Fitzi's sports, movie, and general culture reviews - Jan 31 2007

For more, visit www.townienews.com

I'm Only A Man, Part 18: All the way to the floor

I watched my mother stroll down 6th Avenue in a Spring dress on her way to the Conan O'Brien show. We had just finished lunch and that morning she had helped me seal the deal on a new apartment, my first in Manhattan. She had been riding the subway, exploring the city, talking to realtors, meeting my coworkers and just generally living it up and getting things done in NYC for a couple of days by then. She looked younger, lighter and happier than I had seen her in years.

This was her second trip to New York. Her first had been about two weeks before with my sister. I was living in Brooklyn with my boyfriend of five years, a guy my entire family barely tolerated but nevertheless supported when necessary. He was one of those people who gets away with terrorizing everyone around him by maintaining an air of victimhood. My mother had had countless arguments with him yet she and the rest of my family still helped us move to New York together.

But that's the way Hartsells are. Once when I was around 10-years-old I was hanging out with a group of my brothers' friends when I happened to say something fairly sarcastic, a skill we all developed at an early age. Someone responded matter-of-factly, "Yep...she's a Hartsell." I didn't know if that was complimentary or critical, but I liked it just the same. Hartsells, as it turns out, tend to be unflappable. This can be both a positive and negative. Sarcasm is our natural response to both attacks and pretension; our smarmy little way of communicating, "Oh, whatever you just said doesn't really matter to me." In moments of great stress or angst, we tend to compartmentalize and focus on whatever it is that has to be done. This can occasionally makes us seem cold and aloof.

However, the good side of this is that in a crisis, Hartsells have incredible focus and flexibility. My sister's friends call my dad "The Wolf" a la Harvey Keitel in Pulp Fiction. He gets things done, solves problems and otherwise ensures domestic tranquility with an almost imperceptible ease. He can also be a stone cold asshole when confronted with irrational behavior; a trait I inherited from him. But that grace under pressure, that ability to look at a problem and see the solution in all of its simplicity is something I have tried to emulate to varying degrees of success.

Sometimes the solution sucks.

Sometimes it means upsetting your entire life and the life of people you care about in order to edge yourself closer, painfully to a better place. When I left my boyfriend and our apartment in Brooklyn I went to my office in Manhattan and slept on the floor. I had been in New York about 5 months, never lived there alone, and the only people I knew were my coworkers. That night I got a decrepit room in an awful hotel and vowed to be The Wolf in the morning and sort my life out on my own. By 11am the next day I was in tears on a payphone asking my mother to fly to New York and help me. She arrived at 9pm that night.

My mother got us into a better hotel, picked up all of my clothes from my old apartment, talked to my ex, found a few realtors and looked at apartments all while I worked from 9-5. Then when I got off she took me to see the places she thought were nice and after a few days everything was settled. She made friends with everyone in my office, took us to lunch and bought me a second beer at dinner one night. For the first time in years, I remembered that my mom was The Wolf in her own way. She wasn't a Hartsell by birth and while she and my dad are incredibly different people, I began to understand their bond for the first time. Very few people are equally good at putting all emotion on hold and taking care of business. My mother and father both have that ability to see a problem first and how it affects them last. It's an effortless selflessness in the face of adversity, and I will live the rest of my life trying to match it. Where my mother differs is on the sarcasm and intolerance. She's endlessly accommodating, something that is both admired and taken advantage of.

But I digress. My mother was off to see Conan. It was 4:30 and the light was beautiful and she strolled away on her own: no one to take care of, no one to wait for, no one to make comfortable at her expense. She navigated the Times Square crowd like a local and disappeared into the din. That night when she returned to the hotel she was beaming. "I danced with Conan!" Apparently, Conan warms the crowd up by trying to get them on their feet to dance. My mom, alone and unashamed, jumped to her feet and started dancing. Conan ran up the aisle and singled her out, "Hold on, I want everyone to see what you can do!" And they danced.

My mom used to tell me about going to clubs with her cousins when she was younger; how she used to be able to do The Twist all the way to the floor. As she walked away from me that day I saw her briefly as the woman she always wanted to be. You could see in her stride a confident grace, a levity with the tumult.

There's a fine line between responsibility and duty, and in matters of love and family one often isn't sure whether they have a made practical choice or a selfish one. All of the difficult choices I've made in my life were in an effort to be bold, to be nothing but what I'm supposed to be as clearly as I can define it. My solutions aren't always correct, or at least, they aren't always permanent. And my ability to accept heartache as a necessary product of never closing the book on self-discovery has a tendency to leave me shaken and those around me cold. Fear, doubt and recrimination are the bedfellows of longing.

To move forward, one must either be truly confident or dupe themselves with the illusion of confidence. And in that, we Hartsells are the masters. When our bravery fails us, our hubris takes over. A little arrogance goes along way and, eventually, the spirit catches up.

My mother was so self-possessed that day because it didn't matter who was looking at her. She was blithely, bewitchingly alone in a room full of people and cameras. And she danced away my worries, even though I never saw her.

Please, Do Not Hesitate to Involve Me in Your Next Insane Subway Conversation

My Dearest Fellow New Yorkers,

I hope this note finds you well.

After the events of the past two hours, I think it's only appropriate to remind all of you PLEASE DO NOT HESITATE TO INVOLVE ME IN YOUR NEXT INSANE SUBWAY CONVERSATION.

I'm not kidding.

People, I have very few hobbies, but if I had to list them, somewhere in the middle would be making sure I'm involved at least once a week in ten to fifteen minutes of random, half-informed discourse with crazy people I'll never see again.

Maybe I'm drunk, maybe you're drunk, maybe we're both just a little "confused." Whatever. We can almost resolve incredibly complex issues of our day in a matter of minutes if we both talk really fast, ignore pesky details and nod a lot.

Of course, this reminder is a lot like taking a dead kitten to the vet - you try to feel good about the gesture, but you know deep down inside that you're a little late to the game.

Besides, it's just going in the trash the moment you walk home whistling...

But I have to get it out there.

See, tonight, while stuck somewhere under the East River on an L train for thirty minutes, I missed my chance to take part in what may have been the single most perfect Crazy Person Subway Converastion of all time.

It was going on in my car, one set of doors away from me, between a trio of guys who obviously didn't know each other but clearly had something to say. Maybe one of them had been drinking a bit too much, and maybe the suit man on the receiving end of most of the finger pointing had it coming.

I don't know, but man, I do know that this conversation had it all...

• Incredible segues: in one particularly brilliant two-minute span, these maestros of the mundane seamlessly segued from the Iraq war to Lindsay Lohan's rehab stint to trash-talking Yale University for giving a diploma to our Dear Leader, all without missing a beat or a hint of irony.
  
  I challenge you to do the same, even in the comfort of your home.
  
  
• Pointing, pointing and more pointing: "facts" are great in any discussion, particularly when you're trying to prove a point... that is, if your hands are tied. Assuming you have full use of at least one arm (preferably still with fingers), you can gain an incredible amount of ground in any argument by saying something that defies reply while pointing at your opponent's sternum.
  
  This one guy in three hoodies (I know it's cold, but THREE?!?) and a do-rag was on a roll until the obligatory Guy in the Suit Who You Know is Going to Get Screamed At said, "now what makes you think the government is trying to destroy America from within?"
  
  Our thrice-hoodied friend could have lost his momentum here - I mean, he had nothing at all to back this up. He was dead in the water... had he been unable to point! Instead, he gamely thrust his finger at the man's sternum and declared, "what makes you NOT think that!"
  
  HoodieMan 1, GitSWYKiGGSA 0.
  
  
• Cryptic Ellipses: this was what sealed the deal - an advanced move that I cannot in good conscience recommend to novice Crazy Subway Arguers, but one that the expert cannot do without: the Cryptic Ellipsis.
  
  I could go on and on about this cruicial maneuver, but I will simply quote today's winner of the Subway Debate Challenge:
  
  HOODIE MAN: Now, now, now, wait - you wait right there a minute, OK. You say everything you want to say about that and whatnot, but you know what?
  
  GitSWYKiGGSA: What?
  
  HOODIE MAN: I know this much. I know that George Bush - the first one. You know... the dad. I know he was in the CIA and I know he knows a lot of people and I know he knows a LOT... about a lot of shit... man, shit you don't even know about!
  
  GitSWYKiGGSA: So?
  
  HOODIE MAN: So... I can do the math, motherfucker...
  
  GitSWYKiGGSA:
  
  HOODIE MAN: Yep. I can do the math...
  
  SCARY GUY IN CAMO: Hey, man, he's got a point there.

Seriously. It doesn't get any better than that.

It was like watching Tom Brady and that quarterback from Indianapolis whose name always escapes me. Only there were three of these guys and none of them had a football or a giant oversized head.

Where was I while all this was going down?

I was tragically blocked from the entire exchange by a bunch of past-their-prime hipster harpies re-hashing the "I Remember When Williamsburg Was REAL" discussion (aka "This Place Would Be So Much Cooler With More Crack and Rats").

That conversation is so 2005, it made me yearn for 2004. The real pity (despite their sad nostalgia for a nonexistent past) was that they were blocking me from even making eye contact with Hoodie Man, thus keeping me off the field for what may have been the finest moment in the history of Subway Debate.

Oh, there will be other subway debates, and I'm sure I'll be drawn into future brief but brilliant arguments of like-minded crazy people to add my two cents on the Iranian nuclear tests, the genocide in Sudan, Britney Spears' nasty vagina, globalism, climate change, why Deal or No Deal makes me cry, whether New York is Disney-fied, which New York bar has the best hamburgers and whether or not we're all going to hell.

But deep down inside I'll always be haunted to know that I missed one for the ages.

Please, I beg you. Don't let it happen again.

With cuddly hugs,
Matt

The Friday DrinkPod Download...BOOM, For REAL!

Half a World Apart by A Brief View of the Hudson

Ain't a Drop Left in the Bottle by Lonesome Jack

Anyone by The Waylons

Focus by Pablo

Fitzi's sports, movie, and general culture reviews - Jan 25 2007

We're proud to present the ninth (lucky #9!) in a series of videos that are "not fit for print" presented by "Paul 'Fitzy' Fitzgerald, Chief Resident Movie Critic of The Townie News, a small but highly ineffective newspaper out of Billerica, MA."

You can see either Fitzy or his friend Nick Stevens (who are totally not the same people even though you'll never see them in the same room at the same time) at the Shark Show every Saturday night at 8 pm for free at Mo Pitkins. You can also see one of them as well as the rest of the Shark Show cast at the Drink At Work Show on the first Tuesday of every month at Rififi for close to free, i.e. $5.

Check back soon for more.

Would the 350 lbs (I'm guessing) lady-beast behind me in this security check-in line please STOP PRESSING HER GUT AGAINST MY BACK

Look Miss...er, Misses,

I'm sure you have many fine qualities. Included among them, just at a glance, I can tell is girth.

So that's something.

You also possess many, many chins. Ten gazillion and three if I counted correctly. I can't be 100% sure of this number however since 1. I'm not sure if that gazillion is even a real number, and 2. your most notable non-girth-related quality seems to be your innate wiliness, as displayed by your unstoppable talent for tapping the small of my back with your protruding, voluminous belly upon which I was lucky enough to witness the tell-tale highlights from a botched C-section. (Tell the doctor to use a scalpel next time instead of a plastic fork. F Y fucking I.)


ABOVE: 27 of these for a snack is not part of an acceptable diet. Also, I hate you.


I say "wily" because matter how many times I've asked you to stop making contact with my back, no matter how many steps ahead I walk, you seem to be within tapping distance of my body at all times. I take one step forward...tap tap tap. I take ten steps forward...tap tap tap. It doesn't matter to you how far away I am. And I must admit, I'm not quite sure how you do it. Have you mastered time and space? I'm willing to admit that you're OCCUPYING a great deal of space and that furthermore the incredible mass centralized around what must be your cracked, strained skeletal system may actually be the beginnings of a human-based ssingularity, which would then stretch each moment of time out to an infinite length. So in that sense, yes, you may have almost, kind of mastered time and space.

So...now listen, I'm not the type of person to "bash" another person simply because their background or social behavior differs from mine.

Homosexuality?
More like Homosexuawesomeness.

Native American?
More like Native Amer-awesome-ican.

Believe that an unregulated "free" market is a safe way to allow economies of destitute countries to develop, all but ensuring their finite natural resources will be depleted in a few decades, leaving that country and every bit of land and the ecosystems connected to it in a potentially permanent shambles?
Fuck you.



So yes. I believe difference is to be celebrated, but with one exception.


IF YOU ARE TAPPING MY BACK WITH YOUR TEN GALLON GUT WHILE YOU SWAY BACK AND FORTH LISTENING TO SHITTY TOP FORTY HITS LOUD ENOUGH FOR AN ENTIRE SECURITY CHECK POINT TO HEAR YOU DO NOT QUALIFY AS A PARTICIPANT IN A UNIQUE CULTURE WORTHY OF RESPECT.

See, in that case, you are simply pissing me off. There is a difference, however small.

You understand what I mean by small , don't you? It's the descriptive word that you're the opposite of.

We're far too insensitive in this country to the needs of the poor, the truly oppressed, and to my career. Three groups which could really use a boost right about now. But when it comes to coddling lifestyles of extreme gluttony and consumption like yours , the sensitivity goes through the roof and we turn a blind eye (well, we close our eyes completely since chances are you'll still be in our peripheral vision even with a turned head) and accept your choice to gorge as being on par with religious freedom and the right to digital cable.

"Livin' Large" should not to be given the same solemn tip of the hat that other, less-tapping-my-back-with-your-bulk kinds of cultural differences get.

But hey... it's ok. It's fine. All is well now. I'm over this. I'm done.

For the tyranny of your tummy is at an end. I am inside now, at my desk, at my hideous day job working for a government agency that is probably as bloated and useless as you are. I have to go now. It's lunch.

In your honor I will be eating a salad made of DingDongs, Fruit Pies (for the roughage), and sausage patties...and for the dressing? You guessed it.

Tears.

And that, my friends, is how a bill becomes law.

Good morrow.

PS There is hope. Just don't eat it.

Bacon, Guns and Chipmunks with Helmets

The widely popular and sometimes incoherent comic strip, Barkeater Lake, has freed itself from the constraints of a multi-million dollar conglomerate and ventured out on its own. As of January 6th, the feature ceased to exist on United Media's comics.com and has, as of this past Monday, taken up residence at www.barkeaterlake.com.

The site features a daily comic, a blog (how original) and the opportunity to sign up for yet another e-newsletter. There's also a store front that currently only offers a copy of the first Barkeater Lake book, Welcome to Barkeater Lake, which features a forward by our Drink at Work hero, Francesco Marciuliano. The site also offers memberships in the fake town of Barkeater Lake's Chamber of Commerce, which seems a welcome alternative to just donating money to another web comic. There are 3 levels of membership, each including different BL merchandise and art for joining.

There are some parts of the site not working, which is a bit annoying. The strip archives are not active and the comic database is not built, so to view previous comics, one as to type in the site address with the date of the strip following.

Nonetheless, its worth checking it out. There seems to be a cult following of sorts, plus there's a chipmunk militia.

R_Star

Moonwork Presents an Evening of Original Works: Featuring the Debut of DAW's Sean Crespo

How can a downtown show that boasts a 200-person strong audience, free beer and regular appearances by Tom Shillue and Andres du Bouchet possibly get any better? By injecting it with a healthy dose of Drink at Work. Friends, we at DAW are ridiculously excited to invite you out to our favorite show to see the debut of local hero Sean Crespo. Sean's going to be telling an extended version of his soon-to-be legendary and already gut-wrenchingly horrible quilt story (think of one of the saddest things that can happen to you and then think of the worst gift you could get to commemorate that event).

The rest of the line-up features the usual mix of some of New York's best, most inventive comics, including Kristen Schaal, Shayna Ferm, The Daily Show's John Oliver and of course, Andres du Bouchet and Tom "SHILLUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUE" Shillue. $20 gets you this amazing show plus all the beer you can drink.

So come out to support Moonwork, our buddy Crespo and brave, singular comedy. It's always a blast and we'll be celebrating into the wee hours after.

Moonwork presents
An Evening of Original Works

Saturday, January 27th at 9pm


Kristen Schaal
Sean Crespo
Shayna Ferm
The Daily Show's John Oliver
Andres du Bouchet
and
Tom Shillue


The Phil Coltoff Center at Greenwich Village
(same place...new name)
Children's Aid Society
219 Sullivan Street
between Bleecker & West 3rd

$20

History's Greatest Engagement Announcements #1

Dearest Future Bride,

I have accepted your father's mildly generous dowry of 12,000 hectares of good Northumberland Swamp Meat and one Mormon Tabernacle preserved half-eaten in amber.

The wedding will take place tomorrow at High Duskuary. Pastor Emanuel Higgenmirth will preside during the sentencing.

And not to be outdone by our village's celebrations from last Equinox's very successful warlock-droppings scavenger hunt led by Bainbridge Fallow (yes, Bainbridge, 3 stones worth of warlock droppings IS a great deal. We're all very proud of you. Now please stop wearing a gold-encased ball of it around your neck. It is still, after all, shit), my finest snout-Bedazzled oxen will pull the train of your wedding tarp while you tarry aloft my grandest Lockheed Martin F-7 Light Assault Reconnaissance Jet.

Dinner is chicken or fish.

And thus, shall we be locked in wed.

FOR EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER AND EVER...and etcetera!

Yours in "Husbandry,"
Betrothed,
The Thane of Veerhoven

Let's make fake super powers useful

Am I the only one who thinks "Heroes" would be much more interesting if they had a chick that could turn water into gasoline by rubbing some lucky gent's special place?

Just sayin'...

Shows Tonight!!!

Oh, kiddies...it's another beautiful Friday and we've got some hot picks for you this evening: a CD release party for one of our favorite comedy duos and the return of one of our most beloved local bands and dear friends.

First, the day has finally come. The Rob and Mark Show are throwing a party celebrating the release of their new album and it's sure to be a fun night. (By the by, the photos and CD design are by yours truly.) The party/show starts at 8:00pm at the Parkside Lounge and will feature the usual, patented Rob and Mark silliness as well as special guest Sean Crespo. Yep, this one's lousy with Drink at Work folk. Woohoo!



Then we travel to the magical land of Williamsburg, Brooklyn for a great set by our personal saviors (and possibly yours...they're knocking, won't you let them in?), Lolita Bras. These folks have been working their arses off in the studio for months and they've got new songs, re-imagined old songs, and gravitas to boot. Did I mention they have, like, the best drummer ever? Seriously, go see the Bras and BELIEVE!



And if all that isn't enough, you can head down to D-Lounge at Union Square for some late show carousing at Sweet Paprika. Let Ophira and Allison serve you a comedy nightcap you won't soon forget.

The Details:

The Rob and Mark Show CD Release Party
Parkside Lounge
317 E. Houston St.
8:00pm

Lolita Bras
Trash Bar
256 Grand St. btw Driggs and Roebling
9:00pm

Sweet Paprika
D-Lounge
101 E. 15th St.
10:30pm

The Federal government needs to stop using acronyms for EVERYTHING

I work in a federal agency. FOR NOW. It's called a day job, everyone.

I can't say which agency though because the FBI, CIA, NSA, and several other acronyms will hunt me down if I give away my location. Regardless of the consequences however I am now going to discuss government offices in general hey what's that red dot on my ches-

PING!

Silly sniper! You can't shoot me with regular rounds. My emotional armor is too strong for that. Heck, I'm practically a robot at this point. You should know that by now after sifting through all my emails and text missives.
Now go back to your commanding officer and tell him or her you'll need hollow-tip shame-coated rounds. That's the only thing that can pierce my outer layers! Good luck, junior agent whoever you are.

Anyway, everything in these offices has an acronym assigned to it. Everything.
ME: I'll be right back, boss. I'm going to use the B.A.T.H.R.O.O.M.
BOSS: The Break And Toilet Hostelry Restricted to Obsequious Office-employed Men?
ME: Yesum.
BOSS: Go right ahead.

And half the time they misspell the acronym itself anyway. It used to be you had to be part of a secret black-ops organization or a futuristic robot to be considered special enough to get an acronym.



GENERAL: Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome the Marine's newest soldier...Andy.

(pulls tarp away, revealing a futuristic robot holding a clipboard)

ANDY: Greetings. I am A.A.N.D.E. That stands for Automoted Actuarial with Neural Dendritic Enhancements. Please forgive the misspelling on my frontal armor. The soldier assigned to paint me was after all...only human. Har Har. Moving on, my main function as a futuristic robotic Marine insurance adjuster is to determine plausible estimates for damage caused by accidents, death, and disasters, especially rust. Har Har! Hey what's that red dot on my chassi--

(several shots echo through the room, AANDE falls dead. His last act? Calculating the chances of his own violent death: %100.)

GENERAL: Private Junioragentwhoeveryouare! Reveal yourself!

(a reed thin, nervous looking Marine sharp shooter stands up, the oily rags he used to hide himself falling away)

PRV: Ye-ye-yessss sir?

GENERAL: Private, the author of this piece said he was "practically a robot," not a real robot. Do you understand the difference?

PRV: I--I think so.

GENERAL: For instance, do you think I am a robot? Hey what's that red dot doing on my che--

(several shots echo through the room, the General falls dead. I stand up, revealing my position....from within the hollowed out body of AANDE! Oh my god, how did I do it? I guess this means that the private was right all along! I was in AANDE...and dangerous enough to warrant assasinating. Oh well, I guess we all live and learn.)


Or...do we?

Dun dun dun...

A Quick Moment with Carol

What the shit is "Creatology" and why am I getting myspace friend requests from Creatologists who are "HUGE into Creatology and looking for other Creotologists and friends in general"?

Should I be scared or terrified?

xoxo,
Carol

Add Me As Your MySpace Friend At Your Own Peril

Being that I am a comedian I have a "Comedy" account designation on my MySpace account. Being that I am a complete dong I have over 1,000 MySpace friends. At least several hundred of whom I have never met, communicated with or am even sure are people who actually exist.

Being that I am so well-befriended I get a least two or three requests for new friends every couple of days. It's usually from other struggling comedians who I have never met or from friends of friends who are also collecting an ersatz cyber-entourage with whom they too will never meet or communicate but may masturbate to on occasion.

Yesterday I received a friend request from a band called Moss Bluff. After taking a peek at their profile page I learned that they were a Los Angeles based, three-person, experimental reggae band. There are few things that I hate more than reggae music, but without exception I can say that I hate reggae bands comprised mostly of white dudes from Santa Barbara even more.

So I accepted the friend request from Moss Bluff. And then I left this comment on their page:

"Sweet Christ, do I hate reggae."

Direct. Simple. To the point.

About fifteen minutes later I received this MySpace message from Travis Knight (songwriter, basses+) a member of Moss Bluff:

Subject: smart ass

hi dan bylack.

did you get kicked in the cunt or something? thanks for the blasphemic hate comment on my music.

peace,
travis

I immediately sent Travis a very nice message back apologizing if I hurt his feelings and wishing him the best of luck with his band. Then I posted this comment onto the Moss Bluff MySpace page to make up for my previous offensive statement:

Sorry about my previous comment. I meant to write:

Sweet Christ, do I hate reggae. But, boy, do I love Moss Bluff. Their music is so powerful that it has overcome my deep-seated hatred for shiftless patchouli-drenched white dudes with dreadlocks.

When I'm not busy getting kicked in the cunt or making blasphemic [sic] hate comments about other people's music I listen to them constantly.

I've also made out with Travis, twice. And let me just say this - jokes aside, his penis tastes like a grape popsicle.

Thanks for all the sweet tunes, guys. See you soon in a drum/hacky sack circle near you. Peace.

It lasted all of 12 minutes on their page before it was deleted. I've yet to hear from Travis or the rest of the Moss Bluff crew. And, again, I wish them the best of luck.

But, Sweet Christ, do I hate reggae.

Matt Preskenis is Sorry... Again

Greetings and Salutations, Everyone Who Has A Web Connection...

I had high hopes - dreams, even - to call this post my Open Letter to Everyone (Especially You)...

And I had all kinds of edgy, comic ideas about content, visuals and unorthodox font-i-fication...



"Andale Mono" - yeah, you bet...

But then I got sidetracked by a particularly loathsome episode of Everybody Loves Raymond, two NFL playoff games that meant nothing to me, not to mention an afternoon happy hour special that ran well into the early evening...


(I, by the way, sometimes think that the sole point of my existence is to disprove that crappy series' name, because I, with every last ounce of my being, detest Raymond and everything he stands for...)

But I digress.

I was having a perfect day.


I mean, I was wicked psyched to add my Masshole ramblings to drinkatwork.com, and I had all kinds of awesome commentary on such cutting-edge topics as...

• That War That We're All Supposed to Support, But Not Talk About If It Goes Badly
  
• The War on Freedom
• Chocolate Rations Being Up...

But midway through a tasty Brooklyn Lager, I remembered that we weren't always at war with Eurasia...


Then I realized I was being watched.

Or at least, I should be...

At that point, I figured I'd drag my sorry ass into my Fortress of Solitude and write a less charged, albeit, yes, more generic posting...

Don't get me wrong.

There's still 100% pure adrenaline in this post - it's a promise I make with all my posts - but there's also two dashes of frustration, a couple of quick squirts of regret, and two hundred and fifty six ounces of fine North American lager in here...

In short, good times.

This is my first time writing for the good people of Drink at Work, and I'm glad they'll have me.

I mean, I'm impressed anyone will even look me in the eye after those "what do you really think about Jesus?" conversations with my family over Christmas, that disastrous time at my Canadian friend's wedding, and that unfortunate incident on that boat in Amsterdam...

If I had an intern, that pothead, UVM-dropout flunkie would be an expert at sending out thank-you notes...


[Oh, yeah. Chuckle all you want. Where are you getting your interns, Ms. Smarty Pants?]

Again, I digress.

This is already a far longer post than I intended, so let me simply leave you with some handy tips for dealing with me in the future.

They're simple, like me...

• First and Foremost: I hate mayonnaise.
  
  That DOES NOT mean that I kinda don't like it.
  
  I hate it.
  
  Hate it.
  
  I hate it the way someone who, um, hates something... um... really dislikes that thing...
  
  I HATE MAYONNAISE.
  
  It made me sick at a Lithuanian Picnic at Stonehill College in Easton, MA back in 1978, and though I tried to hold that rancid, mayonnaise-y tuna salad down, I threw up on my Uncle Mike and Aunt Jean right in the middle of the Tug-O-War...
  
  They were mortified.
  
  After that, they found Jesus and lost all of us...
  
  In the short term, as a result, we Preskenises lost to our cousins, the Gedraitises, in that fateful tug-o-war, and we've had to hang our heads in Lithuanian shame for decades.
  
  All because of mayonnaise.
  
  So keep it the fuck off of my sandwiches.
  
  If I only throw up, I'll count myself as blessed...
  
  Thank you.
  
  
• Numer Two: I don't care how well you're doing, particularly if you're doing well.
  
  If you're doing well, and things are coming up roses, that's great, but can I say...
  
  I really have no interest in talking to you...
  
  Seriously. I don't.
  
  I can already imagine your relatively mundane stories of success, happiness and optimism...
  
  If, however, you have an alcoholic cousin who stabbed a guy once and is now living on the streets, crapping in the pants he wears everyday, and supporting himself by playing competitive mumbley-peg...
  
  THAT's the guy I want to talk to.
  
  And I will.
  
  Just get us two bottles of Colt 45 (don't let the smooth taste fool you...), and your cousin and I will be good for hours at a time...
  
  
  I mean, check back in 90 minutes or so, we may need you to make another Colt 45 run...
  
  
• Numero Three-o: If you're going to beg me for money, that's fine.
  
  Hell, you could be my uncle - yeah, that uncle no one in my family talks about until he magically appears every seven years at Christmas...
  
  But even if you're not my uncle, you can ask me for all the money you want.
  
  I may give you some...
  
  I may not...
  
  I have only one comment:
  
  The moment I tell you, "I don't have any money," and you say, "hey, motherfucker, don't make me pull out my gun!", you are no longer begging me for money...
  
  You're robbing me.
  
  This has happened a couple of times.
  
  I know, the world is funny. Call me crazy, but as far as I'm concerned, every time you threaten to shoot me... you're robbing me.
  
  What's funny, is so many times, you don't really have a gun...
  
  And that's just sad.
  
  Now...
  
  I've been robbed.
  
  My friend Alex and I once had a guy stuff a Glock 9mm in my face while we were in search of some late night entertainment in DC, I've had a Polish cop stick an AK-47 in my face until I gave him the equivalent of $27, and I once had a disheveled guy in Houston threaten to pistol-whip me with a Colt 1901 and/or a Heineken bottle and/or some French handcuffs unless I gave him a quarter...
  
  In all of those cases, I coughed up my dough...
  
  But if my bullshit sensors go off, and you say you have a gun, but I KNOW you don't have a gun...
  
  I'll call you out on it.
  
  And you won't know WHAT to say.
  
  Because if you haven't shot me in the thigh by the time I'm laughing at you, you probably won't be shooting me until some time late tomorrow afternoon...
  
  And that's fine with me.
  
  Hell, I'm not fast, but if you give me a good eighteen hours or so? That's plenty of time.
  
  You think I'm kidding, but the last time some random homeless guy threatened me with a non-existent gun (last weekend on Bleecker Street, for anyone keeping track), I got a free chicken kebab out of the whole exchange, after the shop owner realized that I'd solved an entire night's worth of gun-related problems with one quip....
  
  Not a bad deal.
  
  Sad thing was, I was going to give him my change from the kebab.
  
  Rock salaam aleikum.
  
  

I'm Only A Man, Part 17: Best Friends and Unrequited Love

Michael threw a love note across the room during pre-algebra class and it landed on my notebook. It was folded down tight and on the front the word, "HI" had been drawn in outline, with the background shaded. I turned the note over; he had shaded the back as well. I slowly opened it:

"Carol, I'm sorry if I'm bothering you, but I love you. You are more precious to me now than ever. The only thing that surpasses your beauty is your mind.
Love, Michael"

This was seventh grade. I was wearing a back brace and had yet to get contact lenses.

Read More

The Grouch Club at Mo Pitkins this Monday

Our buddy Molly at CBS is putting together a show with hilarious Boston ex-pat Patrick Borelli this coming Monday at Mo Pitkins. The Grouch Club celebrates bad days and grumpy people who like to complain...that's US! The show also features Jon Glaser and Jon Benjamin, two of my favorite comics who I don't get to see as often as I'd like. If you're a whiny asshole like me, you would do well to check it out.

I'm Only A Man, Part 16: I Love Nothing In The World So Well

I was thinking recently about the short list of films I've seen multiple times in the theater. The Little Mermaid was the first movie I went to repeatedly and I ended up seeing it four or five times. Same with Silence of the Lambs, Much Ado About Nothing and Basquiat. Basquiat is particularly notable because I was in college at Auburn University at the time and it wasn't showing anywhere near me. I drove two hours to Atlanta five times to see it.

In college I fell in love with The Godfather series — I will argue the merits of the third film to the death — and all things Sidney Lumet. As a film fan, I sort of hang my hat on my love of the gritty, masculine epic. But that list of movies that kept bringing me back to the theater is probably much more illustrative.

Read More...

For the 6 Barkeater Lake fans...

For the millions who don't know, the obscure and sometimes nonsensical cult comic strip Barkeater Lake was to end it's run on United Media's website, comics.com, on January 6th. For reasons beyond this Fake Rock Star's comprehension, the strip got the ax at around noon on the 5th instead.

So, in an attempt to satisfy the masses... or "6", the entire final week of Barkeater Lake has been posted here: Barkeater Lake

The mildly popular comic strip will also be resurrected on January 22nd at www.barkeaterlake.com.

That is all.

The Photoblog has finally been updated

I have a few more shows to add, but the bulk of September, October and November are now online. Photos are by Maryanne, Carol and Ces. Enjoy!

Weather Curiosity: 69 degrees winter day tomorrow (1/6/07) in New York City

But yeah, let's keep that "debate" about global warming going a little longer. I'm so tired of beautiful snow peacefully blanketing the ground and enjoying hot cocoa inside after a snowball fight and not sweating in January. Really, it's got to come to a stop. Thankfully, America's business butt-buddies, the Republicans, have been doing God's work (well, the God in Revelations at least) and making sure we fart out every ounce of fossil fuel we can from our collective societal asses.

We should run a few more years' studies to make absolutely sure that that blue liquid coming off the melting arctic shelves is in fact water, and not, as the Heritage Foundation would have us believe "spillage from an enormous, delicious raspberry Slushy. And what kind of American could hate a Slushy?"

Maybe conservatives are stalling, keeping their shrill cries and hope-stabbing decibels up just long enough for the Republican Party to grow gills and invent underwater firearms. Couldn't live without those, now could they? I sure hope they invent Mer-Mexicans to carry out all the hard labor for them in their new briny abodes. I wonder though it they'll pay them under the water table, so taxes don't get taken out or if they'll even pay them minimum wave.


ABOVE: Future American President Costner, about to sign the historic Mer-American Aquahomestedders Surrender Treaty with Atlantian Emperor Screelleeeaaaascreeekky Skreeeeek Skreeeeleeekee. Note Costner's use of the traditional harpoon-shaped quill, a sign of respect to our new H2Overlords.

Comedy! Music! Gunfights! Tonight!

Drink at Worker Corey Pandolph will be showcasing what little stage talent he has at the One More for Johnny Comedy Saloøn tonight, in Portland, ME. Also on the bill is local internet celebrity Francesco Marciuliano.

If you're in Portland tonight and you're not there, a piece of you will die.

One More for Johnny Comedy Saloøn
Friday, January 5th @ 8pm
St. Lawrence Theater
76 Congress St. Portland ME

Featuring:

CHRISTINE MARSHALL
COREY PANDOLPH
CHRIS BUSBY
JESSICA PORTER
DAN BERNARD
THE WALSH BROTHERS
FRANCESCO MARCIULIANO

Music by “The Incumbents”

Hosted by Dan “The Hitman” Bernard and Corey “Fake Rock Star” Pandolph

Sponsored by Katahdin Restaurant and The Bollard.com

Tickets and venue info: http://www.stlawrencearts.org 207-775-5568
And here: http://www.liveimprov.com

Possible Cartoon Strip Headlines in 2007

Ziggy Dead, Obscure Panhandlers with Cute Signs Jobless

Ted Forth Announces Homosexuality, Populace Underwhelmed

Charlie Brown Discloses Long Battle with Alopecia, Zig Zag fetish

Government Declares "Funky Winkerbean" and "Zippy the Pinhead" Offensive Phrases

Odie Arrested for OUI. Again.

Former Comic Strip Star Tiger Utters Racial Slurs at Comedy Store, Career in Jeopardy

Snuffy Smith Represents UN in Special Peacekeeping Mission to Darfur

Garfield Blames Weight, Lack of Jokes on Lasagna Noodle Industry

Yellow Kid Comes Out of Retirement, Slaughters Family Circus Cast

Judge Parker Admits to Confusing Sally Forth with Mary Worth at Reuben Awards

Michael Patterson Has Asperger's

Heathcliff Bombshell: "Marmaduke Eats Own Poop"

Dennis the Menace Actually 102 year-old Midget Named Bruno

The Comedians: A New Monthly Comedy Magazine

A few weeks ago I walked into a neighborhood bar/comedy venue and a friend of mine ran up to show me a new magazine that she'd found sitting in the window. It was called The Comedians and featured profiles on a few of my local comedy buddies, with accompanying photos. As it turned out, I had done a photo shoot with one of comics profiled, Jesse Joyce, and some of those images had made it into the magazine along with a very nice credit for me up front. The magazine had a clean, crisp design, thoughtful interviews with the subjects and was clearly the labor of love of a true comedy fan.

Besides being flattered at the surprise credit, seeing the magazine did my heart good. Working in publishing for my day job, I've heard at least dozen times that you can't make a profitable humor magazine anymore. And while that generally seems to be true — most humor pubs are constantly struggling and others never even make it off hastily-sketched cocktail napkins — I was thrilled to find that there was someone out there who cares enough about comedy to say, "Screw it, I'm doing it anyway."

Last Friday I got to meet the creator of the magazine, Ken Carlson, and I could not have been more impressed. This guy interviews the comics, writes the entire magazine, designs it and self-publishes it out of his own pocket. He's a great guy and as evidenced by the two issues of the magazine I've seen thus far, he's a freakin' dynamo. When I can afford to buy an ad, I'll buy one in this rag. Check out the Web site, and look for the print edition in a better bar near you (by near you, I mean only if you're in New York and probably on the Lower East Side).

Photo of Todd Levin by Lisa Whiteman, via thecomedians.org

Drink at Work Group Love

Happy New Year, cronies! Just a quick note to let you all know that we'll be getting the site whipped back into shape over the coming weeks, updating the photo blog and event listings, returning to regular comics, and finally rolling out those new columnists we've been talking about. We're also switching our main page over to a group blog, so this page should have a variety of new posts every day. We're pleased to welcome new columnists Dan Bialek, who will be dispatching from LA, and Gabe McKinley of Shark Show fame. Corey Pandolph will continue with his posts on the comic strip business and the daily life of a fake rock star as well as the blossoming comedy scene in lovely Portland, Maine. Maryanne Ventrice has a new camera, a new Flickr page and has been pounding the pavement taking photos at rock and comedy shows all over town so she'll be posting links to those various exploits as well as continuing her reports from the real Brooklyn. Sean Crespo will continue to grace you with his special brand of unbridled insanity, including blog entries on his newest collaboration with local sexy trainwreck Sara Benincasa. And of course, your hero, Ces Marciuliano will be back in action with more Comic Strip Writing 101, Conversations with Dad, Medium Large, Aluminum Siding, and other assorted hilarities. As for me, once I've got the site back up to speed I'll be back with more I'm Only a Man columns, as well as the pithy aggravations that are A Quick Moment with Carol and Office Overhearsions™. So thanks for bellying up for the last three years and stay tuned!

xoxo,
Carol

Li'l Spencer Stops for a Pop