The Further Crumbling of Civilization, Act I

Scene: A half-filled Gritty McDuff's, Portland, ME. A cartoonist stands alone at his usually spot, stage left. A loud group of young sales people enters from the right.

Cartoonist rolls eyes.


Salesman from Hell #1:

"Everyone sit here with my friend from New York City! That's right, New York City! He can teach you a thing or two, because he lives in New York City. How about we have drinks like they have in New York City, on account of my friend. He's from New York City."



The entire bar rolls their eyes. Including two small children having dinner with parents, stage right.

Salesman #1, 2 and 3 crowd cartoonist at bar, even though there's plenty of space everywhere else.


Salesman from Hell #1 (louder than a Harley in a high school gym, to Salesman from Hell #2):

"... And then I said, sure you have these markets, but are they million dollar markets? Don't come to me with $200,000 pieces of shit, I'm only serious about the big guns. I'm 45 and I'm fucking a 22 year old in the back of a $68,000 Hummer. You don't get there in a $200, 000 market."


Cartoonist turns away, again rolling eyes. He gulps his beer. The pretty young bartender, also Cartoonist's friend, stops to check on Cartoonist's beer.


Salesman form Hell#1 (glaring at bartender's chest):

"That's how I like the tits, right there. Wrapped up just enough for easy access. You're a beautiful piece of pie, sweetheart!"



Cartoonist slumps over bar, with head in hands, wishing for a localized Armageddon at his side of the bar. Bartender looks at cartoonist, eyes wide and walks to other end of bar.

Salesman from Hell #3 moves to within 2 inches of cartoonist's face. Cartoonist tries not to notice.


Salesman from Hell#3 (drunk, loud and spitting):

"What do you do?"


Cartoonist (unenthused, with beer raised to his mouth):

"I'm a cartoonist and comedy writer."


Salesman from Hell#3:

"Awesome. Family Guy rocks. So fuckin' funny. Do you draw that guy? And that dog... What the fuck's his... Brian! Hey guys, this guy does the Family Guy show!"


Cartoonist gulps beer. His eyes widen.


Cartoonist:

"I actually don't have anything to do with that show. I write and draw for print, like Mad Magazine."


Salesman from Hell#1:

"Mad Magazine. What's the guy's name? Newman..."


Salesman from Hell#3:

"Randy Newman... George Newman?"


Salesman#1 and 3 improvise every known "Newman", except correct one.


Cartoonist:

"Alfred E. Newman."


Salesman from Hell#3:

"Right... with the tooth... Hey! Just like your tooth! Is that how you got into Mad? Because of your tooth?"


Cartoonist winces and shifts uncomfortably, wishing for the power to smote at will.


Salesman from Hell#3:

My girlfriend and I were at the sex shop down the street and we were reading those "Mad Libs" books. You know those? "Mad Libs"? Funny as all hell. Do they let you write those?


Cartoonist freezes and stares blankly at Salesman from Hell#3


Cartoonist:

"Excuse me..."


Cartoonist exits stage left for restroom where he contemplates slitting his wrists as a result of a complete loss of faith in Society.

More Salesmen from Hell usurp Cartoonist's place at the bar, pushing his beer onto the floor.

Cartoonist returns, discovers his seat is taken and observes his beer on the floor with an angry glare.


Salesman from Hell#3:

"Oh... sorry, dude. Let me buy you another. Hey, what's your name?"


Cartoonist:

"Corey."


Salesman from Hell#3:

"No SHIT! that's my name. We're twins!"


Cartoonist:

"Do you spell yours "K-o-r-i" and dot the "i" with a heart?"


Salesman from Hell#3 (confused):

"Uh... no..."


Cartoonist grabs hand of salesman from Hell#3 and strokes his forearm


Cartoonist(soft tone, smirking lovingly):

"That's too bad."


Salesman from Hell#3 pulls back arm in disgust, hands cartoonist a beer and rushes to his girlfriends side. Cartoonist smiles with satisfaction and finds an empty seat at opposite end of the bar.

Lights fade to black.

Curtain.

What the Hell People

Listen up, all you Holier Than Thou Internet fucktards, Hell bent on blogging to me what's cool and why, with your self-proclaimed "expert" status... I'm callin' you out and I'm gonna kick your skinny little Indie asses if you don't start to shape up. You can all take your little blogs, your YouTube diatribes and your crappy webcomics about World of Warcraft and shove 'em up your tightened little sphincters. As a benefit to the stabilization of society, I'm offering some helpful advice to keep you from dying an angry mob-related death before you're 30...

You... Mr. Indie rock guy who buys only vinyl records and hates anything as soon as Jon Stewart uses it on his show... Suck it! We're all sick and tired of reading your blogs about how smart and cool you are, or how you claim you're a loner, but have 54,376 myspace friends. No one believes the whole circus show about being a nonconformist and how you don't care what everyone else thinks. Bullshit. Everyone cares what everyone else thinks. Its called human nature, fuckwad. Take off that shirt with some trendy little icon only you and your imaginary friend understand and get thee to a Starbucks. Buy a coffee, converse about the weather, bitch about gas prices, get married, buy a house and an iPod and pay bills like every other normal red-blooded American. Turn on the T.V. and watch 30 Rock and laugh. Succumb to the fact sometimes even prime time television is funny. Please just admit that while you like the Dandy Warhols, you really love Journey and Pink. Your fake alternative lifestyle is really fucking with our good time, so knock it off.

Hey there, Mr. webcomic guy... We're all very sorry the world of print hates you. Yes, the Internet is probably the future of comics, but stop running these little circle jerk cliques of your never-had-a-blow-job friends, blogging for hours about what's wrong with everything that's not online. You're exactly like the kid who throws the Monopoly board in the air because he never gets Boardwalk or Park Place. Did you ever stop to think the reason your stuff never got into print is because it sucks? The Internet is not an excuse, its a tool. Stop crying that every editor who rejected you is a shallow asshole and start working on your writing. And don't tell me I don't understand the webcomics community by claiming everyone online wants to be in print. Show me a webcartoonist who truly doesn't want to replace Garfield in the Sunday Times and I'll show you Charlie Brown kicking the football outta Lucy's hands. Don't think because you're some sort of cult hero in the Comic-con-attending nerd community, you have the right to piss on everyone else who's made it into print. You draw a virtual cartoon on your cute little pen pad that maybe 10 people living in their Mom's basement understand. Writing a comic about video games and computer code is all well and good, but don't try and claim your cartoon is better than anything in the paper. The reason those comics stay in the paper is because no one understands what the Hell YOUR comic is about. Like it or not, the majority of people reading the paper have no clue what the fuck a blood elf is. There is no webcomics vs. print debate. Its simply a bunch of talented cartoonists running off and hiding under the big Internet blanket because they're bitter about being rejected in print. And instead of working harder, everyone throws stones and claims "no fair!" Yeah well, life's unfair. Work harder and shut the fuck up.

It used to be that truly creative people worked hard to get ahead in their chosen industry. You busted your ass, got rejected and then worked harder and got rejected again. But you kept going. You didn't feel sorry for yourself, or blame the critics, you simply worked harder to improve your work. Stop blogging about why life is unfair while hoping a TV, syndicate or movie contract gets handed to you on account of your getting 10,000 hits a day on your blog.

Don't be mistaken. I want you all to succeed. I want better shows, comedy and comics. What I don't want is a bunch of cry asses that give up by hiding behind the Internet. Success in this business unfortunately, is also sometimes about compromise. If you don't want to accept that, fine. But don't publicly bitch about those who gained higher success because they chose to compromise.

This needs to stop and we all need to get back to work.

Let's all have an over-priced coffee at Starbucks and count how many "Anonymous" Comments this post has.

Bring it on.

Excerpts from a Manhattan mosquito's LiveJournal

"Bright Lights, Big City" --------------------------------------------14 Aug 2006, 9:17am.

Woke up in a pool of standing water again. I don't why I continue to listen to Lenny. Every time he says he's in the mood for Italian, I end up having a near death experience, full of some diluted, fat guy named Vito. Lenny's a bastard. I need to find a new swarm.

"Lenny" -------------------------------------------------------------- 15 Aug 2006, 12:04.

Just found out that Lenny never made it out of Little Italy last night. I should be sad, but the fucktard deserved it. There are 6 million places for us to eat in this city, and Lenny was never happy with any of them. He was always looking for something new and dangerous, far from the swarm and usually at those downtown outdoor joints. Jesus, Lenny... They're called "Bug Zappers" for a reason, asshole! Serves him right. He was a funny fuck, tho... Always could make me laugh, even the tightest situations...

Damn you Lenny! Damn you for making me miss you.

"A bug's life" ------------------------------------------------------- 16 Aug 2006, 5:12pm.

Really hated that movie, but the title works. I found a new swarm on the Upper East Side. They have this sweet little spot in a bird bath on 80th between 1st and 2nd. Lots of fast food and slow people, which means little chance of getting a swat. There are days when I really love this city. Today was perfect... 102 and humid as all get out. I picked up a quick nosh off of a Long Island push over about an hour ago. He whined like a girl and swung his arm like it was noodle salad in the hot sun. Life is good. Maybe I'll make a trip downtown tonight, have a couple for Lenny.

"Very bad things" ----------------------------------------------- 20 Aug 2006, 11:20pm.

This is the end, I think... Was out to eat with some young larvae from the new swarm and got a hair up my ass, and... Was showing off to the young guys and we headed downtown... got swatted. Got swatted good. Ended up in a subway grate... manged to fly and crawl back to apartment on 48th... wing definitely broken... legs... oh, legs missing now... blood... blood... everywhere.... I can see Lenny... and... Vito, the Italian guy.... They're... They're waving me home...

End of entries.

"I have to blog about this..."

Used to be, things just happened to me. Mundane, funny or tragic, they happened, folks reacted and life moved forward. With the advent of this here insane asylum we call the Interweb, however, I now have this overwhelming pressure to share what happens to me every second of everyday with "my fans". Do I feel the adoring public really needs to know? Or is it that I fear I may suddenly be forgotten for some 18 year-old's YouTube video log about how he once stole Lindsey Lohan's underwear from a Midtown cab?

Either way, my head hurts... And here I am, blogging about why I feel I need to blog. Bleh. Blog. Blog bleh.

I chipped my tooth this past weekend. There's something everyone doesn't need to hear. You all probably assume I was at the beach, exercising my full Fake Rockstarness by improvising a bottle opener via my teeth, for some over-tanned hot chick with huge cones. You'd be wrong. I was actually sitting in my in-law's living room, watching my nephew eat his own fist, when I started biting my nails (A nervous habit I picked up because of a constant urge to make people laugh, BTW). As I bit my thumb nail, I looked down and found a large piece of mouth bone on my nail. Feeling around with my tongue, I confirmed my fear. I then went a step further to inspect in the bathroom mirror:


Glorious. My teeth are pretty crooked to begin with, so this new divot just cements my place in that sub-lower lower class, where you marry the family pig and find new ways to sell sugar and boogers at the Tuesday flee market. Forget the fact that I was able to chip BONE with my thumb nail. I'm sure there is some sort of bodily emergency involving a calcium deficiency and a brittle skeleton that I'll ignore, until I break my hip on a grocery store marshmallow display.

And there you have it. Information that 15 years ago, would have been reserved for friends and the family swine, brought to you by a nearly insane amateur comedy writer and apparent newly-crowned redneck.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to buy some three part epoxy... And sugar.

Reason #46573 not to have kids

Several years back, we bought season tickets to the Portland Sea Dogs, a AA affiliate of the dreaded Redneck Sox (At the time of purchase, they were affiliated with the Marlins... so can it, Sox fans).

Anyhoo, over the years, the seats around us have become our own little incorporated town of season ticket holders, resulting in a feeling of Xenophobia that brings a relentless questioning of squatters and tourists, until they come clean with their actual seats and haul their gypsy asses out of there. There's also the occasional turnover of a long time resident, which means a newcomer into the fold. This, of course, warrants an initiation into section 112, often entailing a naked beer run, or an entire inning of barking like a dog at the third baseman. In the case of a new, young couple, a flash of the new wife's cones during the 7th inning stretch is in order.

Normal Baseball stuff.

Sometimes, long time ticket holders find themselves coming to less and less games and they go halvesees or quarter... uh, ees with other couples or families. Such is the case of the family next to us. They have four seats that they have decided to share with four other families throughout the season. Fine with me. That means at least four naked beer runs and eight sets of new cones. Am I right guys? Yes. I am right.

Last night, one of the new families was in the four seats when I arrived at the game – One guy and three boys. The crowd was small and most of the regulars were absent, so I decided to forgo any prodding for embarrassment from the newbies. I just sat quietly, taking in the sites, sounds and smells of a mid-summer classic. A perfect night.

Until...

Around the 6th inning, a woman in front of me (also part of a shared-ticket group) pulls out her iPhone. Yes, they're cool. Yes, they can cure cancer. No, they don't belong at a baseball game. I can understand checking messages, checking the time or even checking your vanity in the screen reflection. In today's multitasking society, I can allow that. Sure, we're all guilty. But she's using Google and checking YouTube for videos of puppies and some guy skiing off a three-story building. She clearly bought the thing for status and not functionality. My theory is proven further when the thing actually receives a call and she can't figure out how to answer while watching a video. Lady, you just made my list.

But, wait... Here's the big payoff...

The family of boys next to me has been joined by, what I assume is, Mom. Just as I'm considering mentioning the initiation rules for new couples, I hear this:

Oldest Son: "Is that an iPhone, Dad?"

Dad: "Yeah, I think so... Pretty cool."

Son: "I need one."

Dad: "You're twelve. You don't need one."

Son: "But Dad..."

And here's when I swallow my beer in one big gulp in disbelief...

Son: "... What if I'm in an accident and the car plunges in the ocean, and some guy wraps the car in metal bars so I can't get out? If I don't have an iPhone, I can't call you for help."

Dad: "..."

Mom: "He's right, Tom... He should have a phone."

Son: "An iPhone."

Dad: "Fine. You can have an iPhone."

Wh... Wu? That's it? No discussion? No arguing amongst the 'rents? Just, "Fine. You can have an iPhone." What's next week? "Fine. You can have sex." or, "Fine. You can have the house... Your Mother and I will live in the garage." People! HE'S TWELVE.

That's it. I'm moving to Iceland.

Goodbye and good luck,

_Fake Rockstar