The night of a Hammerkatz NYU show and the day after is always a big takeback of how bummed/stressed I was in the week leading up to it. NYC decided to physically recreate this effect by making today the gorgeous 180-degree opposite of the past week's Morrissey weather.
If you are my aunt and uncle and you happen to be in New York and surprise me by coming to one of my comedy shows without telling me, do not make your presence known to me during halfway through the show. You will make me self-concious about all the swearing and rape humor. But if you are my aunt and uncle and you DO make your presence known in the middle of the show, it's still better than not coming at all and I will be very, very excited to see you.
You could see some pictures of the show here if you were so inclined. It was a bloody, contrived, joyous affair; like all the best things it barely got off the ground and when it did it was perpetually about to crash, but instead of crashing, it stood up and killed zombies with a zombie broad-sword.
Upcoming comedy dates, should you be an aunt, uncle, friend, close personal relation, or hook-handed stalker:
Friday, Nov. 4th:Wicked Wicked Hammerkatz: "And Other Reasons To Cry..." 7 PM, UCB Theater (Special Aspen Showcase)
Friday and Saturday Nov. 11th and 12th: Wicked Wicked Hammerkatz at the Los Angeles Festival of Sketch
More to come! To bastardize a Marines t-shirt slogan: exhaustion is not-funny leaving the body.
Gregor Hammerkatz got interviewed in Gothamist: Read this.
I am mentioned in reference to the fact that I copped 300 free Chipoltle burrito cards from my dorm mailroom at the beginning of last year. This is somewhat true. The number was probably closer to a hundred (I left half the stack, they were just sittin' on a table next to the Campus Clippers and other assorted collegi-discount junk), and I gave half of them to the rest of Hammerkatz. The remainder, I ate there once a week for the rest of the semester. Sometimes more. Usually more. It was hard to get used to paying again. Sometimes the manager lady cops my burrito: those are good days.
It hurts to be this famous.
Rehearsing every night this week for the all new Hammerkatz NYU show this Saturday.
It's gonna be something else entirely: Ghosts. Zombies. The Facebook. Free, retarded, and certainly not to be missed.
"Hateful" is the only way to describe the weather here for the past week and change. Colder than it has to be. Never not raining. I saw the sun in a magazine once, but that's about it. It's not charming fall weather. It's not curl up in a sweater with a mug weather. It's curl up in an empty bathtub with a shotgun and a telephone weather.
If the person you called was also in New York City this week, they'd go, "It's cool, dude. I get you."
Can't wait to go, go, back, back to Cali, Cali in a couple weeks. Our trip out there is looking like it might have more potential than we initially imagined. And, y'know, the sun. And my parents are coming!
I'm gonna do National Novel-Writing Month again next month but instead of trying to write a novel like last year, I'ma do a short story a day. Also, each day's short story will be based on a suggestion from you, the audience. So let's have it, starting now. A word, a thought, a song lyric or quote. Nothing is wrong. Hit me in the comments or on the e-mail piece.
Stay dry, kids.
Goin' to Syracuse Comedy Festival this weekend.
There's a sketch we have to decide whether we wanna do it or not. I hate sensitivity. I'm only sensitive to funny and not funny.
Either way, should be a blast and a half. I bought Dominic's old iPod off him, so the boy is gonna do some serious car-DJing tomorrow. If I could make on-the-go playlists for the rest of my life, I would.
The audience of your universe is never satisfied
and the programmers never stop trying to satisfy them:
one night sex drama and broad slapstick comedy will
butt up against one another in the schedule
you might like what's going on but if the audience doesn't care
it will get cancelled
one season formula-driven rehashes of tired old standards
dominate the airwaves
the next, the execs throw away the rulebook
and your life is brash, experimental
maybe even live
with a censor who's slow to bleep the curses
if this boldness catches on
this season's fresh, new, and hot
will spawn next season's clones upon clones
until everything devolves into self-parody
and they stop watching.
based upon whims you can't understand
old favorites will be killed off
or move away
and new characters will be introduced,
who slowly reveal their purpose:
and maybe the writers had one purpose in mind for this person
but the audience wanted them to sex it up
or see you get what's coming to you
the moment's demands trumping consistency,
and next week they're somebody new.
you will briefly consider making a life on cable
or the premium channels
or god forbid, public television
far from the whims of the fickle viewer
but admit it:
you fucking love prime time.
Comedy across America: Three states, three groups, three weeks.
Two weekends ago: Derrick in Atlanta
Last weekend: Wicked Wicked Hammerkatz at UCBT in Los Angeles.
This coming weekend: Hammerkatz NYU at Syracuse University's Empire Comedy Fesitval.
It is not as impressive as even the most leisurely paced arena rock tour but feeling as tired as I do right now having just gotten back from the midpoint of the campaign I'd say adjusting for financial compensation, college enrollment, and Britishness, I'm at the very least as cool as Def Leppard.
Only with less sex. Fewer guitar solos. More laughs.
So, let's say, like, Quiet Riot.
Alecia, Taryn, Ty, and Jack drove up all the way from Phoenix to see my show (!!!). This is especially sainthood-worthy considering I have people in New York I'd call friends who've never walked however many blocks to see a show, most of which are free. So much love. We drank beers and I slept on their hotel room floor.
Strictly 4 Mah Komedy Geekzzz: Bob Odenkirk of Mr. Show fame was at the show. This was kind of an amazing full-circle deal considering Hammerkatz straight-up bit the Mr. Show format (no blackouts, segues between film and live material). He did not threaten suit. Some sources say he even laughed. I called my sixteen-year-old self and told him this and the dude flipped.
After the set, we did a couple bits at Dirtiest Sketch in LA at midnight. I love the pre-show grocery store runs before Dirtiest Sketch, where you scan the aisles debating what edible substance looks the most like menstural blood. We eventually settled on Catalina dressing, though like Snapple flavors, I'm sure everyone has their personal preference.
The weird thing about LA is how LA it is. Gorgeous weather, pain-in-the-dick traffic. Palm trees, ridiculous girls, In N' Out, an abundance of acting work and dust-encrusted homeless eccentrics. Authentic Mexican food and Mapquest as religion, a couple awesome radio stations (Indie 103.1 is a wet dream and they have at least one really good DJ over on The Beat). The metronome there is ticking three times slower than it is in New York. The bars close at one and everybody has a Scientology story. You cannot argue with the sunsets and I liked Hollywood an awful lot.
I am like an old man at peace with death: I don't want it to be right this second but when I have to move out there (and I will someday) I'm ready.
Though unlike the non-existence that is the atheistic concept of death, LA has the beach, it's closer to my family, and did I mention Mexican food?
We'll be back in November.
We heard a White Stripes song on the afformentioned Indie 103.1 driving to Target. I called Donald back in NY to tell him about it. Cut to the next afternoon: he posts this ridiculously hot remix. Recommended for party people and the long-haired ironic kids who judge them.
We're in Atlanta.
Corpse Bride is made of dicks.
LOST is the redemption.
My Jewish friends' parents are always pressuring them to become a lawyer or a rocktor.
They also make them feel guilty for not coming home to celebrate Rock Hashanah.
I think a good name for a band made up of famous screenwriters would be Deus Ex Rockina.
If one guitar solo seems longer than another guitar solo, but in fact they're the same length, that's a rocktical illusion.
Let the leaves be as orange and red as the burning tip of the cigarette that's in the frets of our guitar while we rock this fucking autumn with our sweaters on.
My iPod got deleted. No backup. If you know me you know how this is like a big kick to the musical balls.
Please send mp3s to firstname.lastname@example.org.
Please send burned CDs and mixes to:
40 E Seventh St Apartment 202-C
New York City, NY 10003
And then we will be friends forever.