HOT NEW VIDEOS from DERRICK
Progression Of A Mad Hatter
They premiered at the Memorial Day edition of OUTTAKES at the UCB Theater on Monday. But it's not too late to waste a good ten minutes of work watching them and sending them to your influential taste-making friends. Check out the rest of our videos over on YouTube if you haven't already.
This letter is from your real dad, not your TV dad. You probably won’t be able to read for another five years or so, but by that time, it may already be too late: you may have forgotten me entirely in favor of that shiny, well-muscled impostor you spend six hours a day on a soundstage with (six hours being the maximum time a one-year-old child actress is allowed to work at a stretch.)
For all I know, you’ve already been imprinted with the mental image of this pretty-boy actor as your father, because you spend take after take with him holding you in his arms. And I can’t blame you, you aren’t responsible for how you perceive the world at your age, all you know is light and warmth, and it’s a great deal lighter and warmer in the studio than it is in the one-bedroom walkup in West Hollywood; the rent on which your mother and I almost wouldn’t have been able to pay if we hadn’t landed this role for you as the newborn daughter of lead character David Hurpins on the hit premium-cable drama “The Raven’s Nest,” now in its triumphant fourth season.
But let me just say this: if your real father didn’t carry you back and forth across a room eighty times, it’s not because he doesn’t love you. It’s because your real father doesn’t need eighty takes to hold you: he gets it right the first time.
And your real dad may not be an idealistic lawyer defending the wrongly accused, like your TV dad. But let me tell you some other things your real dad isn’t that your TV dad is: an alcoholic (season 1), unfaithful to his wife with his beautiful prosthetic-legged assistant (season 2), involved in the cover-up of the murder of a mildly racist district attorney (season 3), or a relapsed alcoholic (season 4).
I realize that those things don’t seem so bad in the context of the show, and are framed in such a way as to make your TV dad appear not like a bad person, but rather tragically conflicted. I’m sure if there was a writing staff and a camera crew following your real dad, they would find a way to frame his journey from community college to a series of PA jobs on soap operas to the unemployment line (briefly) to an ill-considered stint in culinary school all seem very dramatic and romantic as well, but there isn’t. And your real dad’s life isn’t very dramatic or romantic, it just is, and he doesn’t love you because his love for your provides him with a reason to quit drinking or a reason to keep his dissolving marriage together or a reason to hide his family for fear of reprisals from a mob boss he helped convict. He just loves you because he does.
Unlike your TV dad, your real dad doesn’t stop being your dad once the director calls the day a rap and speed home in a Maserati to his wife, the actress who plays the sexy nurse on “Doctor’s Orders,” and have a dinner party with various snooty producers and directors who were all, at one time or another, mean to your real dad when he was a PA. Your real dad is your dad twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week.
Your real dad doesn’t go in for hair and makeup, in fact, your real dad would kill to have hair at all. But more importantly, your real dad would kill to protect you. And not the sort of killing your TV dad did of the mob boss in the season three cliffhanger, near-accidental and with someone else’s gun. Your real dad would deliberately murder anyone who meant you harm if he had to. And you know he’d go to jail for it, too, because he doesn’t have the superhero-like legal prowess of your TV dad.
If it seems like your real dad is having trouble between the actor who plays your dad on a TV show and the character in that TV show, it’s only because he worries that if the line is blurry to him, to your tiny mind it must be this awesome package of shiny warm model-pretty brightly-lit fatherhood with which your actual father can’t even begin to compete, and that scares him. Scared being something your real dad gets sometimes, and not in a dramatic way that shades and complicates his character; just insecure and scared.
And if you might be asking, if my real dad was so worried about losing my affection to a TV dad, why did he even put me in a situation where I would have a TV dad? And the honest answer is that he and your real mother needed the money. And if you think compromising you for money is a weakness only your real dad has, I heard some guys from the writing staff say that in Season Five your TV dad is going to sell you to another family to pay off his gambling debts. So there.
A couple days ago I was hit with the inexplicable urge to hear that song "Like The Deserts Miss The Rain," and I should've known right then it was time for a haircut, because that is one of those songs that is pretty much always playing in Supercuts for some reason.
To wit: when I was in Supercuts getting a haircut tonight, that song came on.
A couple days after I get a haircut I always look like I'm splitting the difference between Prince Valiant and Florence Henderson. I'd post pictures like indie girls on LiveJournal so you could all go "OMG 2 CUTE!" but A) I don't have a camera B) my comments don't work C) I don't think Rilo Kiley is very good.
Snakes On A Plane used to be a fun idea, but now it has become like when a teacher tries to be in on the joke: even if they sorta get the joke, their trying to insert themselves just makes the whole enterprise icky, wrong, and no fun anymore.
That is why I'm joining the rest of the UCB community in throwing my weight behind the thinking person's bad movie of summer 2006: Little Man.
(Although I like the idea that the producers of An Inconvenient Truth caught wind of some ironic buzz building behind their movie and made Al Gore go back and do reshoots to really ham it up, including him screaming the line "Get this motherfucking warming off my motherfucking globe!")
Some slang terms I'm trying to launch into the slangosphere this month. You can help!
Douchefactor - A variant on "douchebag." A guy in a white baseball cap with an Incubus t-shirt who drunkenly kicks over trash-cans as he stumbles down the street could be said to be a Douchefactor. Could also be used to rate the amount of jagoffs in a given social situation, IE: "The douchefactor in this party is around a seven or an eight."
Awksford - A situation so awkward it is practically like attending a stuffy British university.
Donald, Dom and I are also trying to figure out a term for people who are more attractive in pictures than they are in real life. If you know of a pre-existing term, or are part of a think tank that has already come up with several possibilities, please send them to derrickcomedy at gmail dot com.
I know I'm probably pretty late to the bandwagon, but Guitar Hero for the PS2 is the best thing anyone has ever experienced, ever. Dan and Dominic have it, and I think I'm going to live at their place from now on.
My latent passion for video games combined with the constant niggling suspicion that I should've learned the guitar somewhere along the line.
It's not something I can control.
My blog was down for some time today.
I suspect a secret cabal of multinational corporations, shadow governments, and the Catholic Church was attempting to keep the public from hearing my thoughts on ice cream and television shows.
If the question is "Do I really need one and a half pints of Reese's Peanut Butter Cup ice cream I am going to eat by myself while watching The Shield on DVD?" then it turns out the answer is "ROCK!"
Also: Asking for a plastic spoon is a good way to let the deli guy know you do not have your own silverware and are therefore not a Real Person.
Also: When you ask for the spoon and the deli guy says "Just one?" Saying "yes" doesn't necessarily imply you're a loser with nobody to share ice cream with, it could be that you have one person you're intimate enough with to share an ice-cream spoon with, and it being 2 AM, maybe you just boned that person, or are en route to boning.
It doesn't mean you ARE any of those things. It's not about what your actual life is like, though, it's about what the deli guy thinks your life is like.
Through some bizarre twist of fate I got to fly back from Phoenix first class this morning.
It was, as I always imagined, awesome.
Among the highlights:
Coach has flight attendants, first class still has stewardesses. The difference is, stewardesses are universally attractive in a 60's Bond movie kind of way, and welcome, nay, encourage objectification. I obliged by tossing around the words "toots" and "dollface" a lot. They obliged me obliging by bring martini after martini, which, instead of making me drunk, made me swanky. So swanky a man next to me offered me a job as a superspy in a particularly sexy province of the USSR, which, in first class, still exists. I declined because I have an allergy to needlessly elaborate spy-killing devices.
We were allowed to smoke, provided we lit our cigars or cigarettes with paper money. I didn't have any (you don't get excited about being in first class if you're already rich) so the stewardess was more than happy to provide me with some of the airlines' currency. Apparently the airline prints its own money, available only to first class passengers. You can also use it to make purchases out of the AirMall magazine, which is not called AirMall because it is a catalog for planes, but rather, because it is a catalog (again, first-class only) where you can buy the rights to the elements, such as Air, Water, and Fire. I briefly considered buying The Ether, but thought better of it.
My favorite part was when the stewardess brought around a tray of peasants for us to crush beneath our guilded bootheels. People who didn't already have gilded bootheels were offered free pairs, much like coach passengers are offered headsets to watch the inflight movie.
Speaking of which: the first class inflight movie was "A Summer's Passing," a two-hour scene of Mariah Carey having sex with a polar bear. I was informed by a tycoon two seats over that the rich have come to consider themselves above such proletariat-bait as plot and character, and have come to prefer a series of films, available only to the super-wealthy, of starlets fucking endangered species. Not that it gratifies them sexually, but rather, because they can tell the starlet exchanged her dignity for a great deal of money, which they find comical, and because the endangered species remind them of the rugs they have back home.
Anyway, the gilded bootheels were free for the asking, so besides my own, I took a pair for my wife, a wealthy, frigid dowager, and my mistress, a chorus girl who I will soon try to turn into an opera singer just to prove that I can. Not that I have either of these things in the real world, but all one-time first-class passengers are provided with a dossier of a rich person they should pretend to be for the rest of the flight. This is so they can engage in polite conversation with other first-classers without molesting their delicate ears with talk of such foreign concepts as Going Outside Without An Entourage of Courtiers, Coming By Money Through Means Other Than Inheritance, and Work.
I did meet one woman in first class who told me she'd rather I told her about my real, poor life, as she found it lurid and exotic. She then asked to feel my hand, which she said physical labor had clearly made as hard and calloused as the underbelly of a Komodo Dragon. When I asked how she'd know how their underbellies felt, exactly, she replied that she fucked one on camera one time, how else did I think she got the money to fly first class everywhere?
I responded to reading an article on internet addiction by telling myself I should stop looking at the internet and go take a shower, but instead I friend-requested ten people to DERRICK's myspace.
Speaking of which, be DERRICK's friend on myspace.
Speaking of which, I'm in Arizona for a wedding until Tuesday.
I've been signed to a multi-million dollar recording contract to cut my long-awaited hip hop opus. Now all I need is a rapper name. Among the ones I'm considering:
Purrhaps 2 Real
Arthur Killer (My first album will be called "Death Of A Crack Salesman")
Fancy Car Enthusiast
Tuppence (This rap persona will fuse 50 Cent with a Dickensian orphan)
President Of Your Ass
Cellblock ME! (This one is a crossover with this list)
DUDE. My summer dorm is across the street from a church, and apparently every. Fucking. Day at noon the bell tolls the hour and then proceeds to go into a ten-minute tune.
This is a problem. This represents an outmoded, morningcentric view of the universe in which no one could possibly be awoken by an obnoxious bellsong at noon because everyone has already been up for hours being productive.
Well I'm most productive during the hours of 10 PM - 6 AM, and I don't like being made to feel less about it, especially by a five-story Gothic monument.
Come on. You don't pay the man to conform to your archaic argrarian-society-holdover idea about when people should get outta bed. You pay the man to be witty and devastatingly handsome.
Martin Luther nailed 95 theses to the church door. I am going to put up just one. It will read:
I have been compiling possible titles for my inevitable self-aggrandizing autobiography. Here are some of them:
Before And Laughter
Me...Now, Who Do I Know Named Me?
DC, Therefore I Am
Come On In, Me! (I Didn't See Me There)
Two Thousand and Fun: A ME Odyssey!
I've Know Me Since I Was Me-High To A Grasshopper
As Easy As 1, 2, ME!
The Man In The Mirror (Me)
Yesterday, Today, and Tommorrow, and Other Days As Well
Not Guilty Of Triple Homicide (Guilty of Being Me!)
Life And Other Disasters (Like Shipwrecks)
The Constitution Of The United States of A-ME!-rica (previously released as "The Articles of ME!-federation")
Barring today, when I had to get up early to move out of my dorm by noon, I have officially shifted into my summertime dining-hall-is-closed routine, which invovles staying up really abnormally late (probably fucking around on the internet) then sleeping in as late as possible so as to render lunch a moot point (sleep is like eating, but for your eyes) then put off eating as long as I can so whatever meal it ends up being (usually Chipotle) lasts until I have to go to sleep again. The holes in this eating schedule are caulked with peanut butter and the occasional pizza slice.
In this way of doing things, breakfast is so irrelevant it's like a textbook that still has "The USSR" on the map, and lunch is just a fallacy worked up by the food industry to sell more meals to the vulnerable "awake since morning and hungry around noon" demographic. When you don't have money or a kitchen, and you aren't very sensible, there is only The One Great Meal. It is taken in a place where you can refill your soda several times and sit by the window and read your book. It is enjoyed on a level unfathomable to the decadent Two or Three-Mealers.
Sure, you could wake up at eight in the morning and work a job that would make you money with which to buy multiple meals a day, but then you might as well just take your white Chipotle napkin, run it up the straw sticking out of your drink, and surrender. Better to work once a twice or week at your bartending or babysitting job, do lots of comedy, and spend the intervening times either sleeping, dicking around on the internet, or sitting in the park reading; and doing all these things with the quiet satisfaction that comes from knowing that in a pinch, your torso would make a pretty great xylophone.
So you haven't heard much about it because this is not a Blog For Feelings, but I been going through hell of breakups lately.
There's one one that is under the purview of this blog because it relates to comedy, so here goes.
DERRICK (Donald, Dom, and myself) and Fran are leaving Hammerkatz. This was a decision we reached with everyone else in the group, and there are less than no hard feelings and we all still love each other to death, but it had to happen for a number of reasons. To us, the distinction between DERRICK and Hammerkatz was always very clear, but when you're inviting people to your shows, be they industry or just a cute girl, having a group of three people who are also members of a larger group and both groups are doing more or less the same thing (sketch comedy) even if it's in very different ways, people are inevitably confused. And if you're trying to establish a brand, confusion is a bad look for everybody.
Also, trying to make moves in the industry as Hammerkatz, we'd inevitably encounter the problem of people liking us but not wanting to buy us 'cause there were eight of us. With the group moving forward as a tight four, that shouldn't be an issue anymore. Creating more cohesive, streamlined shows should be easier with just four people in a room as well. I can't wait to see what my boys come up with.
But for all the reasons it's a necessary move professionally, it's still really sad that unless it's a social call, I won't be in the room with these wonderful fuckers on a weekly basis. It will be weird to see a show advertised as "Hammerkatz" and not be involved. Even if everybody involved realizes it's the right thing to do, it still sucks. Just like in a real breakup, the logic of the thing doesn't lessen the pain of it.
These kids are my first memories of college and of the city, they gave me something to do instead of taking naps in my room, we did dirty sketches and college festivals and farted up hotel rooms together. They are the reason that as sad or as self-pitying as I could ever feel, I never felt like I was anything but in exactly the right place at exactly the right time. They are fucking geniuses, and I hope we all have the sort of lives where someday somebody's astounded all these people were in the same room together, because I'm astounded by that now. From here on out I could see them every day and still miss them because it won't be quite the same thing.
Anyway, we had a fucking amazing run of it, and new adventures are coming soon. Among them:
These are a couple of videos Hammerkatz made a couple weeks ago, ostensibly to run on MTVU. That never panned out, but you don't care because you have three or more minutes to kill: Waiver Form (feat. your humble narrator), Saran Wrap (feat. Gregor, Greg).
Greg and Lou are putting up their two person show at UCB on Monday night, should be a gas. It's at 7 PM and it costs five measley bucks. I will be there, bartending. Come on by. Tip a dude.
Pictures, you fucks!
Me looking at Perkins looking at you. Hammerkatz NYU "Last Show Of The Year, EVER" party a week and change ago.
I think this is Donald + I hosting the Hammerkatz NYU Comedy Blockparty a couple weeks ago. Or it could be us in a dress rehearsal for the March show. Certainly only anthropological scholars and Alex who took the picture know for sure.
Daniel in the depths of Tisch before "The Last Show..." This kid is going back to California on Friday which I'm sure is nice for him but is hell on his East Coast constituency, which is large and uniformly good-looking. Also: this single picture got him a deal at Bravo to make a show that's just an hour of Daniel sitting in the house of a theater looking actorly and occasionally sipping coffee.
Microphone=time for mic bits. Steve knows this.
The first draft of "Save The Last Dance" was W-E-I-R-D.
Dispersing crowd after "The Last Show..." See if you can spot: Sime, Miri, Harry, AJ, Sheldon, Gregor, Jessica, Lauren, Emma, Ari. Alex took this.
HKATZNYU had a picnic in Central Park on Sunday afternoon. You could focus on all the beautiful people, some of whom are graduating and will be missed terribly, or you could focus on me looking like a toothless crone who just ate something sour.
One half of the hotly anticipated Living Room Boys.
Shortly after this picture was taken I ascended into Heaven and was seated in the right hand of the Father.
Remember these? Pop culture word-mash-ups that are fun to do sitting around a bar with pals. Mo, Al, Chuck and I did a whole bunch more of 'em the other night 'cause it's better than talking about feelings. Enjoy.
Silent Hill Street Blues Brothers 2000 Flushes
IMDB Sweeney Todd Bridges of Madison County
Rodney King of Queen's Greatest Hits Volume Two And A Half Men
Bush Cassidy and the Sundance Kidney Stone Cold Steve Austin
Katie Couric Ocasek
Nice Guys Finish Last of the Mohicans
Idi Amin Girls
Tiki Barber of Seville
Nikki Sixx Degrees of Seperation
My Cousin Vinny Testaverde
Toronto Blue Jay-Z
Andy Warhol and Oates
Jor-El L Cool J
Come On Aileen On Me So Horny
American Idolph Lundren & Stimpy
Navy Seals & Croft
Billy Crystal Meth
Next Of Kinsey
Vijay Singh Us A Song You're The Piano Manfred Manny Ramirez
Better Than Ezra Poundcake
Gin & Tonic Lachey
Oscar Wilde'n Out
Just Say Nomar Garciaparrapalegic
Bert & Ernie Hudson
Allman Brothers Band of Brothers
D-Doo-Run-Run-DMC & C Music Factoreese Witherspoon
Comic Relief Garrett
The Vagina Monologgins & Messina
Edward James Olmos Def
Stalag Seventeen Wolf
Feel free to play along at home.
I just finished the second draft of a screenplay for class, and after a final on Monday, I will officially have begun what I've christened THE LAST SUMMER OF MY LIFE because it will be my last actual summer vacation bookended by school years, unless I grow a pony-tail and goatee and decide to go to grad school (fuuuuuuck that, and not just because I suck at growing facial hair).
Wouldn't it be crazy if I was killed in a beer-bong accident or a knife fight this summer and my LAST SUMMER OF MY LIFE title proved to be all-too-prophetic?
(Cue spooky music.)
(Then cue the Beach Boys, because it's SUMMER!!!)
(Then cue the spooky music again, because the Beach Boys have donned full-length white sheets and making ghost noises and are asking you to place your hand in a bowl of "eyeballs" which are actually grapes.)
Poets have adequately mapped
The Oceans of Despair
The Depths of Sorrow.
Less attention has been paid to
The Breakfast Nook of Queasiness About Car Insurance
The Archipelago of Wearing The Same Dress As Someone Else At The Party
The Four Way Stop of Going Into A Room and Forgetting What It Was You Needed In There
The Manmade Island of Forgetting Somebody’s Name Immediately After They Tell It To You
The Adult Bookstore of Guilt About Having The Same Thing For Dinner That You Had For Lunch
The Frozen-Over Skating Pond of Feeling Weird Upon Seeing Someone and Then Realizing You Made Out With Them Last Night In A Dream.
Explorers don’t just put the interesting things on the map,
they put everything on the map,
because that’s how you find your way back
to the treasure.
New DERRICK video online @ Youtube: Diet Coke With Lime
Tell your mom!
Dominic is right: the theme of every student-made short film is either
HOMELESS PEOPLE ARE GOLDEN.
And often these themes are expressed with shots of someone in a bathtub.
Friday was the epic Last Show of the Year, Ever for Hammerkatz NYU. I spent most of the day at Dominic and Dan's watching Dom edit the footage Harry and I shot the night before at rehearsal for the show's closing sequence. The boy is raw on some Final Cut: I had some half-baked notions of editing it myself, but he made me look like a chump with his timeline-jockeying and knowledge of fades. If you want your baby to be a non-linear editing maverick, truly this is the man to impregnate you.
The show itself ended up being an unqualified success. We actually got some time in the space to run things like cues, which is a rarity, and the fact that we'd put the show off two weeks meant most of the sketches were more polished than usual. The interstitial bits were a mix of time travel nonsense, rousing monologues underscored by Bruckheimer music, and poop jokes. The storyline culminated with the graduating seniors having to replace their alternate-universe selves in other dimensions in order to keep reality from collapsing in on itself. It turns out when you combine that with the Sufjan Stevens jawn "Vito's Ordination Song," you can get people in the audience to cry, and then applaud.
I've been gifted to work with these boys and girl so close for the past three years, to share the stage with them put words in their mouths and tell them where to stand and stuff. It was nice to not be onstage enough in this show to be able to sit in the back of the house and soak them up as they absolutely killed the crowd. They are geniuses and brilliance personified and all that other hyperbole, but the best thing I can say about them is they are fucking STRONG. Strong, willful, balls-out fucking performers in the word's most honorable sense. I didn't have time to get drunk enough at the party afterward to tell them so in no uncertain terms and at embarrassing length. But it's not like I won't see them again. We got plans.
Saturday I had the long-planned In Bed All Day day I've been meaning to have for a minute. I worked on Saturday night. The most I will say there is that hell is for people who don't tip. Every time you fold up your change and shove it in your pocket without peeling off a measley single, you are effectively putting that money in the hands of the ferryman on the River Styx to take you to damnation that much quicker. You are fucking up my money, you non-tipping person, and I need that money for burritos, pizza, socks, and beers while I scheme on ways to get paid MORE money for making up funny shit with my friends. But in the meantime, every dollar not in the tip-bucket is a little less Chipotle in my stomach.
But don't do it for me. Do it for your everlasting soul.
By the time I got off work it was too late to go to Helen's much-anticipated Brooklyn shindig, which I was bummed about. Apparently it was the jam.
Tonight was a night for gentlemen of leisure. Daniel and Meggie prepared a killer home-cooked meal such as can only be prepared by an almost-graduated LA-transplant actor and the girl who produced the Aspen-winning short he played a ninja in. Daniel made liver (which I'd never had before: mmmm.) encrusted with something delicious that featured bacon, and these brussel sprouts that make you want to go back to your six year old self and say "You're an idiot for not liking brussel sprouts," and Meggie made the ill macaroni and cheese and a dessert that invovled bananas, whipped cream, and Oreos. It was powerful. Eckman and I did our parts by eating and being terrifically complimentary. We watched "Sopranos." My two-week-old red wine itch didn't get scratched because I had to write some script later, and it's hard for me to look at things on the internet to distract myself from writing if I'm drunk. Meggie complimented my dish-doing. My mama ain't raise no fool.
Oh man I can't even tell you how excited I am about:
So excited that I even made 'em up a gmail account and a youtube account and that hastily assembled graphic. It probably also had a lot to do with procrastinating on that script I was (and still am) supposed to be writing.
Look for videos from these handsome knucklefucks to be coming real soon.