After hours of toil, the computer lab attendant showed me how to print out the booklet so the pages wouldn't come out backwards and it could be folded and stapled. Also, he is wearing an Achewood shirt. If I were gay and we lived in a more liberal society, marriage would definitely be imminent. Perhaps we would ask the transvestite sleeping on a keyboard, who is the only other person in the computer lab at this hour, to perform the ceremony. Yes, an eight-foot tall transvestite presided over my hasty marriage to a male computer lab attendant. What did you do this week?
I made a book of all seven Biggie stories like I promised. If you want one, you'll have to come down to the Kimmel Center and visit the Free Stuff Table. It is called "The Mayor Of Fulton St." and the cover art is at left (I drewed it!) I want people to put them on their toilets. I pride myself that most of my stories are shit-length.
The transvestite is snoring. It is probably time to go home and eat peanut butter and watch The OC.
The Hammerkatz website has undergone an extensively awesome redesign, including a Mount Rushmore-like banner header, if Mount Rushmore had the faces of young and obscure New York sketch comedians instead of important Founding Fathers on it.
The first in a series of Hammerkatz videos has been put up on College Humor: Anti Literacy League Of Activists. It's a fun lil' stunt we did almost a year ago during the RNC in New York. If you've never seen it, now would be the time. If you have seen it, this time it's on a larger screen on a better traffic website, so it will be like falling in love all over again, for the very first time, or something else they try to say in TV commercials to get you to see a movie you've already seen. Massive propers to the gentlemen of CH for their continued support.
Bits you can do at home and be just like Derrick, vol 1: Yell "SPIKE JONZE! in the way rapper Mike Jones yells his own name in his songs. Repeatedly. Then proceed to dicuss your work on various Fatboy Slim videos and "Being John Malkovich" in a very timid, nerdy tone, as though you are Spike Jonze and you have a Mike Jones-like flair for self promotion but other than that you're pretty much a normal dude. Then yell SPIKE JONZE! again. Then roll around on the floor laughing, convinced you have just done the funniest thing in the world, because clearly, you have. Now you are Derrick-certified hilarious.
Now I have to go make sure I'm not dropped from classes!
A mantra is, according to dictionary.com, a commonly repeated word or phrase. On Houston rapper Mike Jones' album "Who Is Mike Jones?" we learn that Mike Jones' mantras are:
2. "281-330-8004, hit Mike Jones up on the low 'cause Mike Jones about to blow"
3. "My album, 'Who Is Mike Jones?" coming soon!"
4. "My album is called 'Who Is Mike Jones?"
5. "Mike Jones!"
These fervently repeated mantras help tie the album together, along with the album's thematic unity: The first part of the album ("Back Then," "Flossin'", "Scandalous Hoes") is about how girls didn't used to want Mike Jones but they want him now that Mike Jones is rich. The second part of the album ("Turning Lane," "What Ya Know About,") is about how Mike Jones is rich.
A mantra, in the Hindu sense of the word, is "a sacred verbal formula repeated in prayer, meditation, or incantation, such as an invocation of a god, a magic spell, or a syllable or portion of scripture containing mystical potentialities." Because scandalous hoes seem to be Mike Jones' biggest preoccupation, and he repeats his name and phone number so frequently, we can therefore readily imagine that Mike Jones may feel that the repetition of his name and phone number is something of a magic spell that will get these scandalous hoes off his dick. In my experience, giving somebody your phone number is not a good way to get them to leave you alone. But if another one of Mike Jones' lyrical themes is to be believed, Mike Jones is drunk all the time off cough syrup. So Mike Jones can be forgiven for thinking that it all makes sense.
At first, advertising an album on the album itself may seem like circuitous logic. But it actually helps combat the short-attention-span mid-album ennui I always get while listening to things at LP length. "'Who is Mike Jones' is coming soon!," I think, even though I'm seven songs deep, "perhaps this is just the coming attractions to 'Who Is Mike Jones!' Perhaps 'Who is Mike Jones' will feature a song that is not about the wood grain in Mike Jones' car!" And indeed, it does. There is a song awkwardly tacked on "Her Majesty" style at the end about Mike Jones' grandma ("Grandma") as well as "one for the ladies," "Type Of Nigga U Need," though that one does in fact contain at least one incidental mention of "wood grain."
I like the chorus in that song: I'm not a balla, just dreaming of being one/
If you with me while i'm broke, when i'm rich it'll be more fun. I like the idea of hood-fabulous girls involved in some sort of high-stakes speculative commodities trading, trying to pick the guy who's broke now but will be rich someday. Club chicks with weaves and exquisitely manicured three-inch nails, hunched over computers in a boiler room, playing the odds, leaping from windows when the baller market goes kaput. Perhaps Mike Jones was only attempting to increase his visibility in this promised-riches-actual-rags market by shouting his name and phone number. Perhaps "Mike Jones about to blow" is the playa-index equivalent of "Uhm, you should dump all your imClone stock." Perhaps several project-chick Marthas went down for insider trading when Mike Jones did, in fact, blow, selling 181,000 copies his first week of release. Perhaps they are wearing blinged-out house arrest anklets as we speak.
All ironic detachment aside, "Who Is Mike Jones?" is an average-but-scrappy MC speaking on some songs that have really good hooks ("Still Tippin'", "Flossin'", "Got It Sewed Up"), some fun tastes of chopped-and-screwed that you can imagine would sound even better if you were full of NyQuil, and an object lesson in blatant and blatantly effective self-promotion. It seems to have worked, as Mike Jones is famous and I am not. So with that in mind, ahem:
DC Pierson! DC Pierson! 646 226 2930! DC Pierson about to blow!
My dorm is getting dorm-ier. The RA (who I haven't seen yet, they cover two floors each 'cause the building is teeny) has put up the names of everybody who's going to be living in the suite on each door. They always have a wacky scheme for this enacted through the triple threat of construction paper, markers, and things printed out from the Internet. Our RA has selected Pogs. Yea, the little round cardboard things we were all into for a week in 1994. Nostalgia is catching up with us. Next year my dorm-hall theme will be "July 2006." It will be August 2006 at the time.
So we all have little Pogs glued next to our names on the door, three generic Pogs with things like rabid cartoon dogs and neon cartoon skate-boarders on them. Underneath each is a little sheet of paper with a historical fact with one word taken out and replaced by the word Pog. Our RA has termed this a "Pogification," so says the sheet. Mine is about somebody using Pogs to dig the Panama Canal. In three months, I will be twenty-one years old.
Three of the people listed on our door are still phantoms. I have gotten used to splitting a five-person suite between two people. When he moves in, the condition of our room will telegraph to my roommate who's boss, that is, if he was raised in one of those cultures where dominance is determined by who can leave the most underwear and empty peanut butter jars in the widest circumference.
Deadwood is fucking amazing. It's the first thing I got off Netflix and I'm so in love with it I could spit. It's retardedly well-written and so well-acted that the retardedly well-written lines don't sound all that impropable coming from the mouths of drunken prospectors and washed-up gunfighters. A lot of wisdom, a lot of corruption, a lot of swearing. It is tied with "The O.C." for the show I'll write a spec for in my One Hour Drama class this semester. Granted, I have never seen an episode of "The O.C." but it's the next thing in the Netflix queue and school starts in like a week and a half. I have made bigger decisions on less evidence. I am excited to write for television for the rest of my life, if that's what I end up doing. In the parlance of Deadwood, TV kicks legitimate theater right in the cunt.
Donald has posted more of his Sufjan Stevens Illinoise remixes on the Childish Gambino site. They're fucking great, we played them for house music 'fore our improv set last night at Juvie. He also has extended an invitation for you to request a remix of your own. That's what I did, and look: now there's a whole remix of the new Sufjan Stevens album! If you don't ask for it, you don't get it, kids, that's the lesson of this summer.
DC VS. The Zeitgeist: a blog entry about things that people are pretty into right now.
I just read Freakonomics. It's the jam. The premise is, Stephen J. Leavitt (the "rogue economist" of the book's subtitle) explores subjects that interest him (crime, cheating teachers, black people's names vs. white people's names, among bunches of others) and comes up with surprising conclusions and interesting connections. Among them: the dramatic drop of crime in the nineties was the result of legalized abortion, sumo wrestlers are cheaters, real estate agents are lying to you. Simultaneously the nicest part of the book and the most frusturating thing about it is, right up front, he and his co-author say they don't have any stated ideological goal besides overturning some conventional wisdom about the way some stuff works. Random violence against preconceived notions. It's a brilliant rhetorical move, because you trust him more 'cause he's not trying to shove an agenda down your throat. This also keeps it from having the curtain-pulling "Ah ha! I'm right AGAIN!" tone that was my one beef with Malcolm Gladwell's The Tipping Point.
It does have these weird excerpts between every chapter, which are from an NY Times article the co-author wrote about Leavitt before he became his co-author. They're a lot self-congraulatory, reminding us what a breezy iconoclastic freethinker Leavitt is, especially since they come back EVERY CHAPTER. They're a little like James Brown's hypeman coming on between encores, begging the reader to show some love for the Hardest Working Man In Freestyle Economics.
If I had a book, I'd include these reminders of how awesome I, the author, am in the footnotes. Much more subtle. You'd see the name of an album or something mentioned somewhere along the line, with a little superscript "1" next to it, then go to the back of the chapter and look for "1," expecting to see when the album was released or an interesting anecdote about its making that would've interrupted the flow of the text but is still worth including in some form, but next to the "1" it'd just say, "One time DC Pierson ate a whole pizza." You'd then flip back, and from then on find my musical critique theories a lot more valid because damn can I eat me a pizza.
And as for musical critique, is Sufjan Steven's Illinois ridiculously fantastic and beautiful or what? I am going to go with the former. For those of you who were wondering, the proper way to get this album is to have Chelsea H. send it to Chelsea M. while Chelsea M. is staying in New Jersey and have Chelsea M. burn you a copy which you rip onto your summer roommate's computer because yours isn't working and listen to the first four or so songs with the volume all the way up to compete in noise with the fan that's up all the way because it's hotter than God in your room with no air conditioning staring out the window in bed in your underwear with no sheets, and think, damn but Sufjan Stevens is a genius, I will tell my kids about him and they won't understand, the same way kids today don't understand when their parents tell them about Bob Dylan, which means by the same token when they get to college they'll profess a great love for Sufjan Stevens even though what they really feel is more of a medium like, because that's what people do with Dylan.
Yes, that is the way to do it.
Anyway, "Illinois" is the first album in a long time that begs me to be listened to as an album and I don't get bored when I do. It makes sense. It doesn't particularly want to be shuffled, although when something like "Decatur, Or A Round Of Applause For Your Stepmother!" shows up in between "Bitches Ain't Shit" and "Hey Jealousy," I'm sure I'll be jazzed.
all the glory that the lord has made/and the complications you could do without/when I kissed you on the mouth. Damn if I didn't tear up a little bit at "Casimir Pulaski Day" on first listen. Dude is such a good storyteller.
Speaking of which, I have convinced Donald that if he does an album-length mix of "Illinois" we can turn dude into something of a mp3-blogstar, and he's hard at work in the lab (aka the dorm where he RAs). Here is the first result of this immense labor (right click/save as):
Rock out with your folk out.
People who only eat one meal a day during the summer when the dining halls are closed should not pay taxes. That's just common sense.
I'm surrounded by tax stuff, and by surrounded I mean on one side of the keyboard is the W2 from the acting thing I did last summer around this time (I believe I promised to use some of it to fund a book of poetry I never put out, which I feel bad about, so next gig I'm gonna use to fund a leatherbound edition of my broken promises). The W2 has the corner torn off it because I was overzealous in opening the envelope. I think maybe it's because I never get mail that isn't bank statements so even information about federal-and-state tax withholding seemed worthy of envelope-shredding enthusiasm. On the other side of the keyboard is the 1040EZ form I printed out from a PDF. It is crumpled from being at the bottom of my backpack for a week. I would say this is how libertarians SHOULD treat tax forms: shabbily, like guests we have to tolerate because they have powerful uncles, but honestly, this is pretty much how I treat even things I like. Other things on the table: cellphone with antennae broken off, iPod with scratched-up screen and loose headphone jack that gets upset sometimes in my pocket and makes the music all static-y or cuts one channel out entirely. My empty Chipoltle beverage has lil' teethmarks from where I absentmindedly bit the lid.
Everything around me gets a little bit broken. I'm kind of a passive-agressive hurricane, no stomach for any real damage. I'm kind of Charlie Brown, but with hair.
Good internet things of people I know.
Jackie Clarke's graffiti blog is awesome. Jackie isn't concerned so much with tags of dudes with names like KROBAR 57 or STANK but more with the amazing juvenile stuff people write on subway ads. It seems like the only people who consider this particular type of graffiti a worthwile hobby are militant vegans and the marker-huffing dude from sixth grade who can think of eight places to put a penis on any given image. He looks at DaVinci's The Last Supper and it's like looking inside an SUV with a thousand cupholders, only the cups are dicks drawn in permanent marker. Not to mention all that headroom for profane speech bubbles!
This is older-than-dirt news to everybody in the comedy scene, but my AZ peoples and the HFT readers all over the world (it is one dude that travels a bunch) need to get hep to the brilliance that is Channel 102. People make five-minute TV shows that the audience at a monthly screening vote on, deciding which get to come back next month and which are cancelled. Aziz and Rob Huebel's Shutterbugs is the jump-off and slick as hell. My personal favorite is Fun Squad, which parodies children's shows so fucking well, then starts to get really beautifully dark, then it got cancelled, one of the great injustices of this or any other era. (Matt DeCoster as Dr. Shakybones reminds me of Trevor in his mannerisms. Alecia, back me up.) Watch it, then watch the fifty other brilliant shows, then it will be time to go home from your crappy job where you can pretend to work while watching comedy videos on the Internet.
This is a dead-ended tangent I've been meaning to go on for a while, but I think it's so fucking cool we live in a time with things like 102 and Spoiler. And podcasts and blogs and a million other things that allow us to make the culture we want that weren't around ten or even five years ago. Digital video is so cheap, the Internet is so rife with opportunities, there's really no excuse anymore not to be making the art you wanna make in some form or another. I just finished reading Down and Dirty Pictures this weekend, and in the final chapter Biskind makes a point about how it's harder than ever to get your film seen because with the advent of DV, so many people are making movies and there's this glut. But with things like 102, where there's a deadline and a time limit and an audience and a jury of your peers, you're incentivized to do good, funny work in a very brief span of time, which is an antidote to the personal-vision-quest self-indulgent indie movie mold. You have all these genius as-yet-unknowns working to make each other laugh in the spirit of friendly competition. It's kinda like Renaissance-era Venice, only with fuck-demons, dudes getting caught in the internet, and Teen Homicide.
And a very mediocre Hammerkatz pilot featuring me as Gene Shallit. We plan to redeem ourselves in September.
I have Netflix now, and my television has a headphone jack, so it's pretty much a lock that I will never leave my room unless I have a show, rehearsal, or pressing social engagement. (Non-pressing social engagements I don't sweat. If your name doesn't start with "Lord," "Lady," or "Oil Baron," you can pretty much guarantee I will leave you sitting alone in the Starbucks where we agreed to meet while you call me fifty times and I don't pick up.)
(Private to Oil Baron Jennifer: Sorry, I already saw Wedding Crashers.)
I am all moved in now to the dorm I'll be in all year. It confirmed my belief that dealing with NYU is like slow rape. The Rapestallment plan. It's painful and violating and they do everything they can to prolong the fun. I moved out of my summer dorm all early on Monday, since it was the final "transition day" for all summer housing people with confirmed fall housing, and I wanted to get the jump on one of those big grey carts they give you to push your stuff to your new place. I did. It had a big green blanket in it. It turns out the big green blanket was covering some random rusty filth on the bottom. I was hoping for a dead prostie but my life just stubbornly refuses to be that interesting.
All my stuff fits in one bin! as the cute girl remarked astonishedly while we were both waiting in the lobby of my new dorm for the manager to show up. The office was supposed to open at 8 (it was nine thirty now) and he still wasn't there and the guard didn't know when he would arrive to check us in. The answer, it turns out, was like ten fifteen. I whiled away the time taking two naps seperated by the time cute girl was hanging around, and we discussed how she is a dancer and I am a person who has only one bin of stuff and goes into the housing lottery and lives with randoms instead of my friends. She also helped me with my bin when I embarrasingly couldn't get it on the wooden ramp they put in for move-in day. And I hadn't showered yet and the lobby wasn't air-conditioned. I wonder what we will name our kids.
Joe the manager showed up and apologized, apparently it was a crazy day at the other building he manages and there was a backlog of kids moving out, and people were moving into rooms people were just moving out of, or still in, and rooms hadn't been cleaned in between residencies, or some of them hadn't, and I wanted to say YOU TOLD US THE FIFTEENTH WAS THE LAST DAY TO MOVE IN, COULDN'T YOU THEN ANTICIPATE THAT THERE WOULD BE THIS HUGE RUSH OF KIDS AND PREPARE FOR IT SO DUDES DO NOT HAVE TO WAIT IN LOBBIES AND SWEAT AND DO A MERELY AVERAGE JOB OF FLIRTING WITH DANCERS WHO ARE ALSO MOVING IN, but instead I was like "I understand" and shook Joe's hand as he and I and my grey moving cart full of my life took the hand-operated elevator to the second floor where my new room is.
Joe also told me my room hadn't been cleaned yet, and I should put all my stuff on my bed so the cleaning crew would know to work around it. He was right, the suite hadn't been cleaned yet, and girls lived in it before I did. It was like somebody used an average 2005 college girl as shrapnel in a pipe bomb and detonated it right before I moved in. Pair of those golden mesh slippers with little flowers and stuff on 'em that you buy on the street in the bathroom. Handwritten sign welcoming back somebody named Andrea with a caption reading LOL!!! in pink marker. Freezer-burnt sorbet in the freezer. Blue panties behind the bed dude had selected for himself (words "good luck charm" briefly crossed mind. Banned Inner Fratboy from talking anymore, threw panties away. With Inner Fratboy silenced, have not considered listening to Incubus or going "WOOO!" all week. A little lonely, to be honest).
I took a shower and left, assuming once I got back that night the room would be clean. When I did get back that night, the girl-bomb was still very much in evidence. So they won't clean my room, I thought. That's fine. It will just take longer for my Natural Musk to conquer the lavender-and-peach smells in here. I went to sleep.
I woke up to Mexican ladies poking their heads in my door. I was reminded of the Mormon ladies who used to come clean our house once a week when I was growing up, except these ladies did not try and force apocalyptic literature and lists of a year's supply of food for when the Rapture comes on my mom. They popped their heads back out, shut the door, and proceeded to clean the common area. I went back to sleep assuming they'd leave.
Three hours later, they're not gone and I have to pee really bad. I go out to the bathroom and do so, then leave.
I come back that night. The ladies have thrown away the shampoo and soap I put in the shower, since they were not on my bed and their instructions were apparently, anything that's not on the bed is fair game. Even if they didn't think they were mine, they should've known me well enough to know I will use half-empty things that have been left behind. If I had a state, and that state had a motto, it would be "IT'S STILL GOOD." (Our state bird would be me fighting a pigeon for half a hot dog I just dropped.) The first of my roommates moved in that night (It's a five person suite, two doubles and a single. I'm in one of the doubles.)
Cut to today: I'm awoken again by cleaning people! The fun never ends with NYU. Living in an NYU dorm is like Seinfeld. People are always dropping by unannounced and just walking into your room, but they are not Kramer, and you are not witty because you just woke up and are mad about having your already very flimsy notion of privacy completely decimated. They leave really quickly: I figure they see the job was already done yesterday and move on. Then I climb out of the shower and hear mad commotion outside. I put on a towel, scowl at a dude with a carpet shampooer and his posse of cleaning ladies, and make for my room. Once Pants Are Go I go talk to him. "They already cleaned in here," I say.
He points to the single and points to his carpet shampooer.
"Just that one?" I ask.
"Yes," he says.
So I leave for the day and I haven't been back yet. I fully expect to go home and find my new soap and new shampoo gone, or at the very least, carpet-shampooed.
In which case, they will still be good.
Question for the assembled: I know multiple attorney generals are "attorneys general," so if there are multiple lucha libres, in fact, luchas libre? The world waits with baited breath for a decision.
Hey stars of stage and screen.
If Tony is to be believed, Kristin of Madpony fame went got herself married the other day. That is crazy. Kristin holds the honor of being the only Person From The Internet I've ever gone on to meet in real life: I was in London on a Theater Co. trip spring break of my Senior year (London entries, feat. me with short hair: 1, 2, 3, 4, Alecia's photo essay about it) and we'd been having ourselves some wicked good AIM conversations, me and Kristin, so we schemed to meet up. This was pre-cellphone for me so I think we arranged it via e-mails traded at Internet cafes and maybe one use of the hotel phone. I believe we met in Picadilly Circus. Kristin was wearing an a cute-as-hell patchwork coat and her boyfriend-at-the-time was very quiet and intensely taking pictures of pigeons. The guy she appears to have married is apparently an umpire, which means, among other things, the girl invented Trading Up. In order to make it okay that she got married without asking a dude, she will now leave a comment in this entry telling me she will look me up when she's in town, because who doesn't come to NY at some point.
I struck a similar arrangement with Alison, who pledged to try and see if there's some place Derrick can perform in Athens when we're in Georgia in October. I am the Donald Trump of brokering I-Give-You-Permission-To-Get-Married deals with girls I have blogcrushes on.
Everybody gotta have their somethin'.
Yes, this will pretty much exclusively be an entry about other things on the internet.
I have so much love for the following blogs n' bloggers: Being Famous, Martyz, Max Silvestri, Banana Nutrament, because all of them came to the Hammerkatz show and had real nice things to say. Things such as:
This was one of the best live sketch shows I’d seen ever. The writing was hilarious and airtight, and the performances were just about there as well. I thoroughly loved it and walked away quoting numerous sketches of theirs.
funniest thing I’d seen in a awhile. I was sniffling a bit and feeling a little under the weather, but after the show I was cured of all ailments — it sure is true: laughter is the best medicine.. and Sudafed is good too.
Their sketches were so damn brilliant and hilarious that I don’t even want to describe them here because it would ruin it just a little. If you’re ever in New York on a saturday night in the month of august, you should go see these two shows...
they are a hypertalented bunch of NYU kids who love a good suicide joke. So wrong, and yet so right.
Who said which nice thing? Click on all the links and match up the blogger with their praise! It will be like the days of Highlights For Kids magazine.
Did anyone ever rip open their new issue of Highlights and flip right to Goofus and Gallant? I was terminally shit-scared of getting in the slighest bit of trouble as a kid, so I had a porn-y perverse interest in what Goofus was doing rudely this month. Gallant's goody two shoesness was also mortifying in its own way. Like, Gallant, stop trying so hard. I'll bet even your grandma is tired of you offering to do things for her in your Lil' Lord Fauntleroy trill. I know you think she's lonely but I'll bet she wishes you would just go home or maybe get plowed by a semi while helping another little old lady across the street.
I had a subscription which held the addiciton down to one G&G strip at a time, but going to the pediatrician's office was like a gift certificate to an adult superstore. All the illustrated behavior tips my little fingers could flip past an article about barn owls and The Timbertoes for.
Note to future paramours: A lot of guys will want you to dress up like a cheerleader or something. All I need you to do is put on a bowl-cut wig and brattily refuse to share your cookies.
And "cookies" is not a double entendre. I am talking about a Keebler product.
Goofus refuses to share her cookies.
Gallant makes sweet love to Goofus while Yo La Tengo plays on the iTunes.
Please include a recent photograph.
I am moving tomorrow, which is today for people who spent the last five or so hours sleeping instead of opening fifty Safari windows and listening to mp3s. It is one of my bi-annual DC's Filth Relocation programs, where I take all my somewhat broken belongings and dirty laundry and move them to another dorm. This one is only a couple blocks away, so I get to use one of the big grey carts instead of making eighty subway trips. I think I accumulated more stuff this summer than I have any other period in college, what with books and a TV and a DVD player and a fan. Moving always makes me want to get rid of all my stuff. Wait, no. It used to make me want to get rid of all my stuff. Now it makes me want to not move anymore. I would like to have bookshelves and a fire escape and a dog, as opposed to a random roommate or four and a room University maintenence dudes can burst into unannounced after knocking once, which is always embarrasing for several reasons, one, I'm asleep in my underpants and don't understand what's going on, two, it's three in the afternoon.
I'm gonna go watch Donald's UCB DVDs while I pack, then move, then pass out on my new bed, then get up and go to the official Second Day Of Shooting on Madhouse, which is now the name of the pilot Derrick wrote last summer and we're now shooting a portion of under the direction of the fearless Dan Eckman.
Let's get money, kids.
Oops, I almost forgot. More love to The Apiary, whose editor Nate I met Saturday night at The Swarm finale party. Good dude, bad night, right place, wrong time, to quote Kanye West's "Through The Wire" inappropriately and for no reason other than it's now 6 am.
Random Biggie Lyric Short Story Challenge, Bonus Round #2
Today's random lyric is from "The Wickedest (Mister Cee Freestyle)"
Backspins to windmill, who's still the gin drinker
Ill thinker - explodin when the paper hits the ink, uhh
This weekend at the hotel where I work was the Fifteenth Annual B-Boy Convocation.
On Friday night around ten, I deliver a bottle of gin, a bucket of ice, and three glasses to room 27. As I come down the hallway, an aging black guy with a salt-and-pepper jheri curl leans out of the doorway of 28, and watches me as I knock on the door to 27. A skinny guy answers, stares right through me, and tips his chin to the guy across the hall. I hear the door to 28 slam shut. The guy in 27 takes the tray, asks me what the four elements of hip hop are, and when I tell him I don’t know, he doesn’t tip me.
When I get back to the kitchen, another order’s already in. Room 28 called up and asked what was the most top-shelf gin we have. It’s Bombay Sapphire, and it’s about ten bucks more expensive than stuff I brought 27. So now I’m bringing a bottle of Bombay Sapphire, a bucket of ice, and three glasses to Room 28. The salt-and-pepper Jheri curl guy answers, but before he acknowledges me, he cuts around me and knocks on the door to 27. He scampers back, and waits. He still hasn’t made so much as eye contact with me. I hear the door to 27 open. The Jheri curl guy lights up: “How you doin’ tonight, Brett!” (I’m wearing Brett’s nametag because I forgot mine at home, and his locker was open.) “What do I owe ya?” I tell him it’ll be billed to the room. He snaps a twenty dollar bill like he’s about to give it to me, and places the tray on the bathroom counter on the other side of the door.
I hear the door to 28 slam shut. Jheri Curl’s demeanor changes. “Do you
know who I am, Brett?”
I tell him, no, I’m sorry, I don’t.
He doesn’t give me the twenty and shuts the door.
In the kitchen, my supervisor Russ tells me 27 and 28 are two legendary break-dancing crews. They’ve been rivals since 1981, and the contest grows bitterer by the year. In fact, when they checked in, 27 demanded to know where the other one was staying, and when told, demanded to be moved to a room across the hallway. So the girl at the desk switched them to 29, but that room was the same size as 28, and they would not stay in a room that wasn’t—
His story gets cut off here because I have to go deliver two bottles of Sapphire to 28, along with a shrimp cocktail and, inexplicably, champagne glasses.
All three guys in 28 are attuned to the sound of the room service cart and gather around when they hear me coming. The huddle in their doorway, saying nothing. None of them fit very well into their matching teal tracksuits anymore, if they ever did. One of the guys looks like he just took a shower, which means even though the competition is over ‘till tomorrow and it’s now eleven fifteen at night, he showered and changed back into his tracksuit.
I knock; the skinny guy answers. He pours some gin from one of the bottles into a champagne glass, toasts the boys of 28, sips, grimaces, attempts to play the grimace off as a “what-now-punk” scowl. I hear door 28 slam. The skinny guy takes the tray and hands me a piece of hotel stationary. I unfold it and read:
THE FOUR ELEMENTS OF HIP HOP“…and you’re holding the fifth element,” he says.
“Stationary?” I ask.
“No,” he says, “knowledge.” He shuts the door.
28 orders champagne and two shrimp cocktails. 27 doesn’t come out to see anything, but the Jheri Curl guy still makes a big production of lifting each item off the tray and presenting it towards their door. Through the concave peephole around which the occupants of 27 are no doubt huddled, those shrimp must look HUGE.
After he has everything inside, Jheri Curl produces an old yellow Walkmen and indicates I should put the headphones on. I do. He hits play, and over a tinny beat, a rapper says, very school-yard:
The name is Cold Kev and I’m in the place
Got more style than the human race
Got more soul than an old soul brother
If you got me you won’t ever want another!
Did you ever-
He stops the tape and says: “That’s who the fuck I am.”
“Cold Kev?” I ask.
“The original and nicest. Breaker slash MC extraordinaire. We invented the shit, man. This rap today is too commercial. We were the originators. We’re the best that’s ever gonna be. Hip hop is dead, man. We’re the only ones keepin’ it alive.”
“Absolutely,” I say.
He hands me a paper cocktail napkin and gives me ten bucks to give it to the guys across the hall with my next delivery. I tentatively agree. He closes the door and I read the napkin:
FUCK DYNAMIC STREET CRU!
I assume the Dynamic Street Cru are the middle-aged, mostly balding gentlemen in 27.
When I get back to the kitchen, the cooks have their radio tuned to a hiphop station, as usual. Somebody’s rapping fifty five times faster and more literally than Cold Kev, although it does sound like it’s about cars and fucking. I imagine a bunch of cave painters seeing a Michaelangelo and going, “Eh, painting’s dead.”
A guy from the Dynamic Street Cru calls but they don’t order anything. “Do you know where a guy can get action around here?” I tell him I really don’t know anything like that. “You got any girls work at this hotel?” At first I hesitate but then I think, these guys are artifacts and don’t want to admit it, let them have their fun. So I tell him I’m on it and I walk down to the lobby.
Sheila and Karen are both working the desk; their shifts overlap by a half an hour. I pull Sheila aside and tell her 27 has a problem with their room, they wanted to talk to somebody in charge, which flatters her. This is perfect. When 28 calls up I can send Karen, who’s much hotter than Sheila.
“They said they wanted to speak to somebody personally. The highest-ranking person. They sound pretty upset, but I’m sure it’s nothing you can’t handle.”
Sheila arches her back, proud. “Of course not.” I don’t feel bad about this because she always rats me out for coming in high. “28, you said?”
“Yup,” I say.
“Cover for me, Karen,” Sheila says, and strides with purpose out of the lobby.
“Wait! Sheila!” I yell. “They also asked for this,” I say, and hand her the folded-up cocktail napkin.
Random Biggie Lyric Short Story Challenge, Bonus Round #1
Today's random lyric is from "Notorious Thugs":
Its strange to us
ya'll niggas be scramblin, gambling
up in restaurants with mandolins and violins.
We just sittin’ here tryin’ to win
No, Terry, I DON’T think it’s a good idea to have a mandolin battle a violin on Wednesday night.
What? Yes, of course, I understand that a good restaurant slash performance space slash art incubator needs to have a pioneer spirit, I practically INVENTED the-
What? Don’t tell me about the paradigm, Terry, I practically INVENTED the paradigm of the R slash PS slash AI, okay, so don’t-
No, I don’t agree. I don’t agree that a paradigm is something that cannot be invented. I don’t agree that there’s only one paradigm and it can merely undergo a series of “shifts,” Terry, and speaking of “shifts,” if that waitress Janine wants to keep performing her piece on Thursday nights, which is one of the only nights her sheet lists her as available to work, then she has to punch out and get somebody to cover for her, not somebody who’s already working, for the duration of-
-well, if it’s a half hour piece, then it shouldn’t be a problem, she can just-
-set up and tear down time? What is there to set up and tear down, the stage is ten feet square!
Yes, I KNOW you would prefer me to call it a “space,” but the whole space is a “space,” Terry, if I called the stage the space, you wouldn’t know if I was talking about the stage or the whole building.
No, I WON’T call it ‘Lil Space,’ that sounds like a rapper.
No, YOU'RE racist.
She scrambles eggs on stage? Don’t we need some kind of other permit to cook food in a location other than the kitchen?
Yes, Terry, of course I care about women’s reproductive rights, I don’t see what that has to do with-
Oh. So she doesn’t serve them to anyone?
Yes, of course I see the metaphor.
Yes, of course that’s the whole point of the piece. Well, either way, can’t that boyfriend of hers take down her hot plate and pan and whatever else-
Well I assume it’s her boyfriend, he’s the man sits at the bar drinking wine waiting for her shift to be over, and when he leaves to smoke he watches her through the window like a hawk, so I think it’s safe to assume he’s-
Terry, I fail to see how me assuming that man is her boyfriend would make an ass out of me, and considering you refuse to register an opinion either way, I can’t imagine how me thinking that makes an ass out of YOU.
That’s an incredibly contrived situation you just described, Terry. Three or four amazing coincidences would have to happen on the same night, and even then at worse you’d come off looking a little pushy and maybe the slightest bit homophobic, but I wouldn’t go so far as to say ass. Anyway, we digress, the point is if I come into my restaurant on Wednesday night and I hear a single note played on an instrument so much as resembling a mandolin, if I so much as see an Indian man with a beard sitting on a pillow-
Yes, of course I know what a mandolin is, I own Sgt. Pepper’s, Terry, I’m not-
Oh, sitar. Right. Sitar. I was thinking of a sitar.
No, YOU'RE racist.
The point is, Terry, we are trying to create a brand. I know your arty little mind shrinks away from the term, but this is just the world we live in. And if we want to create a brand we have to have a reputation for a SPECIFIC type of good work, something with a social conscience, but outside generic constraints, but fun, like early Wooster Group meets early Blue Man Group. There’s a reason our space’s name is Early/Group, okay? So just-
Yes, more things like Janine’s piece, except done by people who aren’t supposed to be freshening drinks the same time as they’re performing, okay?
Of course I’ve read “Aesthetics And Performance.”
Of course I realize any and all actions can be read as “performance,” Terry, you know what I meant, I meant somebody who’s not supposed to be bringing food to tables at the same time as they’re up on stage.
No, I will not call it “Space Junior.” That sounds like a gay club DJ.
No, YOU'RE homophobic.
I know you were in your office yesterday going "I wonder what DC Pierson thinks of Toronto pop group LEN's 1999 hit summer jam 'Steal My Sunshine.'" Well, here's your vindication, Skip: He sees the fact that he did not like it when it came out but enjoys it very much now as a sure sign that he has matured in at least and perhaps only one way.
I had to have been in 8th grade when this song came out, because I remember watching it in Darren Armstrong's furnished basement. Trevor and I spent a solid one to two afternoons there eating M&Ms, drinking soda, and watching Mystery Science Theater. Or, in at least one case, in order for me to have this memory, the video for LEN's "Steal My Sunshine." We definitely made fun of it but I can't for the life of me think now what we would've picked on. This couldn't matter less, of course, thirteen year olds are drill instructors of cool and not cool: if they just viscerally don't like you they'll find something wrong, goddamit.
Bedsheets tucked in improper fashion, one demerit.
Hair a sixteenth of an inch too long, two demerits.
Pregnant girl singer with ponytails on the back of a motorcycle riding in slo-mo through what looks like Venice Beach, three demerits.
I think I remember certain music videos better than I remember losing my virginity.
Actually, in retrospect, that pregnant girl singer was hot, for real. Perhaps I would've been mocked for pointing this out in the eighth grade. Perhaps I still will be. Trevor, hit the comments.
That beat at the beginning is ridiculous. It's perfectly muffled, like it's coming from a car across the parking lot full of kids way cooler than you. These kids are always ready to be in a skate-clothing photo shoot and are never not having fun. If my experiences in Rome earlier this summer are any guide, these kids are Italian.
Best use of speaking interludes since "The Sweater Song." And thematically more perfect, 'cause they're talking about the characters we're about to hear from in the verses (the depressed people.) I can't remember if the talking was in the video. I think the first exchange between the two dudes makes a joke I don't get ("Does he like buttertarts?") because I am not Cananadian. LEN is Canadian. People from frozen climes make the best California music (see also: The New Pornographers, Ash).
The girl's verse is cute as kittens on tiny kitten Vespas! "L-A-T-E-R that week" anticipates this summer's "B-A-N-A-N-A-S" (which is, I'm sure we can all agree, this year's "Hey Ya!" as far as an insanely perfect pop song that fell victim to its own play-and-over-playability.) She abbreviates the three-syllable "usual" to "u-jal," which is the reason I am chasing after her scooter to ask her to marry a dude even though she is visibly pregnant and probably attached to the dude with the raspy voice who probably opened a tattoo parlor or a moto-cross company with the royalties form this song.
(So, I searched for stills from this video and I can't tell conclusively but that girl might NOT have been pregnant. What an interesting misrememberance if she wasn't. Let's contemplate the horrifying weird Freudian implications of that and save me the trouble of going back and editing.)
Summer jams are important. I realize this now that I am not in eighth grade anymore and have no more pool parties to attend, which seems backwards, and is. But better late than never, I guess.
The Hammerkatz NYU website, such as it is, is up. It's pretty rough right now ('cause I made it) but it will soon be a blog full of hilarious observations and tons of swearing from the genius kids it is my eternal privilege to co-direct.
I spent seriously the last twenty minutes adding a section on the sidebar that links to all the short stories (that label is generoulsy applied in some cases) that've appeared here over the years. The oldest one is from Februrary 2003. You know you want to read shit I wrote in high school and you know you're not doing anything at work today.
I'm looking at you, Gregor.
Since Summer Housing is technically over and everybody but those with confirmed Fall Housing have to move out, my dorm is a wind-swept ghost town. It's like the H-bomb that kills the people and leave their jewelry, except in this case the bomb made the people go back to California and Omaha and Japan, and their jewelry is half-empty bottles of detergent, paper towels, and electric fans, all left in the hallway next to pieces of paper that say TAKE THESE PLEASE.
Needless to say, I came up on some dorm essentials.
I didn't have a pillowcase. I bought a pillow at the beginning of the summer but I could not bring myself to spend nineteen dollars on a pillowcase. It is this sort of reaction to what would to most people be a lifestyle no-brainer that once caused a girl to look at my completely unfurnished dorm room and half-jokingly ask if I was a serial killer.
Now I have a pillowcase. It was in a tupperware container full of freshly washed-and-folded sheets. They were canary yellow. At first blush, they do not appear to contain smallpox.
I also lost my towel when I went to Italy, so the first day I was in the dorms I dried off with an old sweater and resolved to buy a towel that afternoon. I proceeded to forget to do that something like forty days in a row.
As of yesterday's dorm junk bonanza, I have a nice new fresh-smelling towel, also canary yellow. I am not better than drying tender areas of myself with things I found in a hallway. I am so not above that.
See, patience pays off. Look at the birds of the air, that they do not sow, neither do they reap, nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Jesus was talking about transitional dorm periods.
I also have a new fan.
I'm getting a lot of hits from The Apiary which I guess is the Gothamist of the in-breedy underground comedy world, so I guess I better stow the faggy short fiction for a minute and talk about ha-has, make-'em-ups and write-'em-downs.
Derrick did an improv set at Ash Wednesday on...Wednesday. I always wonder what the back room of the Parkside Lounge used to be. It seems very likely an aqua-suited Tony Orlando lookalike once drunkenly hit on the waitresses in between singing "Tie A Yellow Ribbon" and "Fly Me To The Moon" from that stage at some point. Now it hosts underground comedy variety shows. We are the gentrification of the theatrical universe. Then we met some girls Donald knew on the street who were very very high, then we ate Chipotle.
Hammerkatz did not win Cagematch last night, but during our set we did use a thirty-second time out so Greg could propose to his girlfriend. He wasn't really proposing and she was in on it and it WAS a vote-grubbing stunt, but the important thing we all learned is that if you actually did propose to your girlfriend during your improv show in a leaky basement theater, she would be fucking pissed. Important lesson. The stunt was my idea and I was originally going to do the proposing, but everyone said nobody who knew me would believe that I was getting married. I am not sure what this says. I did laundry a week ago for the first time in months. I think perhaps that has something to do with my plausible marrigeability.
What else? If you haven't seen it, make reservations for our show tomorrow night. It's the ECNY winner of best male stand up (VH-1 Best Week Ever's Aziz Ansari) paired with the ECNY winner of best sketch group. Anywhere else, such a lineup would cost you an arm and a leg.* Here, it costs only eight bucks. Now at seven instead of seven-thirty! Be getting drunk that much earlier!
*- This passage should read, "Anywhere else, if you told another person about this lineup, they would go 'Huh?' and return to playing a jet-skiing game on their XBOX."
The only problem with atheism is I have nobody to thank for how great my life is.
There are many individuals who have played a role, obviously, but I have nobody to thank for bringing these individuals into my reach.
Thanking myself feels egomaniacal, and egomaniacal is how the rest of my life feels, so I want to keep this part clear of that, like if you had a house where every room was green you might want to keep one room white, just for the sake of contrast.
I don't believe in God so I'll just thank my mom.
Please somebody dare me to name my firstborn son after a PE song, so twenty years from now I can be introducing him to a guest and say proudly, "and this is my son, Black Steel In The Hour of Chaos Pierson."
Derrick (me/Dominic/Donald) has a website now. Come correct. My alter ego GE (Gansta Electic)'s hood classic "Thug Sleep" is featured in the AV section.
It's sorta short notice, but if you're in the area Hammerkatz is doing improv in Cagematch tonight at 11 PM at UCBT. We're facing two of the world's best improvisers (Delaney + Merritt) and you being there to vote for us would make us so much less intimidated.
We're loveable! Show up!
Ohmigod, I've just discovered my favorite thing of all time.
Old School Hip Hop Flyer Archive
Tell Your Homeboys! Tell Your Homegirls!
Five weeks before I was born, Cut Master DC battled DJ Spivey (of 110th St) at the Harlem Karate Institute!
They scratched with a pair of sneakers! They cut with a basketball! One or perhaps more likely the both of them had the audacity to think they were nice!
What must you do to be a DJ? Cut with chopsticks, apparently!
Despite the fact that it was a battle no one would ever forget, Google is unhelpful about telling me who came away victorious.
This is seriously the coolest thing I've ever seen. Please let me emerge from the library basement to find that up on the street it's 1984 again. Washington Square being a murder-happy needle park would be worth it if I could just go to one of these shows with fifty legendary MCs on the bill. If for one night I could just be "anybody else".
I think I may have found my For The Benefit Of Mr. Kite.
We Can't Put It Off Any Longer!
Your mommy's going haywire here on the edge of the world. She misses Connecticut and she misses her baby.
Mommy needs seasons, and there aren't any here in Hollywood. I'm sure the leaves are starting to fall there, but today in Los Angeles it was eighty-one degrees. Daddy left a big sweat-stain on the seat of the rented Studebaker today when we drove out for our second meeting at Paramount. The other night I wore my cable-knit cashmere sweater and Daddy laughed and called me a sentimental fool, then offered to fix me a hot toddy I could drink while we lounged by the hotel pool. Mommy and Daddy have been fighting a lot lately, sometimes the funny kind, sometimes not. They are getting harder and harder to tell apart.
How's Rusty the dog? How's seventh grade? I'll bet it's much easier without Mommy around to make all the other mothers whisper about how your Mommy must be a gold-digger for being married to a man so much older than she is. Who went with you, Grandma or Grandpa? If it was Grandma I'll bet they took one look at her and said, Ha, look at those wrinkles, Stephen's mother finally got what she deserved! Those mothers never realized how wrong they were: one, Mommy and Daddy are the same age (well, two years apart) and two, Daddy doesn't have any money. Ha! But you never can tell anyone anything. Even if you're honest they don't want to listen.
Speaking of honesty, I think you're old enough now to know something very important about Mommy, and maybe it will help you so angry about Mommy and Daddy going away: When I was still a baby in your grandmother's tummy, your grandfather fed your grandmother all kinds of special formulas he'd mixed up. If you go down to the basement right now and pull the chain on the lightbulb at the bottom of the stairs, under the stairs and behind a cabinet you can see all the test tubes and beakers and equipment your grandpa used to cook up these special formulas. But don't touch anything or taste anything or go down there when your Grandpa is down there working. This is very important.
Anyway, every week until I moved out of the house you're staying in now,
your Grandpa fed me what he said were vitamins. I moved out when I was twenty-two to go to junior college in Boston, and when I did, I stopped growing. Your mommy simply stopped getting physically older at twenty-two. No doctor could ever tell me why this was so and I myself didn't know until your Grandpa told me five years ago on my fortieth birthday. Tonight at dinner, look at the scar above Grandpa's right eye. Mommy gave this to Grandpa with a letter opener when he told her what he'd done when she was a baby. Then your Grandpa said, "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless child!" which is a line from Shakespeare play King Lear, the same play Mommy did a monologue from last week when she went to audition at RKO last week.
I'm writing a little later, it was eight o'clock at night when Mommy started writing and it's now eleven thirty. When I was writing at the desk in our room, Daddy came in with another bucket of ice from the ice machine down the hall. He poured himself some of the whiskey he got at the liquor store down the street with the big neon sign like a cactus, and asked me if I would like one. I said he knew I didn't. Then he accused Mommy of writing a letter to a secret lover, younger than him. This is what I mean about it being hard to tell teasing-fighting and real-fighting apart. Daddy is afraid Mommy is waiting for him to die so she can find someone younger. I keep telling him it's not true. You're my young suitor, you're my little prince. However, tonight, as he got drank more and became more cruel Mommy told him if he really thought that's what she wanted he should keep it up with the whiskey. The fight lasted until fifteen minutes ago. Daddy is asleep inside and I'm outside, on the porch that wraps around the hotel parking lot.
Every man in Mommy's life who knows her secret thinks Mommy must think it's great. Now you know, too, and you must know: she doesn't. But when Mommy found out, Daddy was reading a book called "Making Lemons Into Lemonade The Dr. Fitzburgess Way" (Dr. Trocadero Fitzburgess was the author of the book, which is all about making the best of bad situations and playing to your strengths) because he had just gotten fired from the firm. "If youth is what we have," he said, "we have to go where youth is a commodity." And he wants to bring you out here just as soon as Mommy lands something stable. He has always liked my looks and I think now he likes the idea of being married to a movie star. When you look young and inexperienced people treat you like you are young and inexperienced. Anyway, please don't think less of Daddy or Mommy. We're out here because we want to provide for your future. And Daddy was in a very bad mood today because our meetings haven't been going well. But don't worry!
I know this seems like a lot to digest, but Mommy has decided to be strictly honest from now on, since there has been so little honesty in the family up until this point. I guess you can think of Mommy telling you these things as the special pills she's feeding you, but instead of making you never grow up, they'll make you grow up quicker! And if I remember what it was like to be twelve, you just can't wait to grow up, right?
Last week at 20th Century Fox, after the screen test, Daddy, who pretends to be Mommy's agent instead of her husband, took the production man aside and told him our secret. Daddy told him that any studio would kill to have on contract an actress who never gets old. The man laughed and told him he'd believe it when we came back in five years. This is what I mean when I say no one will believe anything even when you're honest, which is why I want you to believe me so badly.
Then Daddy showed the man a picture from when we were first married, and the man said it could be any kind of trick photography, he'd get fired if he told the boys upstairs he signed an actress because she was some kind of witch or something. Then Daddy begged the man, which you are never supposed to do. As we were leaving Daddy told me we'd come back with a birth certificate, but when we tried to get back on the lot yesterday the security man wouldn't let us pass.
Today at Paramount, Mommy auditioned for the role in a new beach-party picture. It didn't seem to go very well, and again, Daddy took the man aside and told him about me. The man laughed and told him I was too old. Come back when you find a girl who's eighteen forever, he said.
Too old. Can you believe that?
Anyway, Mommy has burdened you with enough for one night. I've included a hundred dollars that was supposed to go for some acting lessons, because I want you eating outside of Grandma and Grandpa's house as much as possible. You can go to a diner and eat all the hamburgers you want. Order two desserts, even. Just try your best not to eat anything Grandma and Grandpa feed you. Slip it under the table to Rusty. Please. Have them call me and let me deal with it.
Also, please do not tell them Mommy told you any of this. However, if you should happen to overhear Grandpa telling Grandma whether Mommy will die someday or just keep being twenty-two forever, please include this information in your next letter. Speaking of which, I hope that letter comes very very soon! Mommy loves and misses you with all her heart. She would not even need seasons if you were here.
Your adoring mother
What if some souls are so big they can't be reincarnated into just one vessel? They don't fit into just one baby?
Like, take Belushi. I like to imagine the day after he stopped breathing in the Chateau Marmont, Hollywood, California, three babies were born to three different mothers at three different points on the globe, each with one shard of Belushi. That epic, too-big-for-the-world soul split into more manageable chunks not so destined to implode.
Would they have equal portions of each quality, or would one be domaneering, one sweet and innocent, and one balls out fucking hilarious without even trying?
Imagine it were possible, and you had some way of tracking where the shards ended up. You could get yourself some serious metaphysical eugenics going on. Some serious Gregor Mendel-style Punnett Squares of The Soul. Find the people with the fragments you want, get a couple bottles of wine in them, let them go at it after filching the condom from the guy's wallet. You're on your way to an infant with a designer essence.
This is, of course, assuming the now-impregnated woman doesn't give birth to somebody else reincarnated. You may end up having to go halfway around the world to get that soul you mixed up so delicately, and con, cajole, or cradlesnatch it away from his parents. And I'm still confused what you wanted the thing for in the first place.
There's an anecdote in Live From New York as told by Bob Odenkirk. It's late, late, late at a party, Chris Farley is drunk off his ass and hurling furniture across the room. At one point, he seems to exhaust himself. He turns to Odenkirk, his eyes like a childs', and says:
Do you think Belushi's in heaven?
Ideally Odenkirk would've been able to say, no, he's in Jakarta, Iceland, and Humbold, Iowa, and one of him is furious, one of him is lonely, and one of him is funny as fuck.
Assuming these qualities can exist independently of one another.
Tony Pierce says you get more hits if you post pictures of your fine ass (see also: Alecia). And I lost my camera battery charger a couple months ago and haven't remembered to get another one, so taking it-seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time drunk pictures of myself on the toilet (see also: Alecia) has been difficult.
Luckily, my boys and I have to publicize a show. So:
Donald is left, dude is center, Dominic is right. For those of you keeping score at home, Donald and I are still wearing our Del Close Marathon bracelets, and in all the other versions of the top photo you can see the big ink stain on my pants I had no idea was there. Classy!
Derrick is a Hammerkatz side project. We booked a show in Atlanta at The Push Push Theater, which was founded by Donald's old drama teacher. It's the first weekend in October and we're getting (gasp!) paid. It should be a fun/weird time visiting Donald's old high school haunts. Okay, no one actually has haunts except for characters in Teen NBC shows. I didn't go into a "juice bar" once in the duration of my high school career.
Alison will have to be coerced to make the trip from Athens to see our show.
The Biggie thing was fun. Thanks to Mike Keenan from NZ (now working in Scotland) who Paypalled a dude twenty dollars because he liked the stories so much. I will either put the money towards an Achewood hoody (black to complete the B.I.G. theme) or two Chipoltle burritos. Clearly the money will be put to good use either way.
Because I have a hard-on for saying I'll do stuff like this, I'll probably write 3-5 more Biggie-inspired stories and make them into a lil' book which I then print out and staple together. I might actually do it, too. I have a vision for a "Free Stuff Table" at all the NYU Hammerkatz shows this year, where there's a bunch of cultural products made by the cast you can just take. Donald's albums, my EP (which is legitimately in the works...one of the beats samples Sufjan Stevens! We are at Indie Defcon-5, here, people!), the Biggie book, that poetry collection I talked about and WROTE but never got around to, like, printing out and stapling, anything else anybody has. Naturally a tipjar you can drop a couple bucks into, if you so chose, so we can take that money and buy beers and stand in the corner doing bits at the party later, drinking said beers.
Speaking of free and Hammerkatz NYU, we ordered WAY too many t-shirts for this same Orientation show we've got coming up when we did it last year, and in all the wrong sizes, so we still have about 150 t-shirts chillin' in Donald's closet. We're going to give them all the fuck away at the orientation show. I'm so excited. Considering I assume my life to be indebted to anyone who gives me a free T-shirt, I imagine we will be able to recruit ourselves a nice little Secret Service out of the people we apparel up.
And to keep the "comedians talking about comedy" theme going, I cleaned up the sidebar. I added a whole big list of blogs of NY comedy-scene folks, mostly UCB people, as well as some friends-of-Hkatz groups. These are links you can trust. I suggest you use them. You could probably kill a day or two at work.
Also, I cleaned up the AZ links. A lot of broken ones work now. If I forgot you, please remind me.
As of last night, the lyric-inspired-entry gauntlet has been passed to Trevor. His challenge is to write a week's worth of entries inspired by Nas' Illmatic. And after that, he has to pass it on and challenge somebody else. You've got to make your own fun in this world.