October 31, 2004

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 03:16 AM | Comments (344)

October 15, 2004

on the street I always see
protestors
dudes on strike
handing out fliers
petitioning for a cause
and they're always stationed at a corner
around a giant inflatable rat.

Every week
different causes
different dudes
same inflatable rat.

This was a smart business idea.

Whenever somebody wants to illustrate that somebody's a
RAT BASTARD
and here's a flier about why,
they're gonna rent that giant inflatable rat.
genius.

Somebody's always a rat bastard.

I am going to steal this concept.

I am going to invest in a 10-foot full color
NO-NOTHING FUCKWIT
or perhaps a helium-filled illustration of a
TWO-FACED CUNT,
which will float high above buildings,
anchored to the ground with pig iron.

Posted by DC at 11:36 AM | Comments (13)

October 08, 2004

Phoenix peeps:

It is your sworn duty to go see the Eagles of Death Metal at Big Fish Pub tonight. They have excellent moustaches and play a very fine brand of filthy rock about fast cars and women who are faster than the cars I just mentioned. They do not appear to be touching the East Coast anytime soon, so you must serve as my rock-n-roll surrogate.

Also, be the annoying douchebag at the concert who holds up their phone during a song when they play I Only Want You, and let that phone be placing a call to my phone. When I pick up a call from someone in the four-eight-o tommorrow night and hear a lot of indecipherable static, I will think, "Hey! One of my friends is watching the Eagles of Death Metal right now!" 'cause lord knows that holding-up-the-phone shit doesn't actually work. But, like most things, it's the thought that counts.

Go! Seriously! Do it for Uncle Donald!


I saw an awesome show tonight. It was John Vanderslice and The Mountain Goats. I have seen John Vanderslice before, he was awesome as always, but the real story was The Mountain Goats. Holy shit. The dude warbles and orbits his antique microphone and does with one acoustic guitar and a bassist what entire bands of disinterested-looking good-haircut-having Interpol acolytes can't manage with whole truckloads of instruments. He has marvelous story-songs about crank addicts and bad luck personified and step-fathers being a pirate and the open road. Someone bought him a glass of whiskey (dude is hell of Irish) and he gave some to his bassist 'cause he couldn't drink it all, but was then vocally disappointed with how much the bassist actually did drink, and asked if someone would buy him another. By the end of the next song, he had it in his hand. He then explained to us "the conundrum of the guy with the acoustic guitar," whereby when you play the slow song you want the people by the bar to be quiet, but if you ask/tell them to be quiet, you look like a dick, so he asked us, the audience, to do it for him. During the next song break, he straight-up ordered them to be quiet. Then he played "Shadow Song," which I had never heard, and holllly shit. (You can hear a great live version here, from this awesome live show archive.) Shivers. Then he played with J. Vanderslice and his full band (Vanderslice is his producer) and forget it. Just forget it. The rock was epic. See the Mountain Goats if they come to your town, or buy one of their eighty records. You won't regret it if you like folk-rock or warbly weird voices or piss and vinegar or acoustic guitars or any of the good things in the world.

I am avoiding writing a screenplay outline. It is five AM. It's due at 10:30. I've done a pretty good job so far.

Posted by DC at 02:57 AM | Comments (21)

October 04, 2004

The warm happy drunken nucleus of this weekend was settling down Dominic's couch with a slice of pizza Saturday night. There was an apartment full of people. They constituted a little shindig celebrating the show we'd just had.

We had just watched Rob Riggle make his first SNL appearance as a featured cast member. He's the first person to be trained exclusively at the UCB Theater to make it on the show. He used to be a Marine. This is huge for the community, to see somebody who's been something of a private treasure unleashed on the world. Wish they'd given him more to do, and Affleck less. Needless to say, this combined with Amy Pohler hosting Weekend Update, it's the first time I've actually made a point to sit down and watch an episode of SNL. Sketches were greeted by the room with the chant riggleriggleriggleriggleriggle. Indescribably proud. Amazingly awesome. Other superlatives.

Earlier, I sat in the back of a huge auditorium, watching sketches I'd written with people I want to work with for the rest of my life, living or dying by the laughs. Did more living than dying, especially at the ten o'clock show. Great crowd. Big, young. They came to play. Earlier in the week I'd been, if not ready to throw in the towel, at least cursing how time-consuming and headache-inducing the towel seemed to be at the time. All worth it, every second. Sometimes you forget that, but remembering's that much sweeter for having lost it temporarily. I get to perform every week and we get to create a new show every month. I'm the luckiest kid that ever lived.

Fran and I were not, yet seemed to be, the only ones drinking at the party. I try to remove the somewhat negative stigma drinking-in-earnest seems to have (and by "somewhat negative stigma" I mean "clearly no one here has to go home and compete with ASU students in the liver-dissolving department") by getting successively more awesome with each beer.

Also, Fran and I smoked a shit-ton of cigarettes (and by a shit ton, clearly I mean two each.) I like to smoke when I drink. All this wanton and delibirate embracing of vice will make a lot more sense when you realize I just realized the other day I'm only gonna be nineteen for three more months, and that I've been attempting, in my pussy way, to live correspondingly. That said, who wants to fuck while a hand-rolled cigarette hangs from my mouth and a once-full whiskey bottle convulses on the motel nightstand?

Anybody?


Later, it was Sunday morning and I woke up on Dominic's couch when Gregor called me. We assembled in the Tisch common room to prepare to go march on the New York Is Book Country festival as anti-literacy protestors, hoping to get enough material to constitute a sequel to Literacy Kills. Dan says we got a lot of good stuff. I think we did too. Also, we got immediately kicked out of the park on threat of legal action, swore at, had a surprising/frightening number of people either jokingly agree or at the very least patiently listen to what we had to say, we staged a counter-book-fair across from the Washington Square arch, and as a final act of protest, ran screaming through the park past the security guys who kicked us out initially insisting we turn back, at which time those cigarettes from the night before were like we left a shit-present in your lungs!

Then we went to improv rehearsal. Then I went to improv class at UCB. Then I collapsed, which I'm about to go do again 'cause it didn't take.


In other news, recent scientific developments indicate I'm going to live forever. (Link via Treacher.)


My iPod is here and I'm embroiled in a long continous uphill computer battle to get it to befriend my ancient laptop. Let's celebrate my current lack of portable music by hopefully enhancing your supply.

Let's Get Depressed: Pitchfork has a new Eliot Smith mp3.

Let's Get Money: The Foreign Exchange has a song to help you on your way through your particular hustle.

Let's Get Canadian: Everybody else mp3blogs, why can't I? Right click/save target as this song right now and shake it courtesy of AC Newman and perfect pop-rock. You really oughta, trust me. His site has more tracks.

That should do it.

Love.

Posted by DC at 11:34 PM | Comments (0)