Technology is a wonderful way to create new stupid things to be jealous about. To be jealous of somebody's ridiculous apartment or beautiful spouse is human. To be jealous of how many MySpace friends or YouTube views they have is utterly retarded, which is why I spend a good deal of time online going "THESE motherfuckers have 8.5 million views and here me and my friends are trying to be funny and..." but then I salve my envy by reminding myself that I have a beautiful spouse and a ridiculous apartment. (tags for this sentence: lies, awful.)
So I guess what I'm trying to say here is go here and watch two of the three videos we premiered at Outtakes on Monday night (They're the two at the top of the page, whose titles begin "Special Agent Tom Rogers..."). It will be an excellent way to kill eight to ten minutes.
Speaking of people I'm jealous of, I'm jealous of bands who have a we'll-play-anywhere philosophy, because they're bands, and they can, in fact, play pretty much anywhere. Kitchens. Closets. Nooks. They can rock your house party and you will not be offended because they're a band and they belong there. Comedy, not so much. Donald and I were talking about this the other night, and among the eighty other things we're doing, it's a problem we want to crack. I would love to tour the hinterlands doing weird fun non-stand-up comedy for kids who don't normally get to see such a thing. I would like to invent comedy that can work in a kitchen or a closet or a nook and not feel horribly out of place. Comedy you can drunkenly make out to. Or if not that, comedy that will make you want to stop drunkenly making out for twenty-three or so minutes and watch. At the very least it would be an interesting disaster.
REMINDER: DERRICK is presenting our brand new show OUTTAKES tonight at the UCB Theater in New York City.
It's being billed as the UCBT's "monthly film festival," and it will be all that plus kidnappings, Mexican standoffs, tense split-screens, and calling in the chopper.
AND, to sweeten the deal and attempt to bribe you into month-to-month show-recidivism, after the show I will take the name and shirt size of every willing audience member, and hand-make them a t-shirt they can pick up at the May Outtakes show. BELIEVE IT.
Look, we're running out of time. You're just gonna have to trust me.
9:30 - 26th st & 8th ave - admission: five dollars.
I haven't been this excited about a show in a minute.
How would I describe our sound?
We're like New Order meets Slayer and hits Slayer up for a cigarette and Slayer is all, "sorry, dude, I quit."
We're like The Stray Cats meets Fiona Apple's parents and is belittled by her authoritarian father.
We're like Patsy Cline meets Bruce Springsteen and is shocked to realize he is much shorter than he looks on the TV show where he plays a sexy doctor.
We're like The Magnetic Fields meets Donna Summer while she's crying in a bathtub but The Magnetic Fields doesn't even ask what's wrong, just refills the Brita pitcher because the sink in the kitchen is broken.
We're like James Taylor meets three shady dudes in a dark alley and the three dudes jump James Taylor and take his wallet and are angered to find he only has seven dollars on him, so they kill James Taylor and pin the murder on Coldplay.
We're like The Strokes meets Public Enemy and Tori Amos and tries to talk them into a threesome and since Public Enemy and Tori Amos had recently agreed to be more adventurous they agree but they back out when they realize the whole thing is going to be taped by The Strokes' roommate, Kraftwerk, who they both used to date at Vassar.
We're like Iggy Pop meets with the board of directors of a major multinational corporation and dresses them down for being unresponsive to the needs of their shareholders (75% of the shares are held by Beck.)
On four twenty let’s get blazed and turn into unicorns.
Let’s prance in a pastel field underneath a Neopolitan ice-cream sky.
Let’s drink butterscotch from a butterscotch stream and nuzzle kittens with our unicorn snouts.
Let’s prance over the cotton-candy hill and let the wind blow back our unicorn hair as we look down at the happy mushroom village.
And when the gnomes in the happy mushroom village bid us a scrumptious day, let’s flare our unicorn nostrils and charge. Let’s gore them with our horns. Let’s spear six or ten gnome-babies on those horns and roast them over the fires the gnomes usually use to make s’mores (s’mores are the gnomes’ currency). Let’s beat the mushrooms to the ground with our hooves.
Then let’s retreat to a particularly echo-y cave in the side of Ol’ Taffy Mountain and fuck for the whole valley to hear, because the sound of unicorn-fucking is where symphonies come from.
Let’s wash up in the butterscotch stream and then fuck again in full view of Miss Bluebird and her picnicking class of wide-eyed bunny-children.
Let’s do it, because it won’t be long until they catch us and put us on the cover of some little girl's binder, and if we’re going to spend the rest of eternity cute, cuddly, and perfectly fucking still, we might as well have some fun.
And I don’t mean fun like the Teddybear Care-ousel.
And I don’t mean fun like the Tea-cake Jamboree.
I mean fun like FUN.
His girlfriends always taped his shows
and he applied the term "girlfriend"
so his shelf of DV tapes
documenting The Thursday Brigade's gigs
11/03-present (even a couple gigs when they were still
is a pretty good sampling of Girls In The Tri-State-Area
Who Would Date A Reasonably Good-Looking Dude
With Hair Over One Eye
And Varying Degrees Of Beard,
and their respective cinematography styles.
Kelly was never much for anything except
EXTREME CLOSE UPS of him and only him
and the band threatened to get THEIR girlfriends to start taping shows, too,
if she didn't widen up a little bit
but commitment-phobia saved them the trouble
Shannon would just go extra-wide, leave the camera on the bar,
and run off to flirt and do coke in the bathroom,
which he actually didn't mind until one gig her static camera missed
a brilliant bit of improv with him giving hugs in the crowd
(she was stall-trysting but had she made it back from the magazine editor's cock
in time to catch his messiah routine, it all probably
would've been forgiven)
Ashley was a film student: she'd expose off colored lights
to get neat in-camera effects and even get crowd reactions
and b-roll, but she got too experimental,
with the camera and
with the bassist
Nicole was workmanlike but she got the job done
for a year straight, until Lisa,
who you can actually see in the crowd in Nicole's last video
and Lisa had good instincts but was hell on the zoom
and there's actually no record of their 4/14/05 gig at Scaffold
because the tape ended up strewn across the parking lot,
Lisa going: "The only reason you're even UPSET is because
I'm destroying your stupid IMAGE!" and no, the reason he was
upset is because the guy who said he might want to sign them to his
label said it was a "CMJ-quality gig" and he wanted to show it to his bosses
"if you guys have, like, a tape,"
(and plus his hair looked
awesome that night.)
So for now the camera is on a tripod at the back of
The Regal or Herman's or The Bro Shack or wherever,
but if you want it,
just get a back-tattoo,
fifteen minutes of vaguely interesting conversation,
and be crazy enough to write rock songs about.
Childhood Is Over and I Am Old, Moment #3527:
Today I picked up a newspaper because I wanted to read the cover story, which was about allergies.
A Thing To Listen To: If you are not a snob and enjoy such things as Neko Case, Jens Lekman, Cat Power, Dem Franchise Boys and Ludacris all together in a sweaty room doing shots and that dance from the "Lean Wit It, Rock Wit It" video, you will enjoy Donald's new DJ mix, which you can download free this very minute and proceed bounce in your chair for fifty minutes at work.
Recently I've been enamored with the phrase "wacky bitch." I dunno where I picked it up but I just saw some random person on the street the other day and those were the words my mind sent up to describe them. Try it: one of your friends stumbles in the room, smooshed and disheveled: "you WACKY bitch." It's just fun. K sounds are fun, and so is making fun of your friends.
Today I had the phrase "put the game on smash" in my head all day. Not sure where I picked that one up either: mighta been from a Spank Rock song. I think the game is something you HAVE on smash, like, "I've got the game on SMASH!" as opposed to, "I just PUT the game on smash," but the fun things about colloquialisms is we can bend 'em to mean whatever the fuck. I think for me, "I've got the game on smash" is going to mean "I am understandably proud of my recent volunteer work with the elderly." This isn't gonna give me many opportunities to use it, but I wanna have some big slang guns in reserve to make me sound cool when I give up the starving-comedian thing and settle into a life of milquetoast do-gooderism.
"Lean Wit It..." reminded me that in Miami over Spring Break (which I wanted to write about more at length right after I got back but my blog was broken, etc.), every day on the beach we saw these three ripped black dudes in black sunglasses and white trunks, who'd walk around shirtless with one of those IPOD boomboxes which only seemed to have three songs on it ("Lean Wit It..." being one of them), drinking something orange out of clear little dixie cups, being orbited by a rotating cast of hot girls, and dancing. Every day. The same three songs. The cups never seemed to get empty and I didn't see what they were refilling them out of. All I could think was: These dudes have the Right Idea.
In a sense, they had the game on smash. But not the elderly sense. Dudes who never do anything but party on the beach with an IPOD boombox and teach judo or tae-bo or whatever they do to keep in such great shape and cannot stop dancing and never need a refill are the opposite of the elderly,
in that they are awesome.
I got obsessed with YouTube over the weekend, and have started putting anything vaguely related to me that's in moving-picture format on the motherfucker, because I so desperately need the approval of America's fourteen-year-olds.
DERRICK's profile, featuring our "Rejected TV Theme Songs:" if you watched cartoons from 1988-1994, you will dig on 'em.
Hammerkatz's profile, all the videos from our website with dumbed-down titles (if you can believe it, the one with "PORN" in the title is about fifteen times as popular as the other ones). But now you can share 'em and put 'em in your MySpace profile and do other things that would've been nonsense words just five short years ago.
And finally, my profile, where I shoved a remarkably unambitious project I made for a class called Fundamentals of Filmmaking last year. It features Hammerkatz's Doug and Donald. It was shot on location in Washington Square Park, the scene of an infinite number of bad student film projects, and this one, which is merely okay.
Damn. I am in an editing lab surrounded by a buncha film students and Jesus, I thought I drank a lot of coffee. They have made five Dunkin Donuts runs in the four hours I've been here. I am going to go before all their hearts explode.
WHAT YOU MUST UNDERSTAND IS THAT PIMPING IS GENETIC.
An excerpt from “Rockinit: An Oral History of the Early Days of Hip Hop,” by Stuart Naples
DJ Crooked Cee: At that time I was in the group the Terrific Three, that was me, Easy Roc, and Dude La Fresh. And there was this other crew from around the way, they called themselves the Terrific Three, right? And we were like, yo, you gotta change your name, right? But after the Phantastic Four broke up, they took on two dudes from that group, so they became the Frenetic Five. And we weren’t trying to have that, because instead of backing down, they just took on two more dudes, which would have made them change the name anyway. We had yet to get our satisfaction, you know what I’m sayin’?
So we recruited the other two dudes from the Phantastic Four, plus their DJ, plus the DJ had a younger brother, and we became the Serious Seven. And they was there, the Frenetic Five, the night at Superfly Garage when we announced we was becomin’ the Serious Seven, and wouldn’t you know it, they left and when they came back to do their show they had gotten four guys off the street and become the Nine Wise Men. And the four dudes didn’t even know their routines! They could barely even rhyme! But it didn’t matter. It was strictly a numbers game at that point.
The next week there was a party at the gym of PS 27. Easy Roc’s cousin’s basketball team was practicin’ there beforehand. So we show up early and ask the whole team would they like to be in a rap group. And that night at the party we debuted as the Honeybee Twenty-Three. But I gotta give respect to those other guys, even if they was bitin’, because during the show they hijacked a crosstown bus and came to the venue as the Nine Wise Men and The So-So-Ill Thirty Held Against Their Will. That’s hustle! It was very hard for them to dance and keep guns trained on the hostages, but the crowd definitely gave them credit for trying.
So at this point we’re thinkin’ the beef is squashed because they’re in jail, but somehow they convince the judge to let ‘em out on bail awaiting trial, and they announce they’re comin’ to Zulu Regatta’s party at Disco Knights. But we figure we got ‘em licked because The So-So-Ill Thirty Held Against Their Will are at home safe with their families, so there’s only gonna be nine of ‘em, right? But just to be safe, we had Easy’s uncle, who owned a grocery store, offer fifty percent off one shopping trip to anyone who would show up and be in our crew that night, so that night we were rollin’ as the Serendipitous Sixty-Four, which was a number you have to respect, even if most of it consists of budget-conscious housewives.
But even then, man, that other group, they were hustlin’. Turned out they’d spent all their time between their release and the show on the New Jersey Turnpike with a sign that said “Honk If You Want To Be In A Rap Group,” and I guess a lot of people honked without thinking, but even still they were obligated to show up, so just by volume of so many cars passing, they got something like two hundred, three hundred people. They called themselves the Magnum Three Hundred and Fifty Seven. Some of them were still in their cars, which the club owner was not happy about. And that there would be exactly three hundred and fifty seven to allow for the “Magnum” name seems a little suspicious to me, but it’s all in good fun.
So anyway, both groups are at the club, so when it comes time to let the audience in, they can’t get in. Six hundred people waitin’ out front. And wouldn’t you know it, man, this dude BlockRockin’ Rick rides by with a bullhorn and talks real slick to the crowd and that’s how he got the Slick Six Hundred Plus One, dwarfing BOTH our groups. The leader of the Magnum Three Fifty Seven and I briefly talked about joining forces to become the Maximum Occupancy Crew, but nothin’ ever came of it.
So the Slick Six Hundred Plus One were the biggest rap group in New York City, in terms of size, which was everything at the time. They recorded a one-song triple-LP single, “Quantity Rappin’.” The radio edit was two hours long. They went bankrupt one night into their first tour because they had to rent eighteen busses to get to Hackensack. And that’s not includin’ the van for the DJ equipment.
But they still held the title as the biggest, until this guy Kool Kid Cool, whose brother worked for the government, got a very hard-to-understand box put on the 1980 National Census form where people didn’t know what they were agreeing to but checked the box anyway, but that’s how he formed the Furious Four Hundred And Fifty Million. People credit him with making the music accessible to all kinds of people, black, white, old, young, and by “make accessible” those people mean “unwittingly turn them into members of an actual group in the genre.” But he did, man, he’s a pioneer. They also hold the title of the only rap group ever subject to congressional re-districting.
A lot of people today don't give 'em the respect they deserve, which is sad, 'cause it's pretty easy to show respect for them: all you gotta do is turn to anyone who looks like they were born before 1980 and go, "You changed the game, man." They probably won't know what you're talking about, but it's all peace.
People advertising anonymous blowjobs on the walls in public men's rooms need to get with the twenty-first century.
I'm not really in the market for such things, but I couldn't help but think that if I was, the stall-barrier scrawl "tap foot for BJ" would not be helping me out much. It's three AM and there's no one else in the library sub-basement bathroom and I can just SEE that my foot-tap would be futile. Unless it's gonna trigger a wall-panel from which will float a Blowjob Robot. And I can't help but think a Blowjob Robot has better places to be than a library sub-basement. People who can afford Blowjob Robots are not just gonna philanthropically donate them to universities for placement in their sub-baseement men's rooms. Men of all stripes might secretly thank them, but it's not the sort of donation that gets you ink in the Times.
There was competing graffiti advertising the eighth-floor bathroom as a hot-spot of clandestine mouthfucking, and that's another thing: the savvy BJ purveyor would slip the janitor a sawbuck to leave his ad and wipe away the competition.
I mean, at least some user comments. "About as skeevy as I expected" - Freshman on Misguided Experimental Kick. "Not as flashy as the eighth-floor bathroom blowjobs, but more reliable, which counts for a lot when you're in a rush" - Arab Studies Teaching Assistant. At least some recommendations of Other Creepy Activities You Might Enjoy. At least a podcast.
Like I said, I'm not in the market for anonymous bathroom blowjobs. But you don't have to be shopping for consumer electronics to know that the dude on the corner with his asscrack hanging out of dirty shorts trying to sell you a broken Betamax player is going about it all wrong.
This post contains more pictures of comedy-related debauchery, except this time the debauchery took place after the comedy as a celebration of it instead of as the debauchery being largely staged for the sake of comedy. (I am pretty sure that is almost the first line of somebody somewhere's Performance Studies Master's Thesis.)
This weekend the two branches of Hammerkatz (the college one and the professional one) did shows at comedy festivals on completely opposite sides of NYC. Hammerkatz NYU did a show Friday night at the UMASS Amherst Comedy Jam. Wicked Wicked Hammerkatz had a show in Washington DC as part of the DC Comedy Festival on Saturday night. Donald and I are in both groups. Needless to say, Motherfuckers Hauled Ass.
Lou of WWH was a total saint and drove us up to Amherst so we could all head down to DC the next day.
The weather was kinda shitty while we drove up to Amherst. We thought "surely this will clear up for our long drive tommorrow" and we all imagined the Capitol as a place of gleaming white domes, blue skies, and cherry blossoms. More on how fucking wrong we were later.
We got to Amherst in time to see if our DVD would work with their projector, as a whole bunch of our set centered around video pieces. The projector or the computer or something was being mad finnicky, and we spent the hour before the shows started (the program began at 7, our show was to close the Friday night deal at 10:20) trying to make sure it wouldn't continue to do so during our show. AJ ran point and with the uber-helpful/nice tech dudes/dudettes from UMASS, everything seemed cool by the time house opened.
We sat in the back of the house coolin' our heels 'till the other HKATZNYU car (Matt/Daniel/Steve/Helen) was to arrive. The first show started. They opened with a video. Immediately after the video...well, I'm trying to come up with an onomotopeia for that sound of a lot of electrical equipment shutting down, like in Jurassic Park after Sam Jackson says "Hold on to your butts." Let's go with...BBBJJJJJIIIIIIIIEEEEWwwwww. All the stage lights and sound dies. The dude doing a voice over bit on a microphone where he's supposed to be talking on the phone to someone onstage is instead left shouting in the echo-y backstage area. Wackness.
Some of the awesome UMASS tech people who fell victim to rebellious circuit breakers.
This is Pam, the epitome-of-grace-under-pressure stage manager. She is a good example of my theory that anybody new you meet can be physically defined by combining the looks of two people you knew from high school.
Turns out all the equipment they'd brought in to the auditorium strictly for the festival ended up blowing a fuse. Once the rest of HKATZNYU showed, we hunkered down in an adjoining classroom, scrapped the part of our set that relied on video (basically everything except three sketches), put together the rest of the set with old sketches we could do with stuff on-hand, came up with a through-line, and ran it for an hour. Everybody brought their A-Game, then cracked that A-Game open to reveal an even higher-quality Game within, then zoomed out to reveal that that Game was merely a tiny node on a giant MacroGame whose finesse is beyond human understanding. Then we went to get Red Bulls and awful sushi at a nearby supermarket, then we raced back in time for the show at 10:50.
I spend most of my time performing comedy bits in basements, so I kinda have to take my Bareknuckle Excitement where and when I can get it. In my world, this was pretty close to Fistfighting With Terrorists In Mid-Skydive, and I was jazzed as hell. So much fucking fun cooking up stuff on ultra-short notice.
The show went amazing, especially considering the audience had been sitting in lecture-hall seats watching comedy for three hours plus with no intermission. We got to do a lot of playing in the audience, which is always a gas.
Then we drank at a house. Here's what that looked like.
The afformentioned Zach, Donald, some people whose names I don't recall but whose company I remember enjoying.
Me in that shirt and tie I'm never not wearing with that gangster face I'm never not making, Amy from UMASS is happy about having Lou's head emerge all surly-like from her back. Far right: Killebrew's Eddie Dunn in the beginning stages of Early-Onset Pirate-ism. Not pictured: Ben Schwartz.
If you look closely, you can see where somebody signed AJ and I up for beer pong, but misheard AJ's name as H.A., which is so appropriate for a comedy festival you kind of just want to kill yourself. Though it seemed unlikely, AJ and I eventually came up to bat. Though it seemed likely, we were fucking destroyed by some kids who go to Real College. updated: the dude in the picture's name is Roger! Whatup, Roger?
See if you can spot two and one thirds people who I will miss doing college comedy with once they graduate in May. The two people will be in an as-yet-untitled comedy group Dom/Donald and I will direct. The one thirds person just landed an awesome job at the Brooklyn Academy of Music and probably does not know how funny she is. (Answer: funnier than you.)
I'm tired now, which puts me in a good place to write the rest of the journey: Matt n' them headed off back to NY before the party was over. Donald/AJ/Lou and I got on the road at seven thirty, roughly two hours after we'd gone to sleep. Lou had tried to sleep in the car from like two thirty onward but was haunted by delerious images of a deer coming up to the window and shooting him Son of Sam style, which we later determined deer don't really have the opposable digits for. The weather was ungodly awful. Rain, then motherfucking snow. We saw cars flipped over on the side of the road. I fucked up the navigation and sent us forty miles west of where we should've been, which would've taken less time to correct if it wasn't impossible to get anywhere at faster than fifty miles an hour. We napped at a Wendy's for half an hour. Other than that I never slept because I was paranoid about dying. We rolled into our nation's capitol delirious and smelly.
The show ended up going off without a hitch and being pretty fun. I'm absolutely in love with the group that followed us, a DC improv group called Biscuitville, although we never got a chance to tell them so 'cause we missed 'em backstage and they never came to the afterparty where we were stationed for a minute. At said afterparty, I was a fucking zombie incapable of drinking or flirting with any of my usual dumb zeal. Gregor's DC-area friends hooked some of us up some retardedly good local burgers at a place called Five Guys, as well as a place to crash.
The next day was sparkling and gorgeous and it appeared Washington DC would not be so bad a place if you could afford to live in an embassy, or, failing that, a nice area with a law school.
We drove back, hungry for the skyline like you always are when you've been away for any period of time. Back at the dorm I took a twilight nap and had the weirdest dreams ever, then Donald and I wrote for the final Hammerkatz NYU show of the year, which is this Friday.
My body hates me for all the road-food and coffee but I'm not going to be able to try to win its affections back any time soon. The game don't stop.
You can't beat it and I wouldn't wanna try.
Word is bond, we got tha flyest police state!
Y’all freedom of choice and shit, that shit is wack. Y’all is lookin’ mad stupid in those clothes y’all picked out yourselves. All different colors and expressing personal style and shit. That is THE OPPOSITE OF FRESH. Everybody in my police state be rockin’ the fresh white smocks with tha ill government-issued white slippers. When they dirty, you jus drop ‘em in the incinerator. New ones get dropped off on your doorstep by these ill Ration Robots!
If your moms is a bad cook, you ain’t gotta sweat that shit, because the Ration Robots hook everybody up with tha illest gruel. Is it a soup? Is it a solid? The Ration ‘Bots done flipped the script on food, fam! Ain’t nobody ain’t getting’ fat off gruel: the girls is lookin’ FLY in they smocks when they show up to Mind Programming Camp every day at six in tha AM! Y’all can keep your “choices,” you only gonna wind up with a buncha fat bitches.
And if your moms is a good cook, and she be hoardin’ mad illegal ingredients from before the Revolution, the Secret Police gon show up and take her away to be ReEducated with a quickness! It happened to 0191108’s moms up the block! He and Lil’ 0191108 was on the stoop when the Secret Police rolled up and took her independent-thinkin’ ass away. So if your moms always be on your case, talkin’ out her neck and shit, all you gotta do is tell the Secret Police she be havin’ bad thoughts. Then you ain’t never gotta do chores again (‘cept for your Duties To Tha Most High Governor-Chief) and you can watch all the TruthBox you want!
Man, y’all stupid with your “cable TV” and your “books” and shit. The TruthBox is the SPOT! They got the illest shows, like Traitor-Kill, where the secret police bust in and kill MAD traitors like BLAU BLAU BLAU! And yo, Exhaltation of Tha Most High Governor-Chief, it’s the jam! Did y’all know the Most High Governor-Chief can lift a tank over his head, and one time he rescued a whole submarine full of orphans, and he can smell traitors? Word, I seen it! Don’t come around here with no “Spider Mans” and “Batmans” and shit, the MHGC gonna have them arrested for Wearing Non-Issued Garments. And for bein’ WACK to the fullest. SNAP!!! And get this: the TruthBox ain’t never even turn off! Nobody ever even have to pay the power bill!
But this is the illest part of our fresh-to-death police state: when you turn 16, you get assigned a Procreation Partner. WORD! This honey that her body got RIGHT from doin’ Mandatory Recreation an’ eatin’ mad nutritious gruel, and she all yours! You ain’t gotta be spendin’ all kinds of “money” and be sayin’ you “love” a bitch tryin’a get her back to the spot, she REQUIRED BY LAW TO FUCK. Word is bond! And when she get a baby, you ain’t even gotta take care of it no ways! It gon get taken to be Reassigned with another Person Unit, ‘cause too much maternal ties be divertin’ adoration from the Most High Governor-Chief. That’s why when 0191108’s moms got taken he ain’t even cry! Good thing, too, ‘cause cryin-ass people gotta get mad Electro-Stabilization treatment. That shit ain’t no joke!
So y’all can keep on with that “choice” shit. But all that time y’all thinkin’ and feelin’ and lookin’ off-brand in unique-ass clothes, I’ma be LAUGHIN’ at y’all. (But not too much, though: I ain’t tryin’ to see no Electro-Stabilization.)
Freedom just be freedom to get fat. Totalitarianism is the JOINT!
I like this picture, because it gives the impression that I go to Real College, when in fact it was staged for a project Gregor/Doug/Pally are developing. I only go to college insomuch as it helps people get TV deals.
It also seems kinda like Tom Petty is gonna pick me up and dance with me in a room full of candles.
And that other person is either throwing up a gang symbol or they have a vitamin deficiency and their bones are incredibly brittle. 195th St. Scurvy Crew is in the building.
You must admit the kicks is outta control.
I wasn't dead, my blog was just broken.
Which, if life was about posting song lyrics and half-thoughts and pictures from TV shows you like, would be equivalent to being dead.
The blog was fixed by Dean Esmay, with little prompting and no financial compensation. I have never met the man in the flesh but truly he is a gentleman and a scholar. Cheers, Dean.
There's a glitch in my archives where some punctuation shows up as unreadable symbols, making it look how it would in a world where punctuation had not been given enough attention by its parents and wanted to make a scene all the time so you would notice it. So if you're searching through the old DC Pierson chestnuts, perhaps for a quote for the eulogy of a loved one or an epigram for your eagerly anticipated sophomore novel, you'll have to wait until we get it ironed out or you'll just have to go through and fix it yourself (although thinking you can somehow fix it is a common mistake: punctuation just is who it is, and your savior complex can't change how it was raised.)
The new Ghostface album, Fishscale, is amaaaaazing. I have not wanted to actually listen to an album over and over again instead of giving it over to shuffle this much since...well, the Young Jeezy record. But the Jeezy record's Kill Bill. The Ghostface shit is Citizen Kane (meaning it defies all best-thing-ever hype by being consistently, impossibly fun). It's nice to hear to a song and know that no matter how hard you listen, there are lines you won't get until next year.
This coming weekend will mark the third in a row where I've done at least two comedy shows. This weekend they'll even be in seperate states, neither of them New York (UMASS Amherst with Hammerkatz NYU, DC Comedy Fest with Wicked Wicked Hammerkatz. ) It's kinda exhausting but I wouldn't have it any other way. Two weekends for now will be what we're calling Hammerkatz NYU's Last Show Of The Year, EVER. Early word on the project indicates a high probability of dinosaurs, hostages, and breakdancing. Be there.
I'll leave you with my favoritest Ghostface song and probably one of my top ten songs ever. "Fuck your wack look" indeed.
"Like Fifty Times," part two (finally) (part one here)
In all my Monday classes I zone out writing like “REX” and “REX LOVES ERIN” in my notebook. I listen to “I Finally Found Someone” on my iPod like fifty times and then the Sleepless In Seattle soundtrack on repeat. I tell myself not to get too excited until my phone rings on Monday night and I look at the caller ID and it’s him and I think, okay, get excited.
“I wouldn’t think you’d have, like…all these crosses.”
“They’re my roommate’s,” I tell him. “She’s like ULTRA Catholic.”
“That’s cool,” he says.
“Anyway, who cares what she is as long as she’s not here, right?”
“Mmmm” he says, because now we’re kissing.
He brought his John Mayer CD.
You guys. It’s awesome.
I mean, it’s not like I, y’know…and it’s not like he makes any attempt to y’know…help out with that, but still, he’s so sweet afterwards and he’s so hot with his hair all messed up like that.
“Are you on the pill?” he asks, after he says all the really sweet stuff I was talking about.
“We don’t um. Get pregnant. Don’t have to ‘cause we do like, the biting thing.”
“Oh, right,” he says. “Sweet.”
And he says he’d totally stay if he didn’t have to get up for a Statistics test the next day and after he goes I lie in bed whispering his name and fall asleep thinking that with him around, I might not even need blood.
I don’t see him that Friday because he’s on a paintball trip with this fraternity he’s thinking about pledging and he doesn’t call on Saturday night and when he answers my call he’s somewhere loud and says he has to go and hangs up like, completely without explanation.
Then on Sunday morning he sends me a text message that says: i dont think its gonna work out see u around.
A text message.
I call Nicole, crying. As bad as she is for happy stuff she’s great for disasters.
Then I turn in to a bat. (Some of the stereotypes about us are true.) I fly across campus and perch outside his dorm room window, but I barely have to look: my super-sensitive bat hearing picks up John Mayer when I’m still three blocks away. He’s in there with some girl who’s wearing the same “New Jersey: Only The Strong Survive” t-shirt I have, only in a different color. He doesn’t even hesitate to bite her and she doesn’t even cry.
I would, if I weren’t in bat form.
I screech “fucking asshole” in sonar all the way home. I seriously think about flying into the engine of some plane.
Back in my room in human form, my roommate isn’t there. Most of the crucifixes on her wall are like, big Vatican style things but one of them’s small and wooden. It’ll work. I slip on one of these really cute gloves I bought in the city this one time, I grab the cross with that hand, and I put it in my purse.
Like I said, some of the stereotypes about us are true.
Ashley this girl I know from home also lives in Rex’s dorm and she lets me in. She asks if everything’s okay and I tell her I just left something in his room last time I was there and I really need it.
I get off the elevator. I go to Rex’s door. His fucking hat is still on the doorknob. I put the glove on again. I take the cross out of my purse and I knock. Wooden stakes are bad and crosses are bad so you should see what kind of damage a wooden cross can do. O-M-G, to say the least.
Sometimes it’s just about blood, but sometimes it’s about love, or what you think is love at the time. But it’s probably just the post-bite rush. It’s probably just the beer.
Whatever. I can just wait a hundred years and re-enroll here or in some other school where the guys aren’t such huge assholes. I can wait for fucking ever.
Rex and I are in his room making out for the first time ever. John Mayer’s playing and I’m thinking the first three weeks of college have not been like a TOTAL waste. We left the party down the hall twenty minutes ago and the first kiss was really magical and I don’t think first kisses are always magical and I don’t think it’s the beer, either. But I don’t know if I want to. I really don’t know if I want to. I mean, is he that special to me? Is he TOO special to me?
He still has his white baseball cap on. I take it off. He goes “Oh, good idea,” and takes the cap, gets up, opens the front door and hangs the cap on the doorknob.
“So my roommate’ll know not to come in.”
“I thought it was supposed to be a sock on the doorknob.”
“No clean socks,” he says, coming back over to the bed.
“They have to be clean?” I ask.
He grins and shrugs. JESUS, he’s cute.
We kiss a bunch more until I stop, then we look into each other’s eyes for like a REALLY long time and he says, “How come you never smile?”
“I smile,” I say, being really careful not to smile.
“If you don’t smile how’m I supposed to know if you like me?”
So hot I can’t help it. I pull him close and sink my teeth into his neck. He only screams once he realizes it’s not a sex thing. The party down the hall is so loud I don’t think anybody notices. He’s a really preppy guy so his blood tastes kind of like the beach. And he’s been drinking so I get a little more drunk.
“WHAT THE FUCK.”
“Don’t freak out, it means I really like you, okay?”
I’ve gotten him a towel from the bathroom. He holds it to his neck even there are like, these enzymes that make the bleeding stop almost instantly.
“OH FUCK. You’re a fucking vampire.”
“Yea…” I try to stroke his face and be really sweet about it but despite the John Mayer I don’t think it’s gonna be romantic in here for a while.
“But…we met in a morning class!”
“So how the fuck are you…I thought you couldn’t be out during the daytime!”
“Okay, whoa, time out, that’s a stereotype.” If I were gay or Puerto Rican I could report him to the RA and he’d
have to go to sensitivity training. But I’m just a white vampire girl from Woodmere, Long Island. And besides, it’s not like I’d report him. Like, it might just be the after-bite rush but I’m seriously feeling in love right now. He’s so sweet and vulnerable with that towel on his neck.
(Oh, and if you want to feel what an after-bite rush feels like, drink like fifty caramel macchiatos, take your Uggs off, and run around the block like fifty times.)
“A lot of the stereotypes about us are like, TOTAL lies.”
His eyelids are starting to droop. “Oh shit…this is my roommate’s towel…” His eyes close. He’s asleep. I kiss him on the forehead, turn off John Mayer, grab the towel. Maybe I’ll wash it for him or something. I tiptoe out to the elevator and walk home all giddy. I think about calling Nicole back home but she’s never happy when anything good happens to me, and this is like, the best thing imaginable.
What’ll happen next is he’ll sleep for like twenty-four hours straight, then he’ll wake up ready to be Mr. and Mrs. Hottest Vampire Couple On Campus.
To be continued...