Because I wrote one professionally.
Thursdays I blog for aol.com and soon I'll be blogging for a brand new venture (that cannot be named in public until Oct. 1). When I write for these sites, instead of giving y'all a semi-effort, I'll redirect you to those articles.
Hope you enjoy!
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
A new Manifest Destiny
If you'll remember from high school history class, Manifest Destiny was essentially an excuse to kill Native Americans (and then steal their land). See, 19th century folk figured that God (or God using one of his cool nicknames, like "Providence") _wanted_ the United States to be a bi-coastal country.
Of course that's ridiculous. Any being worthy of an adjective like "supreme" would no be worried about how many oceans a newly formed country bordered.
Manifest Destiny was a clever name for a hard reality: The US was going to become a bi-coastal country either way, so we might as well acknowledge it (and do what we always do: claim that God is behind the whole thing). Arguments against western expansion were silly because anyone looking at a map -- or a population survey of the Native Americans living in the west -- could see that the US was going to expand, violently if necessary. Once that expansion was given rock 'em sock 'em name like MD, any lingering arguments -- moral or political -- dried up.
"Listen," the proponents of MD were saying, "it's going to happen no matter what and further, God wants it to happen! So, stop your whining, grab a gun, and go start killing indians! I'll be in the van."
I think it's time that we took Manifest Destiny out of the slogan closet, dusted it off, and brought it back into popular usage. There are some things that we all know are going to happen eventually and that anybody resisting those things are going to be proved wrong. Bringing them under the MD umbrella seems, to me, a wise move; doing so will hasten their acceptance and, more importantly, when people of the future look back on the early 21st century, they'll credit this blog as being the starting point for the revolution. It's a slam-dunk that somebody builds a statue of me, which, as you know, would be awesome.
Here is my proposal for the new Manifest Destiny:
1. Gay people are people. There is nothing different about them except where they like to put their private parts. The linguistic dancing people are doing now ("Civil Union!") is about as retarded as the last time tried this ("Separate but Equal!").
2. The Scientific Method isn't a "theory". It's a way of looking at the world that has led to things like the toilet, the computer, and the Mangroomer back-hair shaver. If the Scientific Method should happen to contradict your religious beliefs it's not because the Method is flawed; stop attacking it and use this crisis of faith to win some more brownie points with whatever God you're afraid you're pissing off.
3. There is no such thing as Race. In fact, in the entire classification system you'll remember from sophomore Bio, the only hard and fast rule is for species (if you can bang it and it produces a child, it's part of your species). Race and Subspecies (and indeed, the larger groupings like Family and Phylum) are all pretty much guesses based on how you look. You'll of course notice that people look different (and there should be no harm in pointing that out), but trying to classify what those differences "mean" is silly.
4. Men and women are biologically different. The most negative lasting element of 60s Feminism is the belief that men and women are completely equal in all ways. Instead of focusing all of their efforts on political equality, there was an unfathomable push to make people believe in biological equality as well. We all know this is false from the time we're two years old. We need to accept the biological differences between us (while maintaining the political equality!) and restructure our post-feminist world to best suit the needs of both men and women.
So now that I have three (count 'em THREE!) readers, I can ask for comments and not look like a crazy person. What would you add to the new Manifest Destiny? What are things that we know, in our hearts, is true (and that will no doubt be accepted by everyone in the coming decades) but that there are pockets of silly resistance to presently?
Of course that's ridiculous. Any being worthy of an adjective like "supreme" would no be worried about how many oceans a newly formed country bordered.
Manifest Destiny was a clever name for a hard reality: The US was going to become a bi-coastal country either way, so we might as well acknowledge it (and do what we always do: claim that God is behind the whole thing). Arguments against western expansion were silly because anyone looking at a map -- or a population survey of the Native Americans living in the west -- could see that the US was going to expand, violently if necessary. Once that expansion was given rock 'em sock 'em name like MD, any lingering arguments -- moral or political -- dried up.
"Listen," the proponents of MD were saying, "it's going to happen no matter what and further, God wants it to happen! So, stop your whining, grab a gun, and go start killing indians! I'll be in the van."
I think it's time that we took Manifest Destiny out of the slogan closet, dusted it off, and brought it back into popular usage. There are some things that we all know are going to happen eventually and that anybody resisting those things are going to be proved wrong. Bringing them under the MD umbrella seems, to me, a wise move; doing so will hasten their acceptance and, more importantly, when people of the future look back on the early 21st century, they'll credit this blog as being the starting point for the revolution. It's a slam-dunk that somebody builds a statue of me, which, as you know, would be awesome.
Here is my proposal for the new Manifest Destiny:
1. Gay people are people. There is nothing different about them except where they like to put their private parts. The linguistic dancing people are doing now ("Civil Union!") is about as retarded as the last time tried this ("Separate but Equal!").
2. The Scientific Method isn't a "theory". It's a way of looking at the world that has led to things like the toilet, the computer, and the Mangroomer back-hair shaver. If the Scientific Method should happen to contradict your religious beliefs it's not because the Method is flawed; stop attacking it and use this crisis of faith to win some more brownie points with whatever God you're afraid you're pissing off.
3. There is no such thing as Race. In fact, in the entire classification system you'll remember from sophomore Bio, the only hard and fast rule is for species (if you can bang it and it produces a child, it's part of your species). Race and Subspecies (and indeed, the larger groupings like Family and Phylum) are all pretty much guesses based on how you look. You'll of course notice that people look different (and there should be no harm in pointing that out), but trying to classify what those differences "mean" is silly.
4. Men and women are biologically different. The most negative lasting element of 60s Feminism is the belief that men and women are completely equal in all ways. Instead of focusing all of their efforts on political equality, there was an unfathomable push to make people believe in biological equality as well. We all know this is false from the time we're two years old. We need to accept the biological differences between us (while maintaining the political equality!) and restructure our post-feminist world to best suit the needs of both men and women.
So now that I have three (count 'em THREE!) readers, I can ask for comments and not look like a crazy person. What would you add to the new Manifest Destiny? What are things that we know, in our hearts, is true (and that will no doubt be accepted by everyone in the coming decades) but that there are pockets of silly resistance to presently?
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
"All I want is a guy with a sense of humor"
I often say in my act that the biggest lie a woman tells in her lifetime is that she thinks a sense of humor is a sexy thing for a man to have. I say this because if that were true my being a professional comedian should have led me to being neck deep in a poontang avalanche by now.
It gets a laugh because there's a central truth to it: I am _very_ funny and yet _very_ few of the women in the room are attracted to me. Since I'm not a hunchback, the only reasonable conclusion is that women are lying when they talk about how hot the ha-has make them.
Of course, like a lot of "truths" in my act, I'm simplifying the situation.
It occurred to me today that the problem is that there are two types of funny: the kind that turns women on, and the kind that makes me money.
I think it's fair to say that heterosexual women want from their man one thing above all else: comfort. If you talk to a hundred women and ask them the best feeling in the world, 99 of them will say it's being wrapped, snug and secure in the arms of the man she loves (the other one will say "penis... rock hard penis"). I think when women talk about "funny", what they're really talking about is "comfort".
The average dude can do comfort funny pretty easy. All you have to do is take an uncomfortable situation and make the dumbest, most obvious joke about it. "Don't worry about Sarah at the office... she's a bitch!" To which the woman giggles and says, "you're so bad!" before they fall into sloppy unprotected sex on the kitchen floor.
There's nothing original there but it makes her feel better. That's the sense of humor women want when they talk about their turn ons.
Comedians do the opposite of comfort humor. Usually what a comic does is take an uncomfortable truth, paint some happy shiny colors on it, then present it to the world. It's funny -- indeed, funny enough that if you're good at it, you can make a living doing it -- but it's not _sexy_, because it's _not comforting_.
That, I think, is why, after I have a particularly good set, I'm not mobbed by a line of willing females each more hopeful than the next that I might bestow on them a sexual experience that has come to be known as "The Jay Black 24 Second Special."
Of course, this could all be bunk. Maybe I'm just hunchback ugly and no one has had the guts to tell me...
It gets a laugh because there's a central truth to it: I am _very_ funny and yet _very_ few of the women in the room are attracted to me. Since I'm not a hunchback, the only reasonable conclusion is that women are lying when they talk about how hot the ha-has make them.
Of course, like a lot of "truths" in my act, I'm simplifying the situation.
It occurred to me today that the problem is that there are two types of funny: the kind that turns women on, and the kind that makes me money.
I think it's fair to say that heterosexual women want from their man one thing above all else: comfort. If you talk to a hundred women and ask them the best feeling in the world, 99 of them will say it's being wrapped, snug and secure in the arms of the man she loves (the other one will say "penis... rock hard penis"). I think when women talk about "funny", what they're really talking about is "comfort".
The average dude can do comfort funny pretty easy. All you have to do is take an uncomfortable situation and make the dumbest, most obvious joke about it. "Don't worry about Sarah at the office... she's a bitch!" To which the woman giggles and says, "you're so bad!" before they fall into sloppy unprotected sex on the kitchen floor.
There's nothing original there but it makes her feel better. That's the sense of humor women want when they talk about their turn ons.
Comedians do the opposite of comfort humor. Usually what a comic does is take an uncomfortable truth, paint some happy shiny colors on it, then present it to the world. It's funny -- indeed, funny enough that if you're good at it, you can make a living doing it -- but it's not _sexy_, because it's _not comforting_.
That, I think, is why, after I have a particularly good set, I'm not mobbed by a line of willing females each more hopeful than the next that I might bestow on them a sexual experience that has come to be known as "The Jay Black 24 Second Special."
Of course, this could all be bunk. Maybe I'm just hunchback ugly and no one has had the guts to tell me...
Now I have two readers!/Clay Aiken/My economic bailout plan
So, on Monday I had one reader. By Tuesday I had two readers. I've done some conservative readership estimates based on the current trends and I think I can predict with some degree of confidence that I'll have 549,755,813,888 readers by Halloween. I'm excited because that's 100x the number of people currently living on the earth, so, you know, I'll be pretty popular. I think it might behoove me at that point to get some google ads.
--
Clay Aiken is gay! And... the world shrugs. I personally think the bigger news is that Clay Aiken thought that there were people who didn't know that he was gay. Seriously, you tell me which is the more surprising headline:
1. Clay Aiken gay.
2. Clay Aiken hardcore heterosexual sex tape found! Sex-crazed maniac Aiken the new Charlie Sheen says Hollywood madam who supplied Aiken with his never-ending supply of barely-legal girls!
Yeah, I thought so.
--
If you've been reading my other posts, you're aware that I've been keeping a wary eye on Wall Street for the last few weeks. See, for whatever reason, I've been worried since i was a kid that there might one day be another Great Depression (my other worries as a kid: nuclear war, the dying of our sun, and/or a highly contagious fast spreading super-virus killing everyone -- incidentally, I was not a very happy kid). As the world economy teeters and our leaders try to decide the best course of action by letting a monkey point randomly at 1930s economics textbook, I find myself as worried as I've ever been. For all my joking about it, I'm legitimately afraid of what the next few years might bring.
It's starting to get ridiculous. I've got a life to lead; it's stupid for me to worry about decisions that I can't control and whose impact on my daily life is hard to parse even with an economics degree. It's like worrying what Scarlett Johansen will think of my penis.
This, then, is how I plan to cope with my worry: I'm going to stop paying attention to it.
That's right, I'm taking an "ignorance is bliss" policy regarding all the world's problems. I figure, shit, if it works for our president, it's good enough for me.
From now on, no more stock ticker, no more CNBC, no more Drudge report. Further, you won't be getting any more updates from me via this blog about our impending economic disaster. So far as my brain is concerned, the only thing in this world is talking about is Clay Aiken's sexuality.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find me a fiddle to play.
--
Clay Aiken is gay! And... the world shrugs. I personally think the bigger news is that Clay Aiken thought that there were people who didn't know that he was gay. Seriously, you tell me which is the more surprising headline:
1. Clay Aiken gay.
2. Clay Aiken hardcore heterosexual sex tape found! Sex-crazed maniac Aiken the new Charlie Sheen says Hollywood madam who supplied Aiken with his never-ending supply of barely-legal girls!
Yeah, I thought so.
--
If you've been reading my other posts, you're aware that I've been keeping a wary eye on Wall Street for the last few weeks. See, for whatever reason, I've been worried since i was a kid that there might one day be another Great Depression (my other worries as a kid: nuclear war, the dying of our sun, and/or a highly contagious fast spreading super-virus killing everyone -- incidentally, I was not a very happy kid). As the world economy teeters and our leaders try to decide the best course of action by letting a monkey point randomly at 1930s economics textbook, I find myself as worried as I've ever been. For all my joking about it, I'm legitimately afraid of what the next few years might bring.
It's starting to get ridiculous. I've got a life to lead; it's stupid for me to worry about decisions that I can't control and whose impact on my daily life is hard to parse even with an economics degree. It's like worrying what Scarlett Johansen will think of my penis.
This, then, is how I plan to cope with my worry: I'm going to stop paying attention to it.
That's right, I'm taking an "ignorance is bliss" policy regarding all the world's problems. I figure, shit, if it works for our president, it's good enough for me.
From now on, no more stock ticker, no more CNBC, no more Drudge report. Further, you won't be getting any more updates from me via this blog about our impending economic disaster. So far as my brain is concerned, the only thing in this world is talking about is Clay Aiken's sexuality.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go find me a fiddle to play.
Monday, September 22, 2008
To Megan, quite possibly my only reader
Just got your comment on my God is Pro-life? post and figured I'd write you a thank you. Originally, I was going to reply to just the comment on that particular post, but I figured that would be kind of like pulling someone aside to tell them a secret in a giant, empty auditorium. It's not like anyone else is listening, right?
Thanks much for the encouragement. I've been trying to be semi-regular in updating this thing and it's nice to know that there's at least one person out there reading this stuff. For a while writing for it felt like masturbation in the truest, saddest sense of the word.
So, for you, Megan, quite possibly my only reader, I will continue this half-dead dog of a blog!
Thanks much for the encouragement. I've been trying to be semi-regular in updating this thing and it's nice to know that there's at least one person out there reading this stuff. For a while writing for it felt like masturbation in the truest, saddest sense of the word.
So, for you, Megan, quite possibly my only reader, I will continue this half-dead dog of a blog!
Friday, September 19, 2008
"God is Pro-Life"
I've been seeing a lot of this slogan lately. The anti-abortion crowd seems to think that just because they're more religious than the average pro-choicer, God is on their side in the abortion debate.
I'm not a religious person, so I can't claim to have any special insight into the mind of God. Just judging from His track record, however, I don't think you can say that God is pro-life. In fact, I think you'd have to say that God is pro-death.
Think about it: every living thing on this planet will soon die. In order for we humans to even live the brief time that we _do_ get on this planet, we have to engage in at least a little killing (even vegetarians need pesticide!) And, finally, if you believe George Bush Jr., the war in Iraq was God's idea in the first place.
No, God likes death. A lot of it.
Even if you make the argument that God is also responsible for life (you know, by creating it, if you're so inclined to believe that sort of thing), you can only convince me that God is neutral on the subject of life and death. If He was so in favor of keeping things alive, He never would have invented arsenic or lightening or forest fires or cancer or winchester rifles or turbulence or any other way in which people die.
So, might I humbly suggest anti-abortionists to cut it out with the whole God thing? I mean, until He communicates to me directly (through an image on a piece of toast) precisely what His feelings are with regards to abortion, I can't take your opinions on the subject seriously.
I'm not a religious person, so I can't claim to have any special insight into the mind of God. Just judging from His track record, however, I don't think you can say that God is pro-life. In fact, I think you'd have to say that God is pro-death.
Think about it: every living thing on this planet will soon die. In order for we humans to even live the brief time that we _do_ get on this planet, we have to engage in at least a little killing (even vegetarians need pesticide!) And, finally, if you believe George Bush Jr., the war in Iraq was God's idea in the first place.
No, God likes death. A lot of it.
Even if you make the argument that God is also responsible for life (you know, by creating it, if you're so inclined to believe that sort of thing), you can only convince me that God is neutral on the subject of life and death. If He was so in favor of keeping things alive, He never would have invented arsenic or lightening or forest fires or cancer or winchester rifles or turbulence or any other way in which people die.
So, might I humbly suggest anti-abortionists to cut it out with the whole God thing? I mean, until He communicates to me directly (through an image on a piece of toast) precisely what His feelings are with regards to abortion, I can't take your opinions on the subject seriously.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Live from the dungeons below Boston
Sometimes I'm not sure the how and the why of where I wind up in stand-up comedy.
My schedule this week looks like this:
Monday: Wooster, OH
Tuesday: Greensburg, PA (morning); Edinboro, PA (evening)
Wednesday: Sharon, PA (morning); Boston, MA (evening)
Thursday: Altoona, PA
Friday: Erie, PA
Anything look out of place?
Yeah, so, this is what happened: my agent got me into the Boston comedy festival. I agreed to it because, hey, I've always wanted to be in the Boston Comedy festival and it's a good credit feather to put in your hat. It screwed up my fairly beautiful routing, but I'm a mountain man, so I toughed it out.
Now it's after my showcase and I'm at the airport. Why? Because I have a 6 AM flight, which would necessitate a 4:30 AM arrival at the airport. That means that if I were to get a room at 10 PM, I'd be paying $200 for what amounts to 6 hours of sleep (assuming that I fall asleep instantly upon arrival in the room). I'm not paying $35 an hour for anything that doesn't end in a handjob. So, douchebag (me) decided the best course of action would be to stay in the airport for 8 hours and just "hang out." I'm currently seated across from the US Air baggage claim in Terminal B wondering if now would be a good time to start a crystal meth addiction.
I had a good time in Boston and met a lot of good guys. I plan to come back next year... unless of course, Wall Street keeps sliding towards oblivion. If things keep going in _that_ direction, I and the rest of the comics at tonight's show will be scavenging the wilderness for carrion meat. If the internet's infrastructure isn't pulled from the ground during the coming food riots, please stop by this blog next year and see how everything turned out.
My schedule this week looks like this:
Monday: Wooster, OH
Tuesday: Greensburg, PA (morning); Edinboro, PA (evening)
Wednesday: Sharon, PA (morning); Boston, MA (evening)
Thursday: Altoona, PA
Friday: Erie, PA
Anything look out of place?
Yeah, so, this is what happened: my agent got me into the Boston comedy festival. I agreed to it because, hey, I've always wanted to be in the Boston Comedy festival and it's a good credit feather to put in your hat. It screwed up my fairly beautiful routing, but I'm a mountain man, so I toughed it out.
Now it's after my showcase and I'm at the airport. Why? Because I have a 6 AM flight, which would necessitate a 4:30 AM arrival at the airport. That means that if I were to get a room at 10 PM, I'd be paying $200 for what amounts to 6 hours of sleep (assuming that I fall asleep instantly upon arrival in the room). I'm not paying $35 an hour for anything that doesn't end in a handjob. So, douchebag (me) decided the best course of action would be to stay in the airport for 8 hours and just "hang out." I'm currently seated across from the US Air baggage claim in Terminal B wondering if now would be a good time to start a crystal meth addiction.
I had a good time in Boston and met a lot of good guys. I plan to come back next year... unless of course, Wall Street keeps sliding towards oblivion. If things keep going in _that_ direction, I and the rest of the comics at tonight's show will be scavenging the wilderness for carrion meat. If the internet's infrastructure isn't pulled from the ground during the coming food riots, please stop by this blog next year and see how everything turned out.
The Express/AIG
I've been seeing commercials for "The Express" about Ernie Davis. It looks okay, I guess, but is anyone else having period-piece-sports-movies-with-heavy-racial-overtones burnout? I mean, I'm _against_ the Confederate Flag, _for_ black athletes getting along with white athletes, and very much in favor of kickass 60s soundtracks. This movie should be right up my alley, but I just can't help feeling like I've seen this movie a thousand times before.
UPDATE:
The world financial markets did _not_ crash completely last night, which means that the world did _not_ collapse into a post-apocalyptic doomsday scenario. This is good news for me as I spent the night in Ohio and would not have liked to kicked off Armageddon there. You want to be home for that kind of thing.
I'm not sure what to think about the AIG bailout. Is it good? Is it just a stop-gap? I'm beginning to get the feeling that the people at the Fed don't know either. I think they've never seen anything like this market and are approaching it like I used to approach text adventures back in the 80s... random guesses. If you see Bernanke trying to spray the CEO of AIG with Grue repellant, head for ze hills.
Hopefully things will get better from here. If not, I suggest you pick up Cormack McCarthy's _The Road_. Not for entertainment purposes, but for a practical guide in how to get along in the years to come.
UPDATE:
The world financial markets did _not_ crash completely last night, which means that the world did _not_ collapse into a post-apocalyptic doomsday scenario. This is good news for me as I spent the night in Ohio and would not have liked to kicked off Armageddon there. You want to be home for that kind of thing.
I'm not sure what to think about the AIG bailout. Is it good? Is it just a stop-gap? I'm beginning to get the feeling that the people at the Fed don't know either. I think they've never seen anything like this market and are approaching it like I used to approach text adventures back in the 80s... random guesses. If you see Bernanke trying to spray the CEO of AIG with Grue repellant, head for ze hills.
Hopefully things will get better from here. If not, I suggest you pick up Cormack McCarthy's _The Road_. Not for entertainment purposes, but for a practical guide in how to get along in the years to come.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Apples anyone?
Just practicing for the inevitable. "Apples! Get your apples here! Tasty tasty apples."
You know how annoyed I am that I spent a night following a good show in Wooster reading thousands of words about AIG, liquidity and something called "counterparties"? Apparently the entire financial world is going straight down to shitsville and there are approximately four people in the entire world that even know why.
That's the disturbing thing about this: that people are going to lose their homes and have their lives ruined for reasons that no person on the planet can actually articulate. At least on 12/07/41 and 09/11/01 there was an enemy we could point at. This crisis might affect the day to day lives of the average American just as much as 9/11 did, but for mysterious voodoo economic reasons.
I mean, if you're gonna punch me, punch me. Don't ruin my life with financial magic.
I wrote earlier (like months earlier, but I reread the whole blog today, so it feels fresh to me) that having a kid makes you more connected to the universe and thus more scared about its outcome. God is that true. I feel it today. I was born with the idea that one day I could grow up to be anything I wanted (like professional dick joke teller or Extra pop culture correspondent), but will I be able to tell my son the same thing?
It's starting to look less likely, huh?
That's why I'm rooting for Obama this year. The Republicans dismiss him as a Hope Peddler and nothing more. Well, you know what? That's all I want right now.
You know how annoyed I am that I spent a night following a good show in Wooster reading thousands of words about AIG, liquidity and something called "counterparties"? Apparently the entire financial world is going straight down to shitsville and there are approximately four people in the entire world that even know why.
That's the disturbing thing about this: that people are going to lose their homes and have their lives ruined for reasons that no person on the planet can actually articulate. At least on 12/07/41 and 09/11/01 there was an enemy we could point at. This crisis might affect the day to day lives of the average American just as much as 9/11 did, but for mysterious voodoo economic reasons.
I mean, if you're gonna punch me, punch me. Don't ruin my life with financial magic.
I wrote earlier (like months earlier, but I reread the whole blog today, so it feels fresh to me) that having a kid makes you more connected to the universe and thus more scared about its outcome. God is that true. I feel it today. I was born with the idea that one day I could grow up to be anything I wanted (like professional dick joke teller or Extra pop culture correspondent), but will I be able to tell my son the same thing?
It's starting to look less likely, huh?
That's why I'm rooting for Obama this year. The Republicans dismiss him as a Hope Peddler and nothing more. Well, you know what? That's all I want right now.
Monday, September 15, 2008
Jay Black: Extra Pop Culture Commentator
So, today I started side-career #41 and had my first ever pop culture comment on Extra television. I haven't seen myself on TV yet because in Cleveland (where I'm kinda-sorta at tonight), Extra doesn't air until the wee hours of the morning.
Some highlights of the experience so far:
1. Setting up a full blown digital camera in my hotel room. Because my wife destroyed our MacBook with nothing more than a spilled glass of water (*sigh*), I was forced to film the piece using a tripod, mini-DV camera, and computer. After I did the piece, I looked at the set-up, with the camera pointed at the bed, and I realized that it looked like I had filmed a snuff film in my hotel room. I'm glad housekeeping didn't walk in by accident and start demanding where the dead hitchhiker was.
2. I got to talk to Mario Lopez (Slater) because he was hosting the segment. Do you know what this means? It means that I've gotten to appear on TV with _both_ Slater and Screech. I'm 1/3rd of the way to completing Saved by the Bell bingo.
3. With my ascension into the ranks of television pop-culture commentators, I've officially tipped the US Economy to being almost entirely run by a) the creation of pop culture and b) the commenting on said pop culture. You were wondering what followed the Information Economy? The Pop Culture Commentary Economy, that's what.
4. I got to work with my good friend, Producer Steve Sunshine. He's a great guy and I hope to do a million more of these things for him. It was a lot of fun.
If Extra hasn't aired in your neck of the woods yet and, for some strange reason you decided to check a blog that hasn't been updated in three months today, I urge you to go and watch the episode. If not, let's hope there'll be more of these for me to write about.
Some highlights of the experience so far:
1. Setting up a full blown digital camera in my hotel room. Because my wife destroyed our MacBook with nothing more than a spilled glass of water (*sigh*), I was forced to film the piece using a tripod, mini-DV camera, and computer. After I did the piece, I looked at the set-up, with the camera pointed at the bed, and I realized that it looked like I had filmed a snuff film in my hotel room. I'm glad housekeeping didn't walk in by accident and start demanding where the dead hitchhiker was.
2. I got to talk to Mario Lopez (Slater) because he was hosting the segment. Do you know what this means? It means that I've gotten to appear on TV with _both_ Slater and Screech. I'm 1/3rd of the way to completing Saved by the Bell bingo.
3. With my ascension into the ranks of television pop-culture commentators, I've officially tipped the US Economy to being almost entirely run by a) the creation of pop culture and b) the commenting on said pop culture. You were wondering what followed the Information Economy? The Pop Culture Commentary Economy, that's what.
4. I got to work with my good friend, Producer Steve Sunshine. He's a great guy and I hope to do a million more of these things for him. It was a lot of fun.
If Extra hasn't aired in your neck of the woods yet and, for some strange reason you decided to check a blog that hasn't been updated in three months today, I urge you to go and watch the episode. If not, let's hope there'll be more of these for me to write about.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
My least favorite people on earth...
Okay, drumroll....
My least favorite people on earth are...
(And remember, this includes an earth with George W. Bush, Karl Rove, and the producers of "Farmer Wants a Wife")
... the subscribers to The Onion's "Personals" section.
I don't read personals as I'm married and am therefore dead inside, but from what I understand about them, they're usually reserved as a last resort for sad people desperately looking for other sad people to share their holiday depressions with. I'm fine with that. Seriously, in this world, connect with people however you can.
The Onion personals are not regular personals though. Because I read The Onion I get a daily glimpse into the kind of people who are looking for love via headshots and pithy paragraphs. Here's why I hate them:
1. They're all basically attractive people. I've yet to see one fat Onion personal, one ugly Onion personal, or one pock-marked Onion personal. Why do these attractive people need to advertise for love on the internet? It doesn't make any kind of sense to me.
2. They're all hipster-ish. Approximately 98% of the people featured in the Onion personals are wearing Buddy Holly glasses. this shatters the hipster douchebag scale established at the Hipster Summit (held back stage at a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah concert in 2007).
3. They're all desperate to prove how cool they are. One of my least favorite things is the "five things I can't live without" phenomenon, where the text accompanying the headshot is just a list of hipster douchebag essentials. I guess this is a quick way to show others insight into your alternative (yet affluent) lifestyle. Example: Five things I can't live without: The latest album by [insert obscure yet recognizable band name here], My favorite copy of Camus' The Stranger, my cat Angry Sam, my lucky fedora, and a good bottle of [insert little-known brand of Japanese soda here].
Why do these people need the power of the internet to find love? Can't they just walk into the alternative bar in whatever city they're living in and find their perfect someone to share an overpriced loft with? Why am I subjected to their artistic black and white headshots every goddamn day?
So, you know, let's do something about this. And by "do something", I mean a lazy blog entry. There, I've done MY part.
My least favorite people on earth are...
(And remember, this includes an earth with George W. Bush, Karl Rove, and the producers of "Farmer Wants a Wife")
... the subscribers to The Onion's "Personals" section.
I don't read personals as I'm married and am therefore dead inside, but from what I understand about them, they're usually reserved as a last resort for sad people desperately looking for other sad people to share their holiday depressions with. I'm fine with that. Seriously, in this world, connect with people however you can.
The Onion personals are not regular personals though. Because I read The Onion I get a daily glimpse into the kind of people who are looking for love via headshots and pithy paragraphs. Here's why I hate them:
1. They're all basically attractive people. I've yet to see one fat Onion personal, one ugly Onion personal, or one pock-marked Onion personal. Why do these attractive people need to advertise for love on the internet? It doesn't make any kind of sense to me.
2. They're all hipster-ish. Approximately 98% of the people featured in the Onion personals are wearing Buddy Holly glasses. this shatters the hipster douchebag scale established at the Hipster Summit (held back stage at a Clap Your Hands Say Yeah concert in 2007).
3. They're all desperate to prove how cool they are. One of my least favorite things is the "five things I can't live without" phenomenon, where the text accompanying the headshot is just a list of hipster douchebag essentials. I guess this is a quick way to show others insight into your alternative (yet affluent) lifestyle. Example: Five things I can't live without: The latest album by [insert obscure yet recognizable band name here], My favorite copy of Camus' The Stranger, my cat Angry Sam, my lucky fedora, and a good bottle of [insert little-known brand of Japanese soda here].
Why do these people need the power of the internet to find love? Can't they just walk into the alternative bar in whatever city they're living in and find their perfect someone to share an overpriced loft with? Why am I subjected to their artistic black and white headshots every goddamn day?
So, you know, let's do something about this. And by "do something", I mean a lazy blog entry. There, I've done MY part.
Cleveland, the environment, Kurt Vonnegut, Fannie Mae, Screenplay
So it goes.
I reread The Avclub's very excellent article entitled "15 Things Kurt Vonnegut Said Better Than Anyone Else" today. Vonnegut was the first person that made me realize that sad-eyed and cynical secular humanism wasn't something that I invented when I was 15. Apparently, he had been doing it a lot longer than I had.
"So it goes" has probably been the title of about fifteen billion livejournal posts from emo kids who "found" _Slaughterhouse Five_, so I kind of hesitate to make too much of it now. That said, it really helped to get me through the day. The mounting evidence that we might be facing the worst economic collapse of my lifetime coupled with ongoing reports that everything man has ever made is both toxic and creating greenhouse gases really got me down.
I've always been the type to worry about these things. I remember in '87 when the stock market went kablooey, I went to school the next day with a stomach ache. I couldn't understand why all the other kids weren't upset. Didn't they realize that we were all about to be turned into chimney sweeps and pickpockets by nefarious cockney ne'er-do-wells? I mean, when the economy collapses, that sort of thing happens.
Now that I have a son, the worrying is worse. My connection with the universe - always pretty tenuous - was increased against my will when he was born. I now have to not only think about myself, I gotta find a way to feed and clothe that little bastard.
It's a common complaint parents make, but god, I had no idea how powerful the emotions were.
Every day, I read more and more reports about how everything is spiraling out of control: the economy, the environment, the war in Iraq. I try to imagine what my son's life will be like. If things are as bad as the people posting on Digg and the Drudge Report make them out to be, he won't even have apples to sell when the next depression hits. If I had a nickel for every time I've shuddered at the thought at where we're headed, I might be able to buy a gallon of gas.
So, rereading Vonnegut's phrase came at a very necessary time for me. So it goes. There's nothing I can do about it, and the greatest achievement I can hope for as a human is to just accept things. I won't lie to you, I'm still scared to death, but thinking about that phrase - even saying out loud, like a prayer - helps just a little bit.
It's cheaper than drugs, I guess.
I'm in Cleveland right now working with D.L. Hughley. He's a great guy, a class act, and a hell of a comedian. It's nice working with a celebrity who doesn't act like an asshole. It's not a common thing.
(And, as a super-awesome side note, his bodyguard/manager/brother-in-law was Jaxx in the Mortal Kombat games. Yes, you read that right, I got to hang out with Jaxx this weekend. Comedy might be a scary game and I might never make it in this business, but shit, I got to meet Jaxx. That never would have happened if I was teaching still.)
The second draft of the screenplay is out and being read by the fine folks at Mandalay. Let's hope they love it as much as Brian and I do. It'll make next week a lot nicer if they do.
All right kids. I'm off to sleep.
I reread The Avclub's very excellent article entitled "15 Things Kurt Vonnegut Said Better Than Anyone Else" today. Vonnegut was the first person that made me realize that sad-eyed and cynical secular humanism wasn't something that I invented when I was 15. Apparently, he had been doing it a lot longer than I had.
"So it goes" has probably been the title of about fifteen billion livejournal posts from emo kids who "found" _Slaughterhouse Five_, so I kind of hesitate to make too much of it now. That said, it really helped to get me through the day. The mounting evidence that we might be facing the worst economic collapse of my lifetime coupled with ongoing reports that everything man has ever made is both toxic and creating greenhouse gases really got me down.
I've always been the type to worry about these things. I remember in '87 when the stock market went kablooey, I went to school the next day with a stomach ache. I couldn't understand why all the other kids weren't upset. Didn't they realize that we were all about to be turned into chimney sweeps and pickpockets by nefarious cockney ne'er-do-wells? I mean, when the economy collapses, that sort of thing happens.
Now that I have a son, the worrying is worse. My connection with the universe - always pretty tenuous - was increased against my will when he was born. I now have to not only think about myself, I gotta find a way to feed and clothe that little bastard.
It's a common complaint parents make, but god, I had no idea how powerful the emotions were.
Every day, I read more and more reports about how everything is spiraling out of control: the economy, the environment, the war in Iraq. I try to imagine what my son's life will be like. If things are as bad as the people posting on Digg and the Drudge Report make them out to be, he won't even have apples to sell when the next depression hits. If I had a nickel for every time I've shuddered at the thought at where we're headed, I might be able to buy a gallon of gas.
So, rereading Vonnegut's phrase came at a very necessary time for me. So it goes. There's nothing I can do about it, and the greatest achievement I can hope for as a human is to just accept things. I won't lie to you, I'm still scared to death, but thinking about that phrase - even saying out loud, like a prayer - helps just a little bit.
It's cheaper than drugs, I guess.
I'm in Cleveland right now working with D.L. Hughley. He's a great guy, a class act, and a hell of a comedian. It's nice working with a celebrity who doesn't act like an asshole. It's not a common thing.
(And, as a super-awesome side note, his bodyguard/manager/brother-in-law was Jaxx in the Mortal Kombat games. Yes, you read that right, I got to hang out with Jaxx this weekend. Comedy might be a scary game and I might never make it in this business, but shit, I got to meet Jaxx. That never would have happened if I was teaching still.)
The second draft of the screenplay is out and being read by the fine folks at Mandalay. Let's hope they love it as much as Brian and I do. It'll make next week a lot nicer if they do.
All right kids. I'm off to sleep.
Thursday, December 06, 2007
Not Really Producing
Well, that's not exactly true -- I've been producing tons. Between my stand-up, my screenplays and teleplays, and my blogs for TV Squad, in the last three months I've written more that has actually been read by real, actual people, than at any other comparable three month span of my entire existence.
Here's the problem: It's not as much as it should be. I've got more free time than anyone this side of a Hilton sister. I always imagined that when I was finally set free from the day-job shackles that my response would be to fill both house and hotel room with eight hours a day, six days a week of gentle click-clackings from my keyboard. It's been close to a year now; I should have a novel or two finished. I should have enough blog posts to shut shut down the single ISDN line that all of China shares. I should have five more screenplays that my agent can't sell. I should have 30 more minutes of stand-up that my old friends don't laugh at (but that strangers, strangely, do).
But I haven't done it. I've filled the time with digg.com, endless replays of movies that I've seen more times in my life than I have my cousins, and enough masturbation (both mental and physical) to piss off even the hard-to-piss-off gods (like Budha).
I just got back from a gig. I've spent the last three hours in my hotel room doing the following: one poop (enormous and well deserved), one hour watching Sportscenter (and on a Wednesday during football season no less -- we're talking 20 minutes of _hockey_ highlights), and one hour and forty five minutes watching the last one hour and forty five minutes of Fight Club (while I read about Fight Club on wikipedia).
I am officially useless. If I even wrote one page an hour, I could be three pages closer to finishing the screenplay I promised my partner I'd have done by the 17th. If I had written 150 words an hour, I'd have another post for TV Squad finished and some extra spending loot in my pocket. If I had worked on my act, I'd by icrementally funnier for the drunks and punks I'll be performing for this weekend.
What do I have to show for it? Nothing at all. I mean, other than a sexual confusion over my feelings for Brad Pitt's torso.
So, I decided to creep over here to the one semi-public piece of writing that I have that truly doesn't matter. I mean, it matters if you're reading it right now, but my feeling is that no one is reading this, so, you know, it doesn't matter.
It's good. It's gotten the ball rolling. It's allowed me to entertain the idea of sleeping without the usual two doses of self-loathing that I've been bringing with me lately to bed time.
Maybe I'll get off my ass now and write something worth reading.
Here's the problem: It's not as much as it should be. I've got more free time than anyone this side of a Hilton sister. I always imagined that when I was finally set free from the day-job shackles that my response would be to fill both house and hotel room with eight hours a day, six days a week of gentle click-clackings from my keyboard. It's been close to a year now; I should have a novel or two finished. I should have enough blog posts to shut shut down the single ISDN line that all of China shares. I should have five more screenplays that my agent can't sell. I should have 30 more minutes of stand-up that my old friends don't laugh at (but that strangers, strangely, do).
But I haven't done it. I've filled the time with digg.com, endless replays of movies that I've seen more times in my life than I have my cousins, and enough masturbation (both mental and physical) to piss off even the hard-to-piss-off gods (like Budha).
I just got back from a gig. I've spent the last three hours in my hotel room doing the following: one poop (enormous and well deserved), one hour watching Sportscenter (and on a Wednesday during football season no less -- we're talking 20 minutes of _hockey_ highlights), and one hour and forty five minutes watching the last one hour and forty five minutes of Fight Club (while I read about Fight Club on wikipedia).
I am officially useless. If I even wrote one page an hour, I could be three pages closer to finishing the screenplay I promised my partner I'd have done by the 17th. If I had written 150 words an hour, I'd have another post for TV Squad finished and some extra spending loot in my pocket. If I had worked on my act, I'd by icrementally funnier for the drunks and punks I'll be performing for this weekend.
What do I have to show for it? Nothing at all. I mean, other than a sexual confusion over my feelings for Brad Pitt's torso.
So, I decided to creep over here to the one semi-public piece of writing that I have that truly doesn't matter. I mean, it matters if you're reading it right now, but my feeling is that no one is reading this, so, you know, it doesn't matter.
It's good. It's gotten the ball rolling. It's allowed me to entertain the idea of sleeping without the usual two doses of self-loathing that I've been bringing with me lately to bed time.
Maybe I'll get off my ass now and write something worth reading.
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Observations from Columbus, OH
Well, I'm in Columbus! The Paris of Ohio! The city of (a) light!
I had a gig last night in a place called Tiffin, OH. Tiffin is between Columbus and Toledo, yet hasn't been able to absorb any of the high culture that both of those cities are known for.
That being said, it's a nice little town and the gig was fun. Since I'm pressed for time before my flight leaves, I wanted to drop just a few quick observations about life in Ohio:
1) I'm seated next to a Wendy's. The Wendy's has a very cheap cardboard cut-out of a guy with a Wendy's wig on (if you've seen the relatively obtuse commercials that Wendy's has been running of late, you know what I'm talking about). There's a hole where the guy's face is supposed to be, with the idea that people can put their own head through the hole and become a part of Wendy's marketing scheme. I scoffed when I saw it, being under the impression that even retarded mutants wouldn't be so irony free that they'd actually put their head through the hole.
Welcome to Columbus! At least three different couples have laughed and taken pictures of themselves with their heads in the hole in the last hour. Seriously. The end is nigh. Sell your stock and head to the Bunny Ranch.
2) Almost all of the restaurants and stores at the Columbus airport are outside the security checkpoint. If you want to experience American Mall culture, you have to do it before you get screened by the (ahem) qualified and highly trained TSA agents. After the checkpoint? It's like a Turkish airport.
Why is this? I suppose the terminal was built pre-9/11, but guys, it's been six years. Can we either move the checkpoint up or put a goddamn store or two after it?
3) We're still on orange alert. That's high, for those of you keeping score at home. It's been this way for as long as I remember. Eurasia is at war with Oceania. It's always been that way, right?
Okay, that's it. Gotta catch a jet plane.
I had a gig last night in a place called Tiffin, OH. Tiffin is between Columbus and Toledo, yet hasn't been able to absorb any of the high culture that both of those cities are known for.
That being said, it's a nice little town and the gig was fun. Since I'm pressed for time before my flight leaves, I wanted to drop just a few quick observations about life in Ohio:
1) I'm seated next to a Wendy's. The Wendy's has a very cheap cardboard cut-out of a guy with a Wendy's wig on (if you've seen the relatively obtuse commercials that Wendy's has been running of late, you know what I'm talking about). There's a hole where the guy's face is supposed to be, with the idea that people can put their own head through the hole and become a part of Wendy's marketing scheme. I scoffed when I saw it, being under the impression that even retarded mutants wouldn't be so irony free that they'd actually put their head through the hole.
Welcome to Columbus! At least three different couples have laughed and taken pictures of themselves with their heads in the hole in the last hour. Seriously. The end is nigh. Sell your stock and head to the Bunny Ranch.
2) Almost all of the restaurants and stores at the Columbus airport are outside the security checkpoint. If you want to experience American Mall culture, you have to do it before you get screened by the (ahem) qualified and highly trained TSA agents. After the checkpoint? It's like a Turkish airport.
Why is this? I suppose the terminal was built pre-9/11, but guys, it's been six years. Can we either move the checkpoint up or put a goddamn store or two after it?
3) We're still on orange alert. That's high, for those of you keeping score at home. It's been this way for as long as I remember. Eurasia is at war with Oceania. It's always been that way, right?
Okay, that's it. Gotta catch a jet plane.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Red ring of death or just red ring?
Sometime in the mid-eighties every news report in America seemed to carry something about Lyme's disease. Apparently if you caught it your brain could melt or some such (as I write this, it occurs to me that I have absolutely no idea what happens to you if you catch Lyme's disease. Is it bad? Do people die from it? Perhaps nothing happens at all except that your blood all of a sudden takes on a delightful and refreshing citrus flavor.)
All of the reports said to look for the same thing: a red dot with a red circle around it. "Like a bullseye" the mid-80s TV reporter would say with gravitas.
I never worried about Lyme's disease because like any sane person who grew up in the era of air conditioning and cable, I never went outside. Like Ronald Reagan thought that AIDS was punishment for the sinful lives that gay people led, I too felt that any idiot that spent enough time outdoors that he had to worry about ticks got exactly what he deserved.
Now, thouogh, I finally understand how those people must have felt!
See, I have an XBOX360 and today I saw a red dot surrounded by a red ring. A bullseye that might as well have been pasted over my heart.
I turned off the machine and turned it back on and it booted up just fine, but now the idea is planted in my head: this XBOX360 mght be on the verge of death. I just spent 3 weeks in May without an XBOX360 because of an incurable red ring and... well, I just don't think I could go through that again.
It would break my heart. Like a disease. Like a Lyme's disease.
I'll keep you posted on whether or not the 360 lives or dies. I'm going away to Pittsburgh for a few days and maybe the time away will cool the machine down so much that any hint of a problem will simply disappear.
I don't have high hopes.
All of the reports said to look for the same thing: a red dot with a red circle around it. "Like a bullseye" the mid-80s TV reporter would say with gravitas.
I never worried about Lyme's disease because like any sane person who grew up in the era of air conditioning and cable, I never went outside. Like Ronald Reagan thought that AIDS was punishment for the sinful lives that gay people led, I too felt that any idiot that spent enough time outdoors that he had to worry about ticks got exactly what he deserved.
Now, thouogh, I finally understand how those people must have felt!
See, I have an XBOX360 and today I saw a red dot surrounded by a red ring. A bullseye that might as well have been pasted over my heart.
I turned off the machine and turned it back on and it booted up just fine, but now the idea is planted in my head: this XBOX360 mght be on the verge of death. I just spent 3 weeks in May without an XBOX360 because of an incurable red ring and... well, I just don't think I could go through that again.
It would break my heart. Like a disease. Like a Lyme's disease.
I'll keep you posted on whether or not the 360 lives or dies. I'm going away to Pittsburgh for a few days and maybe the time away will cool the machine down so much that any hint of a problem will simply disappear.
I don't have high hopes.
Saturday, July 28, 2007
Gibbstown -- The place comedy went to die
I'm going to preface this by saying that I think the people in Gibbstown are good people. I mean that -- they all shook my hand before and after the show and I think none of them would intentionally stab a newborn.
That being said -- holy shit! If there's a center of fun in the universe, Gibbstown is at the point furthest from it.
Here's what I don't get: it wasn't a free show. The people who were there tonight had to pay a fair bit for their tickets. Many of them, I imagine, had to plan to be there (meaning they had to get babysisters or at least put food in their children's cages). So why would they choose to make the show unwatchable by getting so drunk that they wouldn't have paid attention to me if I was on fire? Why would they all talk on their cellphones constantly? Why would they shout and scream at each other during the show?
This would be like renting a movie, then drinking yourself into a stupor in your kitchen, only sort've half listening to it in the other room.
Why would you do that? Why not just set fire to your money? At least that way, I don't have to come to your town and have to go through the motions of putting on a show!
I wondered to myself on the way home if I'm getting too much of an ego. In the old days, I would've blamed the poor quality of the show on myself. I would have taken a sad bath and recommitted myself to becoming a better comedian and looked forward to being invited back to Gibbstown so's I could show 'em how good I really am.
Now, though? I was angry at them for wasting my time. Maybe I need the humility.
I don't think I'd be so mad if it wasn't for the following reasons:
1) I would have had more sleep this week if I was in a Turkish prison.
2) I'm still getting minor headaches and am having problems concentrating. Because my MRI says I don't have a tumor, I'm convinced now that I've given myself some kind of brain damage brought on by continued use of Simply Sleep (tm).
3) I have an audition tomorrow that's kind of a big deal. The last thing I needed was a thorough soaking of my ego in some small-town acid.
4) When I came home, my wife and brother-in-law were watching America's Funniest Home Videos and wouldn't change the channel (because it was the finals).
So, anyway, that's where I am right now. If I were a teenager, I'd try to figure out how to give this blog a mood rating. Somewhere between "grumpy" and "suicidal". Because I'm an adult (and a father!), I think my response will be to watch Sportscenter... angrily.
That being said -- holy shit! If there's a center of fun in the universe, Gibbstown is at the point furthest from it.
Here's what I don't get: it wasn't a free show. The people who were there tonight had to pay a fair bit for their tickets. Many of them, I imagine, had to plan to be there (meaning they had to get babysisters or at least put food in their children's cages). So why would they choose to make the show unwatchable by getting so drunk that they wouldn't have paid attention to me if I was on fire? Why would they all talk on their cellphones constantly? Why would they shout and scream at each other during the show?
This would be like renting a movie, then drinking yourself into a stupor in your kitchen, only sort've half listening to it in the other room.
Why would you do that? Why not just set fire to your money? At least that way, I don't have to come to your town and have to go through the motions of putting on a show!
I wondered to myself on the way home if I'm getting too much of an ego. In the old days, I would've blamed the poor quality of the show on myself. I would have taken a sad bath and recommitted myself to becoming a better comedian and looked forward to being invited back to Gibbstown so's I could show 'em how good I really am.
Now, though? I was angry at them for wasting my time. Maybe I need the humility.
I don't think I'd be so mad if it wasn't for the following reasons:
1) I would have had more sleep this week if I was in a Turkish prison.
2) I'm still getting minor headaches and am having problems concentrating. Because my MRI says I don't have a tumor, I'm convinced now that I've given myself some kind of brain damage brought on by continued use of Simply Sleep (tm).
3) I have an audition tomorrow that's kind of a big deal. The last thing I needed was a thorough soaking of my ego in some small-town acid.
4) When I came home, my wife and brother-in-law were watching America's Funniest Home Videos and wouldn't change the channel (because it was the finals).
So, anyway, that's where I am right now. If I were a teenager, I'd try to figure out how to give this blog a mood rating. Somewhere between "grumpy" and "suicidal". Because I'm an adult (and a father!), I think my response will be to watch Sportscenter... angrily.
Friday, July 27, 2007
What it's like to be a father (week one)
Remember when you were little and you'd get sick? The days were okay -- you'd eat toast with jelly and watch the Price is Right. The nights, though, the nights were terrible. Lonely, wheezing -- just you and your humidifier.
That's what fatherhood is like for me so far. The days are great. Keane swaddles up and gets so cute that sometimes I hear God Himself up in heaven going, "Holy shit, that kid is cute!"
But at night? I catnap while keeping one ear on radar duty, every little fuss the potential harbinger of screams. My TiVo is straining to keep up with the crap television I require to get through the nights, but even it eventually runs out of Mythbusters or X Play.
It's not a ringing endorsement, I know, but it's hard to write about the flood of emotions you drown in after becoming a father without sounding like you're writing another 200 pages of Mitch Albom style claptrap. I thought I'd give you the physicality of the experience, you know, just to keep you coming back for more!
(Speaking of which, is anyone reading this blog? I'm not publicizing it except as a link from my website and I don't expect it to grow but slowly. I'm just curious: if you're out there, write me!)
That's what fatherhood is like for me so far. The days are great. Keane swaddles up and gets so cute that sometimes I hear God Himself up in heaven going, "Holy shit, that kid is cute!"
But at night? I catnap while keeping one ear on radar duty, every little fuss the potential harbinger of screams. My TiVo is straining to keep up with the crap television I require to get through the nights, but even it eventually runs out of Mythbusters or X Play.
It's not a ringing endorsement, I know, but it's hard to write about the flood of emotions you drown in after becoming a father without sounding like you're writing another 200 pages of Mitch Albom style claptrap. I thought I'd give you the physicality of the experience, you know, just to keep you coming back for more!
(Speaking of which, is anyone reading this blog? I'm not publicizing it except as a link from my website and I don't expect it to grow but slowly. I'm just curious: if you're out there, write me!)
Thursday, July 26, 2007
I suck at Fifa '07
A quick story: World Cup '06 was wonderful, soccer seemed interesting, my favorite sportswriter Bill Simmons decided to follow the EPL as a result, and I wound up a soccer fan. I even got the Fox Soccer Channel and a Robbie Keane shirt and am thus completely on the other side of the soccer douchebag fence.
So in February when EA Sports released Fifa '07, I bought it the first millisecond it was available. I played approximately nine hundred hours a week and became, I thought, an unstoppable Fifa force. I imagined myself like the Christian Bale Batman, studying bad-assery in the far off reaches of Asia, readying myself for a triumphant reveal to the online community.
When my Xbox died in June, Microsoft was kind enough to replace it and send along a free month of Xbox live. I thought my training was complete and it was only a few weeks before I was atop the leaderboards and a feared whisper among the other players. "I played jayblackcomedy yesterday. My thumbs are still bleeding."
Uh, no.
I'm getting my ass kicked so severely and regularly it's actually affecting my offline self esteem. I feel like a case study in a bleeding edge psychology journal. These people are crazy good and my single player experience lied to me!
There are two major emotions at work when I play, both of which I'm very familiar with. The first is the "I need to get better at any cost" emotion. This is the feeling where I want to abandon my wife and child, quit my career and become one of those people that do nothing all day but play video games (i.e. college students). The second is the "Who gives a shit" emotion where I want to embrace life and love in a fit of sour-grapes superiority over the people who are better than me at the game.
I'm probably too saddled with Irish guilt to follow the former path, but I don't know if I'll be able to overcome my addiction to the game to follow the latter. It's the major dilemma of my life right now.
So in February when EA Sports released Fifa '07, I bought it the first millisecond it was available. I played approximately nine hundred hours a week and became, I thought, an unstoppable Fifa force. I imagined myself like the Christian Bale Batman, studying bad-assery in the far off reaches of Asia, readying myself for a triumphant reveal to the online community.
When my Xbox died in June, Microsoft was kind enough to replace it and send along a free month of Xbox live. I thought my training was complete and it was only a few weeks before I was atop the leaderboards and a feared whisper among the other players. "I played jayblackcomedy yesterday. My thumbs are still bleeding."
Uh, no.
I'm getting my ass kicked so severely and regularly it's actually affecting my offline self esteem. I feel like a case study in a bleeding edge psychology journal. These people are crazy good and my single player experience lied to me!
There are two major emotions at work when I play, both of which I'm very familiar with. The first is the "I need to get better at any cost" emotion. This is the feeling where I want to abandon my wife and child, quit my career and become one of those people that do nothing all day but play video games (i.e. college students). The second is the "Who gives a shit" emotion where I want to embrace life and love in a fit of sour-grapes superiority over the people who are better than me at the game.
I'm probably too saddled with Irish guilt to follow the former path, but I don't know if I'll be able to overcome my addiction to the game to follow the latter. It's the major dilemma of my life right now.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
I piss off the Lactating Lady
So, if you didn't know, they have about a million consultants that show up after you have a baby. My personal favorite was the "Shaken Baby Syndrome Specialist" whose job it is to tell you not to shake your baby. I'm of the opinion that if you need to be told that, you might as well go ahead and shake your baby and get your genes out of the pool altogether.
The one I managed to upset was the Lactating Lady. She comes in and shows your wife how her nipples can be used to keep your baby alive. As the husband, you watch as your wife is shown proper technique as you slowly realize that the part of your wife you loved the most is no longer yours anymore. And they say women sacrifice during childbirth.
Anyway, I sit nicely during the entire nipple-manipulation presentation and play the part of the happy and supporitve husband. As she's leaving, I figure I'll make some small talk and I say: "Hey, what do you think about those whackos that breast-feed their babies until they're like 3 or 4?"
Apparently, I'm an asshole.
This woman getsall huffy about how that's an ignorant and stupid way to look at the world. It takes me approximately half a millisecond to realize that this woman obviously breast-fed her babies well into their forties. I probably should have surmised that from the fact that she's made a career out of being the Lactating Lady, but I had just become a father and my brain wasn't working properly.
I try to apologize. She says: "You know, in 3rd word countries, the average age of weaning is 5 or 6." I say, "Oh, well, sure, I didn't know that." And she says "Yeah" in that way that people do when they're suddenly on the moral high ground and enjoying every second of it.
Now that I've had a day to think about it, here's my feelings on the subject:
1) I still think that people that allow their kids to titty-feed into their tweens are nutto. Maybe it's the fact that I was raised in a prudish, puritanical nation, but the only time a person should be able to vocalize their need for boobies is when they're fourteen and in their girlfriend's basement.
2) From now on, I don't care how many liberal arts colleges you've graduated from, you're no longer allowed to use the third world as a reason for us in the first world to do anything. If you're doing something because third world villagers do it, you also have to poop directly into your fresh water supply. Because, you know, the third worrld doesn't have any concept of the germ-theory of medicine, because they're, uh, purer than we are.
3) Motherhood is a glorious and wonderful thing. In all honesty, watching my wife become a mother has been magical. That being said, people that try to extend the experience beyond when it's appropriate are doing it not because they love their kids, but because they want to continue being the all-giving MOTHER that they were when their child was completely dependent on them. It's about maintaining their own power. A self-respecting woman maintains her power not from the milk that exits her boobs, but from the cleavage those boobs make when they're strapped together in a too-tight push-up bra. At least that's what my good friend Betty Friedan always used to say.
Alright, all that being said, I have to go get my wife nipple-soothing cream. Yeah, baby, sexy.
The one I managed to upset was the Lactating Lady. She comes in and shows your wife how her nipples can be used to keep your baby alive. As the husband, you watch as your wife is shown proper technique as you slowly realize that the part of your wife you loved the most is no longer yours anymore. And they say women sacrifice during childbirth.
Anyway, I sit nicely during the entire nipple-manipulation presentation and play the part of the happy and supporitve husband. As she's leaving, I figure I'll make some small talk and I say: "Hey, what do you think about those whackos that breast-feed their babies until they're like 3 or 4?"
Apparently, I'm an asshole.
This woman getsall huffy about how that's an ignorant and stupid way to look at the world. It takes me approximately half a millisecond to realize that this woman obviously breast-fed her babies well into their forties. I probably should have surmised that from the fact that she's made a career out of being the Lactating Lady, but I had just become a father and my brain wasn't working properly.
I try to apologize. She says: "You know, in 3rd word countries, the average age of weaning is 5 or 6." I say, "Oh, well, sure, I didn't know that." And she says "Yeah" in that way that people do when they're suddenly on the moral high ground and enjoying every second of it.
Now that I've had a day to think about it, here's my feelings on the subject:
1) I still think that people that allow their kids to titty-feed into their tweens are nutto. Maybe it's the fact that I was raised in a prudish, puritanical nation, but the only time a person should be able to vocalize their need for boobies is when they're fourteen and in their girlfriend's basement.
2) From now on, I don't care how many liberal arts colleges you've graduated from, you're no longer allowed to use the third world as a reason for us in the first world to do anything. If you're doing something because third world villagers do it, you also have to poop directly into your fresh water supply. Because, you know, the third worrld doesn't have any concept of the germ-theory of medicine, because they're, uh, purer than we are.
3) Motherhood is a glorious and wonderful thing. In all honesty, watching my wife become a mother has been magical. That being said, people that try to extend the experience beyond when it's appropriate are doing it not because they love their kids, but because they want to continue being the all-giving MOTHER that they were when their child was completely dependent on them. It's about maintaining their own power. A self-respecting woman maintains her power not from the milk that exits her boobs, but from the cleavage those boobs make when they're strapped together in a too-tight push-up bra. At least that's what my good friend Betty Friedan always used to say.
Alright, all that being said, I have to go get my wife nipple-soothing cream. Yeah, baby, sexy.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Keane Robert Black
Keane Robert Black (or Keano as he will be known to his legions of fans in the EPL or KB as he will be known to all the girls that will have crushes on him or Keane Bean as he will be known in our house until he is old enough to complain) came firing into this world at 3:42 PM today, July 22, 2007.
He's already fed for the first time (he enjoys both boobs and food, just like daddy) and he's now resting comfortably waiting for whatever the world has to offer him.
By the way, to any comedy bookers currently reading this blog, Keane assures me that he's got a tight 5 that's PG-13 but can be cleaned up for church shows. He usually features, but he's willing to emcee just his once.
More to come...
He's already fed for the first time (he enjoys both boobs and food, just like daddy) and he's now resting comfortably waiting for whatever the world has to offer him.
By the way, to any comedy bookers currently reading this blog, Keane assures me that he's got a tight 5 that's PG-13 but can be cleaned up for church shows. He usually features, but he's willing to emcee just his once.
More to come...
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