to this comedy fanboy.
Last Sunday I was the sort of sick I rarely get, throat not cough-y, just sore, and with that general I-am-looking-through-the-world-through-frosted-glass nondescript unwell feeling you get sometimes. I got some Nyquil and tried to sleep through a day, and by Tuesday morning it was kaput. This reaffirmed my belief that my immune system is ichi ban. Then I woke up this morning (read: four o'clock this afternoon) cigarette-y and hung over from the Killgore party, with my stomach sending me messages I took to mean "hey, stop putting bullshit in me!" as for the past week I've been subsisting largely on ramen, Halloween candy, free Killgore pizza and free Killgore beer.
Also. I didn't just fuck up my circadian rhythms, I've been doing that for years. This week, I made 'em quit completely. They up and left, probably went somewhere they'll be appreciated, some pajama-clad studyholic girl in this computer lab won't even have to set her alarm to wake up and make flash cards from now on, thanks to me. No hard feelings, fellas.
Our show closed on Wednesday. Seven months. An unexpectedly, unprecedentedly awesome run. I wasn't particularly sad the night of, but I'll probably get hit a little come next Wednesday night when my body says "Well, time to go do comedy!" and there's no place to go.
Of course, there will be many places to go: the NYU group just found out our new November show is a week earlier than we thought it was (This Saturday!) so we're rehearsing pretty much every night this week. There's the Syracuse University Comedy Festival two Saturdays from now, which we also just found out about, and that should be awesome, travelling rules. Dominic, Donald and I are gonna be competing in the 3 on 3 improv Cagematch at UCB Thursday nights. Professional cast is going to start doing improv at a second venue starting in December, with a couple of random dates at UCB to showcase new written stuff on the trail of our new show, which is set to premiere in Feb/March. It's going to be more tied together than Reading Is For Dicks, which was a loose conglomeration of sketches lashed to each other with Mr. Show-style links. It was this looseness, combined with our cast size, that basically took us out of the running for Aspen consideration. There will be more "show" in this show. Watch out, motherfucks.
So, yea. This stuff goes along with this "school" thing I keep hearing about and keeps not being as unobtrusive and easy as I need it to be, and on top of all that (a loathsome phrase I never thought I'd use, but here we are) I just signed up for National Novel Writing Month for which I'm supposed to have written a 50,000 word novel (admittedly more of a novella, says the site) by the end of the month. Why the fuck would I do that, you ask? Simply put, to make me write more. I have an idea I'm excited about, plus I'm convinced there are more hours in the day, perhaps under rocks, or in the pockets of pants I haven't worn in a while. I'll probably post installments here in lieu of entries, as I am fond of doing.
In other bullshit-I-type news, the final contenders for Kids Gotta Eat, my long-promised little-demanded poetry collection, have been assembled. After considering Kinko's, CafePress, receiving advice from Tony Pierce, spending money on lots of other things, I have finally decided on my method of publishing: coming into this computer lab reeeeeal late at night and printing them out. Then folding them. Then stapling them together at the table next to the printer. DIY, dudes! Indie RAWK!
I will probably charge you shipping and handling plus like a buck. I can say with some confidence that almost none of the poems have been seen in this space, or anywhere else for that matter. And that they put the "free verse" back in "girls are more likely to have sex with a guy who writes awesome free verse."
There is a false statement in the above paragraph. See if you can spot it.
Rina did a better job photo-documenting our show in one evening than I think any of us did in its seven month duration. Go here. THRILL as an inordinate amount of the dudes in DC's sketch group are crazy ripped! GASP as his hair is way too long! DON'T be particularly surpised that you can see his underwear in one picture!
So you guys wanna hear about something retarded that happened?
I thought so!
On the way home from the show on Wednesday night I got ticketed for public urination!
So I'm walking home from the party with two girls (SKETCH COMEDY, folks! It's MAGIC! BETTER THAN THE GUITAR!) and I'm hoolied, as they say, and I note that I have to pee worse than I have ever had to do anything in my life and they say they'll run interference as I conduct a dude's business against a building. Done. Walkin' away, a black Impala does a u-turn on the one-way street. Men pour out. "Turn around! Yes, I'm talking to you!" So long story short, five plainclothes cops, four of them congenial, one of them kind of a dick, write dude a ticket for peein' in the street.
Lafayette is not one of the most out-of-the-way thoroughfares, even at 2 am. In retrospect, I made a very Drunken Choice. ("Drunken Choice" could easily be what my name stands for.)
In my backpack I have a letter requesting that they move my court date so I don't have to fly back from Phoenix on January 4th to appear before a judge. Mailing it tommorrow once I track down an envelope.
I can't decide whether or not I'm looking forward to telling my dad this story when he's in the city on Wednesday. I am leaning more towards Not. But we were all in college once, right?
Right?
What else? The iPod is Go. It is as awesome as advertised. Send your bestest mp3 to dcpierson@gmail.com, right now.
Posted by DC at October 31, 2004 03:16 AM